Don Pendleton: Stand Down

“I’ll try.” Bolan did just that. The stares and whispers didn’t take the edge off his appetite, and he made a good dent in the double portion of everything before calling it a day. Slipping the fifty out of his pocket, he tucked it under the plate, but before he could remove his hand, the waitress cleared her throat.

“I said your meal was on the house.”

Bolan flashed her an easy smile. “And I thank you, it was delicious. This tip is from Everado and his boys. Make sure the busboy and their waitress get their share, will you?”

Elaine’s mouth dropped at the denomination before she swept it into her pocket. “I most certainly will. You stop by here any time.”

“I will, thanks.” Bolan walked out into the afternoon sun and looked down the street, half expecting to see the punks in their convertible lying in wait for him as he left the parking lot. He looked around at all of the clean, neat buildings and people going about their business. Everything seemed normal.

Maybe that was it—everything seemed almost too nor mal.

Bolan checked his watch. If he was going to hit Chicago today, he should have already been on the road. Still…

He got into his rental vehicle and pulled out his smart-phone, running a quick internet search to find the information he was looking for. Starting the Caddy, he drove to the main intersection of town, then turned right and drove another half mile before pulling into the parking lot of the Quincyville Gazette.

Getting out, he walked past a vending machine with the latest issue in it—the cover story was about the latest round of crop subsidies being voted on in the state legislature. Stepping through the front door of the A-frame building, Bolan walked up to a long counter with a plump, young, bottle-blonde woman behind it. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you had your back issues on computer file or microfilm?”

“The library would be more likely to help you with those kinds of records. May I ask what you’re looking for?”

“Sure, my name’s Matt Cooper, I’m a freelance stringer for the Capitol Journal. I’d heard there was a double homicide here in town recently, and decided to come out and see if I could get the story.”

While he talked, the receptionist’s face went from curiosity to confusion to concern. “Would you wait here for a moment? I’m going to get someone to help you.”

“All right.” Bolan cooled his heels in the reception area for less than a minute. The receptionist hustled back out with an attractive brunette woman in her mid-to late-thirties.

“This is the gentleman I told you about.”

The older woman held out her hand. “Casey Hinder, editor-in-chief.”

Bolan introduced himself again using the Cooper alias. “Perhaps there’s somewhere we can talk more privately?”

“Absolutely, why don’t you come back into my office?” She led him behind the counter, past a cluster of fabric-walled cubicles, some empty, others occupied by employees. At the back of the large room was a row of offices. Casey ushered Bolan into the corner one, which was slightly larger than the others.

“Have a seat.” Bolan did so while Casey closed the door and crossed around the back of the desk, sitting in an old wooden-backed chair. “Okay, buddy, who the hell are you really?”

Bolan frowned. “I told you, I’m—”

She held up her hands. “Save it, there’s no way you’re a stringer for the Topeka CJ. Mainly because this ‘story’ hasn’t even gone out over the wire, so there’s no way you’re from that paper, as they don’t even know about it yet. Then I get a call about a dark-haired man resembling your general description who goes toe-to-toe with Everado De Cavallos this afternoon and walks away in one piece.”

Bolan smiled. “Deputy Quintanar had something to do with that.”

The journalist shook her head. “Whatever. Look, my source—who knows what they’re talking about—says it looked like you were about to mop the floor with them. I may be the editor-in-chief, but I had my share of bylines before I reached this desk, and it doesn’t take much to figure this one out.”

“I don’t think your source saw the same conversation I had with Everado.” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “All right, I’ll level with you. I’m a freelance journalist on my way back from a convention in Las Vegas. I stopped in for lunch at the diner, heard about the double homicide and thought I might be able to get a story out of it.”

Casey’s slim eyebrow rose. “A freelance journalist?”

Bolan nodded.

“Driving a brand-new Cadillac?”

“Rental. You wouldn’t believe how many frequent flyer points I’ve racked up on my credit cards.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but you look way too fit to be a stringer.”

Bolan smiled again. “Thanks for noticing—I try to keep fit.”

His implication hit the editor after a moment, and she colored slightly. “Hmph.” She studied him for a long minute. Bolan returned her frank, green-eyed gaze with his own pair of vibrant blues, not saying a word. “You got some kind of press pass, online clippings, website, anything?”

Bolan shook his head. “Not anything recent. Website got hacked by the Chinese in retaliation for a piece I did on the tongs last year. Even I can’t access it without getting spammed with a thousand pop-ups for ‘enhancement’ products. Even passed out all my business cards in Vegas.”

“Yes, how convenient.” Casey rested her elbows on the desk. “All right, I’ll give you what I know, on one condition—you give me twenty-four hours to break the story first, all right?”

“Sure, I’d have to sell it first anyway, so no problem.”

Blinking in surprise at having won so easily, Casey recovered and leaned back in her chair. “The decedents are Jack and Sandra Bitterman. Jack was basically the town lawyer. He handled just about everyone’s business here. He also was the main factor behind Cristobal locating their first North American laboratory here. Once they arrived, he served as legal counsel for the company in its dealings with the township.”

“Yeah, I’ve been researching them since I got here. Seems like an unusual place to locate a state-of-the-art facility, don’t you think?”

Casey had slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and regarded Bolan over the rims. “That question’s been asked many times before, and the heads of the facility say they wanted a place where it was peaceful and quiet. No doubt the tax break package Jack lined up with the state government had something to do with it as well.”

Bolan had been doing an internet search again, and held up his smart-phone. “This victims?” He’d located a picture of the family, a man, woman and teenage girl, who looking to be about seventeen years old, posing at some kind of county fair next to a blue-ribbon science project.

“Yeah, that’s Sandra, Jack and Kelly…” Casey’s voice trailed off.

Bolan asked the obvious question. “Where is the daughter now?”

Casey stared at him as if he’d just sprouted wings. “Oh my God, just fire me already… The sheriff’s department hasn’t mentioned a single word about her yet.”

“So she’s still out there somewhere, yet from what you just said, the sheriff hasn’t put out an Amber Alert for a missing teenager, or sent out any sort of BOLO announcement yet.”

Casey’s expression had gone from disgust for not seeing the connection to uncomfortable at Bolan’s comments. Before she could reply, her desk phone rang. “Excuse me, will you?”

She picked up the phone. “Hinder, editor’s desk…yes, Principal, how can I help you?…she was where?…Yes…I’ll be right over to discuss it with you…thank you.”