Page 41 of The Lost Bones

“I’m so sorry!” She dropped the pipe, remorse ticking in when Nick removed his hoodie. “You came out of nowhere!”

“Why were you carrying a pipe?” Andrew wondered.

A gust of wind blew across, the sound bouncing between the concrete structures, creating a haunting whistling sound.

“Never mind,” Andrew muttered, his expression of curiosity faltering.

Nick frowned at his phone and then pointed to his left. “It’s that one, according to Peterson.”

It was a yellow-painted store with a garage door. The windows weren’t boarded up like the others, but they were laced with cobwebs. Nothing about it indicated that it was open. As they came closer, Mackenzie bent and peered through the window. Inside she could make out a dusty room containing figurines, rolls of yarn and wool, paper crafts, dollhouses, and cans of dog food. An eclectic mix with no common theme.

“Looks like nobody’s home.” Nick banged on the garage door.

“What a shame. I was hoping to catch someone in a chase,” Andrew said. “Sorry. The life of a psychologist isn’t very exciting.”

“Someone’s here!” Mackenzie exclaimed as a light turned on inside the store.

A frumpy man with a drum of a belly, dressed in a wife-beater, emerged from the storeroom and dawdled his way to the front to open the door. “We’re closed.”

When Nick showed him his badge, the man didn’t budge. “What is it?”

“Do you recognize this?” Mackenzie held out a picture of the wristband.

The man pulled a face and rubbed his grubby jaw. “It’s ours. Why?”

“Who do you sell these to?” Nick asked.

He took out a cigarette, settled it between his lips and lit up. After taking a leisurely drag, he said, “What’s in it for me?”

“Not being in lockup for obstruction of justice.” Mackenzie gave him a sweet smile.

The smoke zigzagged out of his nostrils. “There’s a guy who places an order for them from time to time.”

“What’s his name?” She took out her notepad.

“I don’t know.”

“How does he pay?” Nick asked.

“Cash.”

“What does he look like?” Mackenzie pressed.

The man shrugged. “A regular chap. Tall and young.”

Mackenzie tapped her pen to the notepad, a hunch rising inside her. She took out her phone and pulled up Tag’s picture, which she had saved from the DMV records. He didn’t look as preppy and sophisticated as he did now—his floppy hair fell on his forehead and he still had acne on his cheeks—but it was clear enough.

She showed it to the owner. “Is it this guy?”

The man wrinkled his nose and took another puff. “That’s him all right. Comes here in a big shiny car and takes around fifty of these bands at a time. Pays in full. No small talk. Good customer.”

“Who is he?” Andrew asked.

But Mackenzie and Nick exchanged a solemn look, thinking the same thing. Another path in the case led back to King of the Road rental services.

TWENTY-THREE

Mackenzie clipped the three pictures on the whiteboard in the conference room. Sophie Fields, Courtney Montenegro, Debbie Arnold. She scribbled everything she knew about them underneath. After returning from their excursion, she had felt the need to take a shower and cleanse her skin. But there was no time to waste. The clock was ticking and there was no news about Debbie. With each day that passed, the noose around Mackenzie’s neck tightened further.