The shriek of a rusty hinge and the slam of the trailer door in the wind woke Tom from a sound sleep at Odd-Job Bill’s cluttered table. He noted the drool on his notebook where he’d written Bill’s box number. He folded lumber yard and hardware store receipts, with delivery to a familiar address on Bluff Road, and slipped them into his notebook. Tom rubbed his face and checked his watch.
“Just enough time for a shower,” he mumbled.
He shuffled to the door, half-awake, gripped the shaft of the knob again and slammed it tight.
Nothing about this felt good. On the way home, he checked his phone for Bill’s site on Handyman.com and noted his cell phone number. He thought he might try for Bill’s phone records, but his probable cause for a warrant was still mighty thin. He suspected where it would lead and hoped he wasn’t just paranoid. He resolved to ask James about goings-on at the end of Bluff Road. He needed to talk with Marie about his sudden uneasiness around letting James work out there alone.
Chief’s on vacation for another week, he thought. We were already two men short when he hired the mayor’s fuckwit nephew, which makes us three men short.
Usually he liked working alone, but now he worried that he couldn’t cover the daily bullshit while he felt something big hovering close on the horizon.
Starting with that insurance adjustor. And his car leased in Portland collecting starfish a mile from Bluff Road. Not a casual afternoon drive.
He thought back to the goo salesman’s truck with Mercedes wagon in tow, both with Washington plates, arriving at Bluff Road just after the adjustor’s car was found. They’d clearly had a long drive after buying the place sight unseen. The Mandells had disappeared from Bluff Road not long before, so far without family or a trace, supposedly on a trip to San Francisco. No credit cards used on the trip. No record of arrival. Bank account emptied. House auction process accelerated, in Tom’s opinion, even though the sheriff never closed the missing persons case.
Maybe Cindy’s mystery novel habit is rubbing off.
He pulled into his parking spot beside his apartment and listened to the engine ping for a moment. He’d turned off his cell on his clandestine trip to Odd-Job Bill’s and switched it on. He had a message from Marie.
“I woke up feeling much better,” she said. “Thank you for the water and for cleanup. If it’s not too late when you get this, slip off your shoes and come on by.”
Another depressed sunrise tried to elbow its way through the overcast. He sighed and headed for the shower.
Sorry, Marie, he texted. Too late, this time.