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“Tell me you got something, Gonzales. I got nothing here, and worse.” Combs blew on his rope-burned palm, and shook it, wishing he’d worn gloves.
“What happened?” Background noise from before had disappeared. Gonzales must have left the restaurant.
“Met up with Teddy. He rigged a way to track September’s missing cat. Seems to’ve found the signal and that’s still in play, but no results yet.” He stood outside the car, leaning against the door while Doc Eugene tramped somewhere out in the darkness supposedly hot on the trail—or tail, of the missing cat.
“Don’t you have the dog with you? Get it to track.”
“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” The heavy sarcasm targeted his own inept handling of the situation. “The dog must have Greyhound in him, he took off so fast. Couldn’t keep up or see him in the dark. How do those SAR teams do it?” He’d never had a dog, other than a tiny mop of a pooch belonging to Cassie when they were first married. Muffy could have doubled for house slippers.
“So we got both September’s cat and dog in the wind, and they were our best chance to find her.” Gonzales sounded disgusted, but then brightened. “Leaned on Dietz and he’s in denial about any contaminated meat, says it’s a smear campaign born of jealousy.” He laughed. “I kid you not, that’s a direct quote—born of jealousy. He’s one of those woo-woo artsy types, a smug bastard acts like his shit don’t stink.”
“Any leads? No-shows at the restaurant?” It still made Combs’s skin crawl to think Cassie had taken the kids to the event. What was she thinking? Couldn’t have predicted a bust, granted, but it didn’t sound like his social-climbing former wife.
“Couple names, yeah. The AD—that’s the assistant to the director—says one of the cast, a goofy-ass character, goes by Felch, can’t be found. They announced at the dinner he’s been replaced. Everyone we interviewed so far confirmed that.” He blew out a breath, obviously as tired as Combs. They’d both been running nonstop for nearly twenty-four hours. “Still going through the witnesses and taking statements, only about half done. I had to take a break.”
“Felch likely?”
“Involved for sure. Got pictures galore, he’s on all the posters and other promo material. Felch is a local, but kind of a recluse, one of those back-to-the-land self-sufficient guys. Lives out in the area you’re searching, actually, so might want to run by his place if you got nothing else encouraging.”
Combs scribbled down the address. Better than doing nothing while waiting on cat schematics. “Good. Who’s the other? You said a couple possibles.”
“Guy named Vincent Grady, new to the team. AD says they brought him on less than six weeks ago as the set PA, in charge of wrangling the talent and other chores. Best I can tell, a glorified gopher. He’s also replacing Felch in the cast lineup.”
Combs cracked his knuckles. “Six weeks. Timing’s right. About the time the Blizzard Murders hit national wires.”
Gonzales agreed. “Grady got a raise and new title. Pissed off the AD something fierce.”
“You can stop with the alphabet soup, Gonzales. I left my scrabble board at home.”
“Can you spell AWOL?” He paused. “Grady attended the launch party but disappeared in the roundup. Nobody’s seen him since.”
“You need to lean on this Dietz character. He’s the head honcho—director or producer or something, whatever initials they call them. He’s got to know something. Tell him he’s responsible. Hell, he probably is.”
“Great minds.” Now Gonzales sounded sarcastic, and Combs cracked his knuckles. “Rattled him like a box of Good ‘N Plenties. Told him we found Sly, and I thought he’d shit a brick. You ask me, Dietz already knew about Sly. Got his composure back pretty quick, like those actor guys do, but I could tell he was surprised we found the body. Took Dietz all of ten seconds to point fingers at both Felch and Grady.”
“How convenient they’re both missing.” Combs saw Teddy motioning to him, and pushed off from the car. “I got something. Maybe. Hold on.” He crossed over to the old man, and saw Teddy staring off the road, into the dark.
“Something moving over there.” Teddy pointed. “I think it’s Doc Eugene.”
A flashlight wavered, and then steadied as it floated disembodied over the ground. The figure drew closer until they could make out the veterinarian.
Doc Eugene cradled Macy in his arms. “He was running loose. Shadow found him, too, but I couldn’t catch the dog.” The vet carefully climbed the embankment, struggling with the added weight. “Cat’s stressed, too. Got to get him calmed down.” He crossed to his vehicle, opened the back and climbed in with the cat. Teddy followed, shoulders stooped, defeated. He started to climb in the passenger side.
“God dammit to hell, can’t catch a break!” Combs put the phone back to his ear. “Just found the cat. It was loose.” What a waste of time. “I’ll go visit this Felch character’s place since we got nothing here.” He disconnected.
Before Combs reached his own car, Teddy yelled. “Detective, you must see this, we’ve got something.” He adjusted his glasses as Combs jogged over to the car.
“What?” He peered into the car’s interior.
“Couldn’t see it out in the dark,” said the veterinarian. “But Macy brought us a message. Mean anything?” He’d removed the GPS tag, and handed it to Combs.
Someone had written on the tag with black marker. “V. Gra.” He met the men’s expectant expressions. “We think that’s the name of September’s stalker. Victor Grant.” He shook his head, frustrated. Or it could be Vincent Grady. Hmm. “Doesn’t help find him. Or September.”
“Victor Grant. September mentioned him. She said he had something to do with Sly’s disappearance when she gave me Fish’s file.” Teddy grimaced, apologetic. “I should have mentioned that sooner.”
Combs grunted. “That’s confirmation, anyway, but it doesn’t help find him, either.”
“Maybe this will help.” The veterinarian held Macy up, smoothing the cat’s fur.
Purrs rumbled as the man stroked Macy’s white throat and chest, what September referred to as his bib. She’d used the marker to write on his fur. “Do that one more time, smooth a little to the side. Yes, right there.” When the fur laid the right way, it was easy to read. “Barn. She tried to write his name on the tag, and the location on the fur.” Combs pulled out his phone and hit speed dial to reach Gonzales.
Teddy already had his laptop out, balanced on the hood of the car, the mobile hot-spot providing internet access. The screen filled with an overhead view of the area. His fingers flew, and the image grew brighter, and larger.
Gonzales answered. “What you got?”
“Barn. Give me a list, any structure that could be described as a barn in,” he looked around, “maybe a three mile radius of this location.”
“On it.”
Teddy’s fingers clacked on the keyboard, and he gasped. “Oh, no.” He glanced up at Combs. “I think I found it.”
Gonzales came back on the line. “Hey, man, go figure, Felch’s address I already gave you has a barn. I’m on my way.”
“Meet you there.” He turned to Teddy. The man should be happy or relieved, not stricken. “What?”
Teddy’s eyes didn’t move from the computer, and pointed to a bright spot on the screen. “I hope that’s not the right barn. It’s on fire.”
