Page 38 of Cold Target

"Confirmation. Or punishment." Joe took a drink of coffee. "Maybe both."

He tapped the napkin. "Volkov is the real question. Why write it down? Why hide it?"

"He was hiding the money. Maybe the paper was there by accident," Simmons offered.

"Maybe. Or he was scared someone would find it on him." Joe thought about that. "Which means he didn't trust his own people."

"Or he was planning to run."

Joe nodded slowly.

The waitress refilled their coffee cups. They waited until she walked away.

"What about the locals?"

"They must have known we were coming," Joe said. "Someone tipped them. Could be militia. Could be a sympathetic sheriff. Could be someone monitoring phones."

"Great."

Joe finished his burger. Pulled the pie closer. Apple. One slice. He ate it the same way he ate everything else—methodically, completely.

Simmons pushed his plate aside. He'd eaten maybe half. "So what's our move?"

Joe didn't answer right away. He finished the pie. Drained his coffee.

Then he looked up.

"I have an idea."

18

Joe stood at the register while the waitress rang up the check.

Two burgers, two coffees, one slice of pie. She worked the old mechanical register with practiced efficiency, the keys clacking under her fingers.

"Eighteen forty," she said.

Joe pulled a twenty and a five from his wallet. "Keep it."

She nodded once. Joe pocketed the receipt and turned toward the door. Simmons was already standing, moving stiffly, one hand pressed lightly against his ribs.

They were almost to the exit when Joe stopped. “Take a look,” he said.

He gestured toward the wall. The same collection of photographs he'd glanced at when they first walked in—faded images of logging crews, mining operations, winter scenes with snow piled higher than the buildings.

Local history.

The kind of thing you see in every small-town diner and don't really register.

One of the photos was larger than the others, mounted in a simple black frame. A logging camp from the 1920s or '30s.Rough wooden buildings. Stacks of timber. Men in wool coats standing in front of a massive saw blade.

Along the bottom, someone had written in white ink, now faded to pale gray:Porcupine Mts. 1927.

When they'd walked in an hour ago, Joe had seen it. Registered it the way you register wallpaper or background noise. Just part of the scenery. But it had lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, sitting there quietly while he ate and made his phone call and worked through the case with Simmons.

And then it had all clicked into place.

"What?" Simmons asked. “Logging camp. So?”