Chapter Seven
“I wasn’t that hungry anyway.” Jake patted Penny’s shoulder as she brought the car to a halt after three circuits through the parking lot of the Snowbowl Lodge. Her disappointment tugged a pout on her lips.
“I don’t ski and haven’t been up here in years. I didn’t think about how many would be out for Sunday at the Snowbowl.”
She steered the car out of the crowded parking lot and back down the mountain.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jake said. “We took a great drive, the eggplant’s heater works, and I didn’t have to get out in the cold.”
The conversation had flowed comfortably, although mostly about him. Prompted by her questions, he’d rambled on about growing up with Mandy and the early days of the band. The scenery, white-barked ash trees and dark green evergreens against a white glistening background, made him feel even more comfy in the close, warm confines of the car. From time to time, her grassy scent wafted delicately over him.
“You really aren’t hungry?” she asked.
“Nah. We had breakfast so late.” The half-smile on her face told him she didn’t share his opinion. “Don’t tell me you are.”
“It’s your fault. All that activity gets a gal’s appetite in overdrive.”
He chuckled. She laughed with him, and he laughed more, reacting to her last drawn out ha. He stretched an arm across the back of her seat, needing to make a physical connection, and caressed her neck through her hair. How easy to be with her, as if they’d been friends all these years since that first ill-mannered meeting.
She smiled and tipped her head into the caress for a moment, then shot him a glance. “Are you going to give up music, Jake?”
“I don’t know if I can, but if I get back to the business, I know I don’t want to go at a music career the same way.”
Penny took her focus off the road for an instant to give him a nod, which he read as encouragement to continue.
“When I stopped in at the Ashurst, I got a comfortable feeling of the familiar, yet…different. Standing on stage…” He scratched at his beard and searched for the words. “I didn’t feel the pull, no yearning to claim the spotlight.” Even now, speaking of it didn’t bring on the ripple he used to get from his gut to his chest for most of his life. “It’s weird.”
“Maybe it’s just too soon. Or maybe…” She swished her mouth to the side, wet her lips, and let the thought die.
“Bugger that. If you fall off the horse, you have to get right back on. So they say. I’m doing okay. I could go back to that world and live it better.”
He studied her profile. It was too soon in their relationship to say too much. Too soon to think he could conquer anything. But damned if he didn’t feel like a fighting chance existed when he was with her. His mind never strayed. His body never craved something more.
Walk slowly, Winters. You have to do this on your own.
“I have faith in my recovery, my routine. I’ve managed a few more steps since I’ve been here.” Making amends to Mandy and Penny and agreeing to meet with his parents could be checked off his list of milestones for complete recovery.
Her smile was more than a polite gesture. Not that he could read minds, but she appeared genuinely interested. There was a lot of genuine about Penny.
“So, yeah. I’m looking at the music industry again.”
“So, if not on stage, then what?”
“I’m going to talk to the two guys who own the Ashurst.” He’d only toyed with the idea, and voicing the possibility out loud set his resolve. See what you do for me, Penny? “I overheard some conversation that implied they needed some help. I have some thought on how to pump up their business.”
“That’s a great idea, Jake!” She thumped the steering wheel. “If it works out, Mandy is going to be over the top happy with you staying in Flagstaff.”
“Yeah, she will be.” And how about you?
“Your parents—I couldn’t help but catch some of that topic—will be happy about you settling down here, too, I imagine.”
“They’re good people. I’d like to make them happy again. And speaking of my parents, I hope you plan to go with Mandy and me for Christmas.”
Her mouth took a downward turn. Like the Enterprise on Star Trek, her shields materialized. “I’ll probably work.”
“Seems to me, as a manager, you could manage to get some time for yourself.”
She shrugged and gently shook her head.
What could he say to get past the wall she threw up whenever the holidays or her past came up in conversation? “I’m getting used to your company.”
The road totally held her interest now. She squinted through the windshield and gripped the steering wheel.
Try another approach. “You can’t cut me off for several days. I won’t even be able to call you. Unless you want me bugging you at work.”
When she didn’t respond, he slumped against the seat, disappointment heavy on his shoulders. She didn’t feel the same way he felt. He’d miss her over Christmas.
“What’s with no cell and computer anyway?”
“I don’t need them. At least, I haven’t. But…” She shrugged and tilted her head to one side.
“But?”
“Jake.” A frown line formed between her brows and her upturned lip produced a pout.
“Yeah?”
“I do have…issues…with my past, especially this time of year. It’s not you.”
“I could help.”
“Mmm.”
Her teasing half-smile made him want to have her pull the car over to the side of the road and repeat the morning activity. Bugger, Jake. Inappropriate thoughts.
“You do.”
“Then go with us.” He rubbed her neck, pleased when her lids drooped slightly. “I can’t imagine how you feel about the loss of your family. You must’ve been very close. Wouldn’t they want you to be happy, to remember them, but enjoy life again, especially during the holidays?” He tangled his fingers in the hair at her neck, tugged lightly, then relaxed his hand on her shoulder.
She sighed, swallowed, and nodded as if making some inner remark to herself. “Okay.” Her face took on a glow.
A hurdle cleared, the sun grew brighter, and he sat straighter. “Great. Now, tell me what the taboo is on cell phones and computers.” Not intended, his remark removed some of the light from her face. “I get, well, I don’t actually get it, but I’ll give you the no microwaved food rule.” His stab at joviality didn’t help. “Just not keen on keeping in touch with the world?”
“Or the world keeping in touch with me.”
The words tumbled from her mouth at barely a whisper level. The comment struck him as more than a simple statement, but she continued before he could speak.
“Let’s say cutting back on technology has been my attempt at keeping life basic. I just might give in one of these days. Who knows?” She cocked a brow with a half-smile. “Then again, I much prefer person to person contact.” Her hand came off the wheel and brushed his thigh. “You know?”
The woman had secrets. He couldn’t imagine what, and in spite of her flirtations, the shields were intact. She had such a pull on him, he wanted to know her inside and out. At least she’d agreed to spending Christmas with him, well, with his family. Maybe with a little time, she’d open up, and he could discover the secrets and help heal her pain.
****
The bored young man behind the counter barely glanced at Vince as he completed the check-in form. “Your room is around the back, Mr. Elams. There’s a door at the north end.” He shoved the key card at him without taking his gaze from the computer.
Vince didn’t comment. No need to draw the guy’s attention away from the screen. The less he visually connected with him, the better.
Card pocketed, he went back to his car. Around the back, he parked by the entrance, pleased that his room was the first one when he entered on the ground floor.
The down jacket he’d bought on the way out of the valley was discarded on the bed, then he slipped out of his sport coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He tossed his suitcase on the bed and strode to the window. An unobstructed view of the parking lot and walkway into the building would make it easy to time his leaving without anyone’s notice. Anonymity. One last job. One last piece of human evidence to remove for the senator.
He rubbed a hand over his face, then his eyes and tried to rub away the vision of Brita that suddenly sprang to mind. Her loss had started him down this path. Taking bribes, lifting confiscated cash, and doing various other dirty deeds for money when their life savings had disappeared was justified—paying for cancer treatments his insurance wouldn’t cover proved costly. She’d died anyway. And with her death, his disregard for life. Senator Westingly had stepped into his life at the wrong time to refill his coffer and lash his hate to the senator’s star.
He turned from the window as a fleeting image of what life might’ve been like if she hadn’t died, crossed his mind.
Vince shook his head as he opened his suitcase, removing his bottle of Jack and the pistol. Jack went next to the TV, and the pistol on the bed. Two golf shirts went on hangers, but jeans, socks, and underwear were left in the case. Carrying his toiletry bag to the bathroom, he used the toilet and washed his hands. Back at the suitcase, he lifted the shoulder holster with the .22, strapped on the pistol, and made sure his jeans and underwear covered his Bureau weapon—the preferred Glock in the hip holster left inside his suitcase. His stomach growled. After donning the sport coat and jacket again while glancing out the window, he then returned to his car. On the way to the hotel, he’d passed a chicken place with a drive-through.
The engine came to life as he adjusted the holster beneath his jacket. The .22 didn’t have the same comfortable feel as the Glock he normally carried. Could be the intended use causing his discomfort. Could be the pistol’s past. Not that his Glock had a squeaky-clean history, but it was a recorded FBI history that he shared with the weapon. The .22 was an errant bully, as crazy as the senator. At least he’d end the life of the pistol once the next task was completed.
Pulling out of the drive-through with a large Dr. Pepper in the cup holder, four pieces of white meat chicken, and two biscuits in a container on the passenger seat, he headed up I-17 to Flagstaff. After a few miles driven and several bites eaten, he wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin then punched in Ricci’s address on his cell’s GPS, reading from a notepad next to the chicken box. The traffic was light. Near Flagstaff, the snow spotted the pine-covered landscape. He shivered and turned the heater on high. When he entered the middle class neighborhood of one story, cement brick and stucco homes, he drove by the house. An old, purple Dodge and a newer, red Camaro were parked on the driveway, while a beat up pickup sat on the street in front of the house. Either the housemate owned two vehicles or they had company.
Vince made a circuit through the neighborhood, driving one-handed as he finished his last piece of chicken. Luckily, this older neighborhood had alleys. Didn’t see alleys much down in the valley. He slowed, driving past the dirt and gravel alley that ran behind her house. A car drove through. The next alley over, a car parked against a fence. In fact, all the backyards were fenced. Good. For a short while, no one would consider his car parked behind Ricci’s odd. He made one more pass by the house and drove back to the alley, this time, checking her roofline and porch for sensor lights. None. She was helping him out.
On the return trip to Camp Verde, he listened to the local radio station and tried to clear his head of anything besides the task at hand. This would end the darkest of his deeds for the senator. Once this last chapter concluded, he could start a new book. He turned the music up, the heater down, and relaxed against the seat.
Back in his room, coats, gun, and shoes off, he stretched out in front of the TV with the remote. He flipped through the channels looking for reruns of Friends or Reba. About twenty-seven hours and four meals remained until the reason for his vacation.
****
Jake stepped out of the shower Monday morning and swiped the towel across the fogged-up mirror. He dug in his bag and found the beard trimmer. As he trimmed, his mind wandered to last night: an enjoyable dinner with the women and another enjoyable night in Penny’s bed. She’d coerced him into cooking breakfast again this morning, and afterward, they’d lazed around the living room, curled up together reading. Now the house was quiet with his sister and Penny at work. He raked a brush through his wet hair, climbed into jeans and a thermal, long sleeved T-shirt, then went to his room to put on his boots.
In the kitchen, he poured the last cup of coffee from the pot and sat at the table with his Atlas and the local entertainment newspaper. He scanned the double page map of the States, running through a mental list of all the gigs Flash Theory played when they drove the van from city to city. He’d been the one to book those tours. And later, when they’d moved up to a tour bus and a manager, their travels went farther. All roads could lead to Flagstaff—at least for all but the infamous. With good marketing, the Ashurst could attract some fairly big names during the college months. In April, Coachella Valley Music Festival was only five and half hours away. Some of the bands could be drawn into the Ashurst on their way to and from California.
Think bigger, Winters. Think year round.
Summers could bring rock fans up from the heat of the valley for some cool concerts at the base of the San Francisco Peaks.
Searching for the Ashurst ad in the local entertainment newspaper, he found it several pages in, sizeable, but not all that eye-catching.
He dug his wallet out of his back pocket, found the business card, and punched Chris Hammond’s number on his cell. After five rings, a voice asked the caller to leave a message.
“Chris. Jake Winters. Any chance we can get together today? Or tonight? I’m flexible. Give me a call.”
The quiet settled around him, but something deep inside stirred, swirled, and leeched into his muscles. His thighs seemed to twitch. Rising, he paced around the table twice, then leaned his palms on the kitchen counter.
Bugger this.
The recognized sensation arrived unwelcomed. Nerves that begged to be calmed. Once upon a time, that nervous energy was a good thing he reveled in and charged his forward momentum. Somewhere along the line, he’d tamped down the nervous drive with drugs and booze as if the excitement of a new experience had been the enemy. How the hell did that happen?
The possibilities he saw, getting back into the business and his passion for Penny, had awakened the beast. But this wasn’t a beast to be feared or tamed. Nerves weren’t the enemy. He turned the hot water on, rinsed dishes, and slammed them into the dishwasher, breaking the silence with clinking glass. The energy could be harnessed, allowing his mind and body to come alive with the promise of a future.
Hell, yes.
Jake scooped the Babbitt’s application for employment from the table. In the entry, he grabbed his new coat and gloves, locked the door behind him, and loped to his truck. The bright sun melted the snow and pooled water in the gutters. He pulled on the gloves Mandy brought home last night. She was determined to spoil him. The truck engine protested, but finally started. Not so cold today. Or was he getting used to the constant chill? Chuckling, he pulled away from the house. Damned if he’d admit that to Penny. She enjoyed teasing him about being a wimp too much.
The overheard conversation at the Ashurst told him the two owners weren’t in total agreement about what to do. Hammond seemed most upset about their situation. Before asking for a formal meeting with both of them, he’d run his ideas by Hammond.
He glanced at the application lying on the seat. Yeah, he’d drop it off. Just in case. But if a meeting with the partners could be arranged, his ideas should save him from an unwanted warehouse job.
His cell rang, and he slipped it from his coat pocket.
“Hey you. What’re you doing?”
He smiled. Penny. “On my way in to town to drop off the Babbitt’s application.”
“Want to have dinner with me later?”
“Does a bear, well, you know?”
She laughed. “Can you come by about seven-thirty? We’ll have a sandwich in the Rendezvous.”
His phone beeped in his ear. “See you then.”
He punched over to the call coming in. “Hello.”
“Hey, Jake. Chris. Glad you called.”
“Hi, Chris. Yeah, I’d like to get together with you if you’ve got some time.”
“Sounds good, brother. No shows tonight, but business shit all afternoon. I’ll need a breather from the theater, so how about we meet at the Pubhouse Station off Birch and Leroux at five?”
“I know where that’s at. See you at five.”
He parked along the street just past the Grand View Hotel, and zipped his coat as he exited the truck. A walk to his destinations would do him good. Once he started bringing in some money, he’d get a gym membership.
You sound pretty settled, Winters.
Inside Babbitt’s, the same young man stood behind the counter.
“I’d like to leave an application with Mel.” After unzipping his jacket, he stuffed his gloves into the pockets.
“Let me see if he’s back from lunch.”
Forty minutes later, Jake was back on the street. Other than shyster Grier, he’d not interviewed for a job in years. The dull-voiced manager, a man in his sixties with a paunch, asked few questions. Jake had no idea what kind of impression he’d made.
He zipped his jacket. The cold air on his face actually felt good. An hour remained to waste before meeting with Chris. The pie sign caught his attention, and he opened the door on Annie’s Café. A piece of hot apple pie and coffee would hold him over until dinner with Penny.
He sat at the counter while eating, thumbed through the local paper, and made small talk with the part-time college student who waited on counter customers. The pie tasted excellent, the coffee strong, and when he headed back into the cold his mellowness warmed him. Yet, as he walked past the Ashurst and turned the corner toward the pub, his skin twitched beneath his clothes.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkened pub lit mostly by beverage signs and the four TVs in each corner. From just inside the doorway, a scan of the room revealed the bar occupied the far wall and a few pub tables, half-occupied, dotted the wood floor. Booths lined the other three walls. Over in a corner, Hammond threw a hand in the air to signal him over as he slid onto a booth seat. He was surprised to see Chris’ partner, Mike Ward, take the seat across from him. He made his way to them.
“Have a seat, Jake.” Chris waved a meaty, tattooed arm at the waitress.
Jake chose to sit next to Mike, wanting to address Chris easier.
A young woman in tight jeans and a pub T-shirt stopped at the table. “What can I get you guys.”
Mike asked for a Fat Tire. Chris glanced past her to the bar. “You have Grey Goose vodka?”
“Nope, sorry. We have Chopin, Absolut, Sky, and Smirnoff.”
“Then I’ll have Chopin over a little ice.”
It would be so easy to ask for the same. Under the table, Jake rubbed his sweaty palms down his jeans, pushing on the twitching of his thighs. Who’d have thought a little pub in a college town would stock four vodkas and one of them Chopin? He could taste the vodka, feel the calm that came long after he’d had so much his taste buds were numb.
Another test.
Push through the obstacle.
“Bring me some kind of cola. Whatever you have.” He didn’t miss a glance exchanged between the two partners.
“How’s the visit going?” Chris asked.
“Good. Good.” He took a deep breath and leaned back. “I like Flagstaff. Good place to settle down, if I can get something going.”
“If you’re thinking of putting a project together, there are a few damned good local musicians I could hook you up with.” The ex-guitarist smiled. “You’d be a real asset for the music scene in this town.”
The waitress interrupted, setting drinks on the table. When she’d left, Jake shook his head and cupped his hands around the glass. “No, I’m not looking for another band.” He sipped. The two partners did the same.
Hammond leaned forward, long hair swaying, but Ward spoke first. “What are you thinking? Not going to open a club and compete with us, are you?” His smile appeared to be an attempt to lighten his words, but the gesture of smoothing his button-down shirt was a nervous movement.
Jake chuckled. That thought hadn’t come to him, but his name wouldn’t be enough to finance a new club even if he wanted to. “No.” May as well be blunt. “I overheard you two talking the day I came into the club. Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I didn’t turn away either. Sounds like you have booking or maybe marketing woes. I’m the man that can cure what ails the Ashurst.”
Nearly two hours later, Chris fidgeted in his seat, and although Mike displayed a more reserved attitude, his obvious interest came through in his intensive eyes and numerous questions.
“Your location is a perfect crossroads for road-touring bands. That’s a marketing boon.”
Ward drummed his fingers on the table. Hammond finished the last of his second vodka, nodded his head, and smiled. “You have that right.”
Although not sharing the real crux of his plan, he outlined enough for them to understand what he could do for them. “I know a lot of people in the industry, a lot of bands. And those bands know bands. Business would snowball.” Jake glanced out the window. “No pun. You should be drawing the best in regional entertainment. If it’s done right, you’ll draw from the Midwest, too. I can do that for you. We could work together to make the Ashurst the center of where all roads lead.”
Round one was finished. He had an idea of what he wanted in return for building their business, but further discussion was best left for round two. He stood. “I have a dinner date, so I’ve got to go.” When he reached into his pocket, Chris waved him off. “Thanks. I hope you’ll give my ideas some thought.”
“You got it, man.” The guitarist turned businessman offered a handshake.
Jake shook Chris’ then his partner’s hands.
Mike nodded. “We appreciate your time, Jake. We’ll mull over what you’ve said, see how your ideas fit with our business plan, and get back with you.”
“Thanks.” He nodded to the waitress as he left the bar. On the sidewalk, he zipped his jacket, took a deep breath of frigid air, and gazed into the now purple-hued sky.
Calm, cold, and confident.
****
Vince dipped his fork into the horseradish then speared a hunk of prime rib, sniffing when the burn shot up the back of his throat and into his nostrils. The atmosphere of the Main Street Steak House boasted more roadside café than restaurant, but the dinner could rival any down in the valley. He spread butter on another flaky roll and devoured half the bread in one bite. Polishing off the last swallow of cabernet, he wished a second glass could be indulged. He held his liquor well, but, while on the job, losing his edge to alcohol wasn’t worth the risk.
His cell buzzed in his pocket. The screen showed a number from inside FBI headquarters, but not a programmed contact. Probably Shelby. He punched ignore and dropped the phone back in place. If Shelby wanted to update him on the Mancini tap, the analyst could hold the details for a few days. Technically, he was on vacation.
He motioned for the bill, paid with cash, and ambled out into the crisp dusk.
In his car, he started his engine, loaded Pearl Jam’s Ten CD, and pulled out onto the road. His cell buzzed again. He took the offending noisemaker out, pushed the off button, and dropped it in the console pocket. At the edge of town, he drove through a McDonald’s and ordered a large black coffee with three creams. His job had started, and the moment had arrived to purposely clear any peripheral thoughts. He’d learned long ago to reach that hardened, methodical spot in his brain when carrying out the senator’s wishes. Gliding off the on ramp, picking up speed to blend with the traffic, he let the music and the road occupy his mind.
At seven-thirty p.m., he drove past Ricci’s house, noted only her car on the driveway, then slowly drove past the alley. He scanned backyard activity behind the mostly wooden fences. The block was quiet. Only a couple of back porch lights were on farther down from her house. Another trip around the block reconfirmed that she was home and no other cars were present. At the entrance to the alley, he flipped his lights to parking only, and pulled behind her fence. Each step of his plan, every movement, defined his existence. With a deep breath, he entered the time when only the present occupied his mind and, with lights out, he sat for three minutes. No movement in hers or the neighboring yards was evident. He slipped on gloves and shoe protectors. The woman’s porch light wasn’t on. He turned off his overhead light, picked the duct tape role from the passenger seat, and quietly closed his door when he stepped into the dark. He shoved the tape into a coat pocket. With a pat to the suppressed .22 then his pants pocket to feel the lock pick, he reached over the rickety wooden gate and flipped the latch open.
Vince strode to her patio, his covered rubber soles quiet on the cement slab. Little light spilled from the curtained kitchen window or the arcadia door. Apparently, the only light on came from somewhere farther in the house. He gripped the door handle and tested to see if it was locked. The door gave just enough to tell him she’d not locked it.
Stupid woman.
Since most aged sliding glass doors grated on the bottom edge in the trough, a firm lift rendered the opening noiseless. A quick peek around the edge of the curtain and he stepped in, repeated the same process with closing, then stood still. He honed his ears while breathing shallow.
Soundlessly, he crept out of the kitchen and toward the light down the hall. Now, the noise of a television could be heard. Boldly, he entered the room and without pause went straight at Ricci, lying on her bed, propped up on pillows. She’d just taken a bite from the bowl in her hand. Her eyes widened, but before she could utter a sound, he had one hand on her mouth and the other around the back of her neck while dragging her like a doll off the bed.
She fought and kicked, choking on the food behind his gloved palm. He threw her to the floor face down and kneeled on her back. With one hand still on her mouth, he pulled the duct tape out with the other. Her arms flailed like two baby birds flapping on the floor. He let go of her mouth and grimaced at the slimy food on his glove. She choked and gasped, but he wrapped tape twice around her head before she made any noticeable pleas. The scene had to connect to her family thirteen years ago. With the same technique used on her mother and father, he taped her hands together behind her back, then slid down her body and taped her feet, taking a kick to his thigh in the process. She cried muffled pleas behind the tape and tried to turn toward him, eyes wild and wet, but he shoved her forward and jerked her into a kneeling position.
He drew the gun and took two, quick strides back.
Thwitt and she collapsed.