Page 68 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

68.

“You’re really hungry?”

“Hungry? Yes.”

“It’s not part of the act?”

“No.”

Several hours after the scavenger hunt behind the motel, Shaw and Starr were at Maureen’s, a bar and grill in Fort Pleasant. The inconsequential remains of what had been a fine hamburger sat in front of Colter Shaw.

“I thought you were just ordering to, you know, look normal.”

“Hm.”

Yes, he was hungry. When the waitress had come by, Shaw had suddenly realized he had eaten nothing that day.

An iced tea sat before Starr, with no food. And she wasn’t sipping.

Under other circumstances customers here would have been treated to a view of the Never Summer as it coursed past, across the street, but presently it was a tepid stream.

He offered Starr his plate. “Fries?”

She glanced at them as if they were insects in a collection jar. “Don’t see how you can eat at a time like this.”

He didn’t recite his father’s words:

Never forego sustenance or restroom breaks when you have the chance.

He ate a half dozen fries. He’d salted liberally.

Starr asked, “Are there a lot of people like them?”

“Them?”

“Waylon Foley, Alisette Lark? What would you call them? Hit people but more than that. Like hit strategists .”

A good expression. He’d hold on to it.

“No. Most killers for hire are dim. They advertise on Craigslist.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And they’re genuinely surprised when the wife hiring them to kill her husband turns out to be FBI. But who we were dealing with? Targeted demo work, fall guys, misdirection, costumes, stolen government plates. That’s rare.”

She grimaced. “And there’s collateral damage too. Redding, Ed Gutiérrez. Anybody in the path of the flood.”

“All still good?” He was facing the window, his preferred location in any public establishment. That revenge-minded enemy thing.

Starr scanned the interior of the restaurant. “Yep.” Then she ventured some tea. She said reflectively, “I always figured my first homicide case would’ve been one of those stupid ones. Mr. X takes out Mrs. X for nagging, or Mrs. X takes him out because he belted her one too many times after his second six-pack. Professionals? In Hinowah?” She clicked her tongue.

“You called it,” Shaw pointed out. “The shovel man with the empty pockets and nice aftershave. When all is said and done, you should do a podcast about it.”

“I listen to pods. I don’t do pods. You think this is going to work?”

“No way of knowing. You can only run numbers if you have all the facts.”

“You want to take a guess?”

“I don’t guess.”

Starr was looking past him at the suited man. “At last. The woman he was with? She’s gone to the john.”

Shaw took a last hit of coffee and wiped his face. “TC?”

“He saw her too. He’s looking our way.”

Shaw, Starr and McGuire rose. The two cops met in the middle of the bar. Shaw hung back. He was here mostly as what Starr had described as a “strategizing consultant.”

Starr hit a button on her phone.

She was dialing the number that a self-described “geek” in the Olechu County Sheriff’s Department Technical Services Division had managed to extract from Foley’s broken burner. It had been one of the “right away” passcode situations, not the six-figures-of-years one.

For a moment nothing happened, as the signal went from Starr’s hand to the stratosphere or beyond and back down to earth.

Then it landed—in another phone, one that sat in the suit jacket pocket of the large man who was hunched over the table Starr and McGuire stood near. He hesitated a moment, put down his fork and pulled the mobile out. He flipped it open, barking, “It’s about time you—”

Starr drew her pistol and stepped quickly toward the table, aiming toward the man’s chest, while McGuire, who was wearing blue latex gloves, lunged and ripped the phone from the man’s hand.

Patrons froze, patrons scattered.

Starr took center stage. “Theodore Gabris, you’re under arrest for homicide and conspiracy to commit homicide. We have a warrant to seize all electronic devices in your possession.”

The man gaped. “What?”

“Please stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

“This is bullshit! I didn’t do anything. Nothing at all!”

“Stand up. Hands behind your back.”

The real estate developer rose fast, his chair falling backward. His reaction changed from shocked to huffy. Disgust filled in at the edges. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

He was one of those people for whom misfortune was always someone else’s fault.

“I’m suing you. You’ll lose your job.” Then he gasped when he saw Shaw, realizing the Mr. Stone from Silicon Valley interested in a Windermere home was not who he’d seemed to be.

While TC McGuire went into the phone and disabled the lock to keep it open, Starr nodded to Shaw. “Do the honors with my cuffs. I want to keep him covered.”

He did as asked, and it was a good, efficient job, which included a double lock. In the reward-seeking business, he mostly zip-tied people. But he had experience with cuffs too.

Mostly on the receiving end.

But a skill is a skill, however you learned it.