| |
Zeke
Zeke took a seat at the bar and gave his eyes a chance to adjust to the dark interior. He didn’t need clear vision to be aware of the sudden lull in conversations and curious looks being cast his way. He’d expected as much. McTavey’s Tavern was a small bar in a small town that catered to locals. Outsiders like him were a curiosity, something to question and be wary of.
It was midafternoon, and the place was pretty dead. No more than half a dozen patrons occupied the space. Among those were three older guys who sat at a scarred square table, their attention temporarily averted from the baseball game playing on a mounted screen in the corner to stare at him.
One of them got up and moved behind the bar. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever you’ve got on draft is fine.”
The guy nodded and poured him a beer with the smooth, rote movements of someone who’d done it thousands of times. Then, he put down a thick cardboard coaster in front of Zeke and set the frosty mug on it.
“Passing through?”
“Looking for someone actually,” Zeke said, pulling out his wallet. “I understand she works here.”
The bartender’s eyes flicked to the photo and flashed with recognition, then looked back at Zeke. Took in his long hair, piercings, and tattoos. Zeke could guess what was going through the guy’s mind, and it wasn’t, This guy looks trustworthy. I should tell him everything I know.
“Sorry. Can’t help you.”
The guy began to walk away.
Time to change tactics.
The bartender wore a wedding band and looked old enough to have a daughter about Robin Hood’s age. The faded American-traditional tattoos on his forearms—an eagle on one and an anchor on the other—suggested he’d done some time in the service.
“She’s my sister,” Zeke lied easily, casually pushing up his sleeve to display the bone frog ink he hadn’t gotten around to covering up yet.
The older man’s eyes landed on the tat, just as Zeke had intended. “Your sister, you say?”
Zeke nodded. “You’re Mick McTavey, right?”
“I am.”
“Aggie told me about this place. Said she liked working here, that the tips were good and you were a decent guy. She’s worked in some real shitholes, let me tell you.”
Zeke paused and let him digest that for a moment before leaning forward and dropping his voice. “I’m worried about her, Mr. McTavey. She hasn’t had an easy time of it, you know? Not since our parents passed. But she’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide. She doesn’t like to accept help from anyone.”
McTavey nodded as if he understood, maybe even had seen evidence of that.
“Like I said, I worry, so she humors me and calls every week, just to let me know she’s doing okay. But I haven’t heard from her lately, and now, she’s not answering her phone. When’s the last time you saw her?”
McTavey frowned, searching back in his memories, as if every day was the same and he was trying to distinguish one from another. “A few nights ago. She worked closing. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
“She didn’t contact you to say why?”
McTavey shook his head. “No. But I figured she’d just moved on. I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When she came in, looking for work, she told me it was a temporary thing. I expected her to give me some warning, though.” His brows pulled together as if just realizing something might be amiss.
“Do you know where she was staying?”
“Above Torito’s store over on 8th Street. The store’s been closed for years, but the nephew rents out the upper floors on a month-by-month basis.”
Zeke finished his beer and set the mug back on the bar along with a hefty tip, and then he thanked Mick McTavey and walked back out into the open air. The old guy hadn’t been very helpful, but then Zeke hadn’t really expected him to be. Robin Hood was smart. She knew leaving a minimal footprint was part of the game.
Dusk was settling in, lending a bit of color to the otherwise gray sky. No doubt the paper mill upriver had a lot to do with that. It operated twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, spewing dirty smoke into the air and probably dumping toxic waste into the water.
Which, of course, was exactly why Robin Hood had chosen to come to Parryville.
The building where she lived was narrow, three stories, with an alley running between it and the carbon copy of it to the right. The first floor looked like it had been a mom-and-pop store once. A peek inside the grimy display windows on either side of a central door revealed empty shelves and a bare counter toward the back.
Chances were, the second and third stories had once been the living quarters for the family who ran the business. Robin Hood occupied the second floor. Indications were that the third floor was as empty as the first.
Zeke bided his time, circling around the building several times before disappearing into the lengthening shadows across the street. He noted the placement of windows, doors, the rickety-looking fire escape. It seemed ridiculous that someone who siphoned off millions would want to live in near squalor, but he supposed that was the point. If she waved cash around, someone was sure to notice. But if she lived in poverty, people would avert their eyes.
Spotting the pattern wasn’t difficult, not once he knew what to look for. He believed Robin Hood was working from a list—one compiled from other lists, such as the worst places to live in terms of crime or health risks, where corporate conglomerates created the biggest threats to the environment, areas where things like poverty, crime, and corruption were the norm.
He did much the same thing himself, though with far less premeditation. Every place had its share of crime and corruption. He could find work in any tat shop, and within days, he would know who the players were and how they played the game. Only then would he decide if and when he wanted to get involved and to what extent.
Zeke moved among the shadows, through the narrow alley and into the tiny, overgrown patch that might have been called a backyard at some point. He looked up, frowning when he spotted the open window.
He pulled his dark hoodie tighter around him and proceeded to the covered external staircase leading to the second floor. His plan: to get into Robin Hood’s apartment, assess the situation, and then figure out where to go from there.
The first thing he noticed: the door wasn’t sitting completely flush in the frame. That didn’t mean anything in itself. A lot of these old places settled over time. But the cold tingle at the back of his neck suggested something else.
Zeke drew his weapon and moved swiftly and quietly to the second-floor landing. His chest constricted when he reached out with a gloved hand and found the door to her apartment unlocked.
He stepped into the darkness, giving his eyes a moment to adjust while wishing he still had his night vision goggles.
The hell with it, he thought and flipped on the light.
To the left, a living area. His eyes quickly took in the details of the room. Shabby furniture, no personal items, nothing blatantly amiss. He worked his way through the apartment, verifying that it was unoccupied.
Further back, a bedroom. The full-size bed was unmade, the coverings rumpled. A mug sat on the side table, half-full. He lifted it to his nose, recognizing the subtle scents of coconut and vanilla. Minimal clothing—two pairs of jeans, half a dozen t-shirts, and practical undergarments—had been left in the drawers, clean and neatly folded.
He moved to the bathroom, where the faint aroma of something herbal and citrusy lingered. Lifting the bar of soap from the shower, he sniffed, confirming the source. On the vanity, a toothbrush sat in a cup, a tube of paste beside it, along with a contact lens case, and a woman’s razor. They weren’t the kind of items one would intentionally leave behind even if traveling light.
He examined the kitchen area next. Took in the small table, chipped countertops, and appliances older than he was. Opening the fridge, he saw that it was mostly empty, except for a few containers of healthy, organic stuff.
The floor beneath the open window was wet, presumably from the rain that had passed through the day before. No screen. He stuck his head out and saw the fire escape. Had she gone out that way?
He continued to look around for clues. What he didn’t find was a laptop, phone, or tablet—things a pro hacker like Robin Hood would definitely have.
The sinking feeling in his stomach went from bad to worse, then bottomed out when he spotted the pair of black-rimmed glasses under the chair by the door.
Zeke closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Two things seemed abundantly clear. One, Robin Hood had left in a hurry, and two, she hadn’t left willingly.
His gut clenched. Doing the kind of work she did, she was aware of the risks. But she was smart. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She would have taken precautions.
What would I have done?
He went through the apartment a second time, this time with the mindset of a special operative. If he’d had any doubts about the woman’s preparedness, they were dispelled by the smartly packed go bag secured to the underframe of her bed.
Zeke continued his search quickly and efficiently, looking in the usual hiding places—within the stuffing of seat cushions and pillows, the inside of the toilet tank, behind light and electrical fixture plates, and the hems of draperies.
He finally hit paydirt when he ran his hand over the window frame and his fingers detected an indentation. Getting down on his knees, he used his utility knife to pry at the gap between the sill frame and the wall until it popped loose, revealing an opening. Inside, he found a small square, like a flat Scrabble piece, with a QR code on it.
Zeke used his burner to scan the code. Almost immediately, an app began to download onto his phone. A tracking app.
Despite the gravity of the situation, his lips quirked. He liked this woman more and more.
He tucked the square into his pocket, then went back into the bedroom and grabbed her bag, slinging it over his shoulder. On the way out the door, he paused and picked up her glasses, too, leaving everything else the way he’d found it.