Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) Read online

  Not only would I be pissed, I would be curious. Curious about what happened. Curious about Anna. Curious about the contents of the duffel bag.

  And so my only option was to investigate this situation in which I had somehow become involved.

  Everything else would have to be put on hold. My travel plans. My novel. My life.

  CHAPTER 16

  IN THE MORNING I dusted my motor home for fingerprints.

  First I focused on areas where Anna had touched. The passenger door handle. The passenger seat belt. The dash.

  After that I focused on areas where the intruders might have touched while searching for the orange locker key. Under the dinette table. Behind the toilet. Inside the junk drawer.

  I managed to lift some fingerprints. Anna’s, maybe. Or maybe the intruders’. The prints could have belonged to anybody who had ever entered my RV. Which meant they could not have possibly belonged to Angelina Jolie—unfortunately.

  The fingerprints would have to be run through the system. So would the pictures of Anna and the two goons.

  I knew just the man to do it.

  Joe Thomas and I had graduated together from the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) in Glynco, Georgia.

  The Glynco campus is the headquarters site for the FLETC. It is where the United States Marshals Service Basic Training Academy is conducted.

  Basic training consists of seventeen and a half weeks of training that includes: building entry and search, computer training, court security, courtroom evidence and procedure, defensive tactics, driver training, firearms training, first aid, high threat trials, legal training, officer survival, physical conditioning, prisoner search and restraint, protective service training, search and seizure, and surveillance.

  Joe was still working for the United States Marshals Service, though he could have retired when I did. My guess was that he would continue to work there until he turned fifty-seven—the mandatory retirement age.

  “Joe?”

  “Where are you now, Rip? Whitewater rafting in Colorado? Gator wrestling in Florida? Sunbathing at the Playboy Mansion?”

  “No, I did all that last week. Right now I’m just sitting in my RV, talking on the phone with an old friend.”

  “ ‘Old’? I’m the same age as you.”

  “But uglier.”

  “True. How’s the novel going?”

  “Hard to get started.”

  “I’d like to read it when you’re done.”

  “It’s not going to be a picture book.”

  “Then forget it.”

  “Anything new at work, Joe?”

  “Roy’s got a new girlfriend.”

  “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

  “Already been a whole week.”

  “A new record.”

  “Yesterday she called him a prick.”

  “She knows him well.”

  “Better than he knows himself.”

  “Much better.”

  “I got your email this morning, Rip. And I already ran the prints and photos through the system.”

  “And?”

  “No matches.”

  “Not even for Angelina Jolie?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well thanks for the favor, Joe.”

  “Uh-huh. Want me to do your laundry too?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Next time? How many more favors you expect from me?”

  “Okay, I know I owe you a few.”

  “A few?”

  “Okay okay—a lot.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Your wife’s a lucky woman, Joe.”

  “Too bad she doesn’t share your sentiment.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Where are you really, Rip?”

  “Missouri.”

  “Is everybody in Missouri going to find out what a persistent son of a bitch you can be when you’re trying to find somebody?”

  “No point in keeping it a secret.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “YOU RECOGNIZE ANYBODY in these pictures?” I said to the huge bartender.

  He stopped slicing a lemon and glared at me. His eyes did not move from mine. Not even to glance at the pictures I had placed on the bar. He was a big and beefy man. Dark stubble covered his chin and jowls. The lemon looked like a jellybean in his enormous hand. He put it on a cutting board.

  “You looking for trouble, pal?” he said.

  His voice rumbled.

  “Information,” I said. “That’s all I’m looking for.”

  The big man curled his massive hands into fists the size of boxing gloves and leaned over the bar a little to plant both fists on it.

  “I been watching you,” he said. “You hang around here, showing pictures to my customers, annoying them with your questions. Whyn’t you get the hell outta here. Nobody wants you here. Nobody. You unnerstand that?”

  “Not completely,” I said. “Can you help me with the part about how I was being annoying?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he started to come around the bar.

  I twisted myself around on the bar stool and leaned my elbows on the bar and looked around the room. A group of guys in one booth were drinking beer and eating buffalo wings. In the back a waitress with a tray balanced at her shoulder was hustling from table to table to deliver foaming schooners of beer and complimentary bowls of peanuts. Six or seven people were hunched over the bar. The dress code of the establishment seemed to be anything from motorcycle jackets to checked flannel shirts to prison tattoos. Heavy metal music thundered through concealed speakers.

  “Follow me, pal,” the giant bartender said to me.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Where we going?”

  “To that round table over there.”

  His pointing finger was as big as a sausage.

  “What can we do over there that we can’t do right here?”

  “Arm wrestle.”

  “Huh?”

  “Arm wrestle me.”

  “Not interested.”

  “You afraid?”

  “I don’t see what the point is.”

  “You’re a fucking pussy.”

  “Isn’t that the best kind?”

  A furrow formed between his thick eyebrows. He looked like he was trying to form a thought. I doubt he succeeded.

  “You gonna arm wrestle me or ain’t you, pal?”

  “Why should I?”

  The big man didn’t say anything. He was trying to think again.

  “I tell you what,” he said finally. “You win, you can stay here.”

  “And I can continue to ask your customers if they recognize anybody in these pictures?”

  He nodded.

  “And if you win?” I said.

  His roaring laughter was like an erupting volcano.

  “Ain’t no if about it, pal.”

  I got off the bar stool and nodded to the guy. Then I walked over to the round table and sat down.

  The giant man followed. He lumbered over to the table with a grin on his face. He looked confident. Like he had no chance of losing. None at all. He had probably never read Sun Tzu’s advice to never underestimate your opponent.

  In fact he had probably never read any advice. Especially on how to dress. He wore a sleeveless flannel shirt that hung outside his torn blue jeans. His work boots were caked with dirt.

  As soon as he sat down we planted our elbows on the table. When our palms slapped together it sounded like a loud clap of thunder. We locked hands. His huge hand eclipsed mine.

  He stared at me and tightened his grip. The iron fist squeezed my hand like a trash compactor. I squeezed back. He seemed surprised at the strength of my grip. He had no idea what was coming.

  A crowd gathered around to watch us. They hooted and howled, cackled and cheered. They clapped each other on the back.

  I gathered from their comments that I was not the first guy
to arm wrestle the beefy bartender. There had been many before me. All of them had lost.

  A man wearing dark shades and a denim jacket started to take bets from the spectators. Bets were placed. Money exchanged hands.

  The odds were not in my favor. Which was not a surprise. After all, this was not my turf. I did not have the home court advantage.

  The big man squeezed my hand tighter.

  “You ready, pal?”

  “Been ready.”

  “Okay, on the count of three then.”

  I wasn’t sure he could count that high.

  “One . . .”

  I drew my foot back.

  “. . . two . . .”

  I kicked his shin under the table.

  “. . . three.”

  I rammed his hand flat against the table.

  The match was over.

  I won.

  “Nice match, pal,” I said, and winked at him.

  He glared at me. He and I both knew that I had cheated. But none of the spectators had seen the kick under the table. If the bartender complained about it, he would be seen by his customers as a sore loser.

  I spent the next hour asking his customers if they recognized anybody in the pictures that I showed them. None of them did. But many of them bought me drinks.

  CHAPTER 18

  ON MY WAY home from the bar I got pulled over by a couple of cops. I wasn’t concerned about a breathalyzer test—I had been drinking apple juice all night. And I wasn’t concerned about a laser speed gun—I had not been speeding. What I was concerned about was getting pulled over for no apparent reason at all.

  I took out my license and registration while remaining seated on my motorcycle. Blue lights strobed the darkness. Crickets chirped.

  One cop got out of the patrol car and swaggered up to me.

  I squinted into the flashlight beam.

  “I’m Officer Brown, with the Pottsland Police Department.”

  I nodded.

  “License and registration.”

  “You bet, officer. There you go.”

  He grunted. Which in some primitive societies means thank you.

  I watched him strut back to the patrol car and climb in.

  I knew he was running my tag and driver’s license, to make sure they were valid. It was all part of the procedure.

  But he had skipped one part. He was supposed to have explained the reason for the stop.

  In my rearview mirror I could see Officer Brown and his partner get out of the car. They stood huddled together in the darkness behind me.

  I could hear them whispering to each other.

  It gave me a bad feeling.

  Footsteps sounded on the pavement.

  I squinted into the flashlight beam again.

  “Here’s your license and registration,” Officer Brown said.

  I grunted my thanks.

  Officer Brown didn’t say anything for a while.

  Behind him the other cop stood with a hand on his gun butt.

  Crickets chirped.

  “Mr. Lane,” Officer Brown said finally, “why are you visiting here in Pottsland?”

  “Because I heard the town cops here are charming.”

  He was not amused. Neither was his partner. The town cops didn’t seem all that charming after all.

  The partner stepped forward. His nametag said MILLER.

  “Where do you work, Mr. Lane?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Lane.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Officer Miller took out his nightstick.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Lane.”

  These guys were trouble. They were up to something. I had no idea what it was. It seemed like a bad idea to tell them I was a retired deputy U.S. marshal. The less they knew about me the better. So I lied. Sort of.

  “I work at home,” I said. “I’m a novelist.”

  “Oh yeah?” Officer Miller said. “You write books, eh?”

  “I do.”

  “So how come I never heard of you before.”

  “Probably because I don’t write romance novels.”

  Officer Brown snorted.

  Officer Miller turned to scowl at him.

  It was not a romantic moment.

  Office Miller turned to look at me again. He tapped the nightstick against his thigh. He cocked his head. He was trying to intimidate me. I bore up under it as best I could.

  “I don’t like your smart remarks,” he said to me.

  “People don’t like what they don’t understand.”

  “You think?”

  “I know how to. Want me to teach you?”

  The nightstick tapped harder against Officer Miller’s thigh.

  He stepped behind my motorcycle.

  He broke the taillight.

  Officer Brown spoke up.

  “Jesus, Artie. Take it easy.”

  Officer Miller pointed the nightstick at him.

  “Take it easy, Owen? You want me to fucking take it easy? This smart-ass here’s lucky I don’t knock his fucking head off.”

  “I know, Artie. All I’m saying is, we don’t have to do things this way, is all I’m saying.”

  I remained seated on my motorcycle. This was not the first time I had seen cops like this. Dirty cops. Corrupt cops. Cops who abuse their power. They deserved no respect. I had no problem giving them what they deserved.

  The white beam of Officer Miller’s flashlight returned to my face.

  “Okay, smart-ass, I’m gonna ask you some questions, and you’re gonna answer em. Got it?”

  I shrugged.

  “Were you drinking tonight?”

  “Only apple juice.”

  “At the Nobody Inn?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Were you harassing customers there?”

  “I never harass anybody.”

  “You weren’t showing photos and asking questions?”

  “That’s not harassment,” I said. “Breaking a taillight? Now that’s harassment.”

  Officer Miller grinned. He kept his eyes on me while he spoke to his partner out of the side of his mouth.

  “You hear that, Owen? Smart-ass here thinks I’m harassing him.”

  “I heard it, Artie.”

  Officer Miller poked me with his nightstick.

  “How’s that for harassment, eh?” he said.

  I did not make the bastard cop eat the twenty-four inches of hardwood he held in his hand. I let him get away with it. This time.

  “Those photos you were showing around,” Officer Miller said, “you’re hoping somebody can identify the people in them?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re trying to find the people in the photos?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Who are they?”

  “You and your boyfriend,” I said.

  Officer Miller raised his nightstick.

  I elbowed him in the crotch.

  He grunted and doubled over.

  Officer Brown drew his gun and came over to cuff me.

  When he was done he held me from behind so that Officer Miller could sucker punch me in my solar plexus.

  Then they shoved me into the back of the patrol car.

  “You haven’t read me my rights.”

  Officer Miller leaned his head into the car, thrust his face close to mine. He had recently eaten horseradish sauce.

  “You have the right to get your ass kicked. You have the right to bleed profusely. You have the right . . .”

  “I’ll waive my rights.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE POTTSLAND JAIL was like the town itself—old and dilapidated.

  A guard led me into a cell and locked me in. It was eight feet by eight feet, with a filthy toilet and sink, and a steel bed bolted to the floor. There were no cockroaches. The place was too dirty for them.

  The guard left and I was alone.

  Nobody had read me my ri
ghts. Or booked me. Or charged me. Or even allowed me to make a phone call.

  I was hungry.

  I wondered when breakfast would be served. I wondered if it would be served.

  My stomach growled. I growled back at it.

  I lay down on the thin mattress and laced my fingers behind my head and crossed my ankles and closed my eyes and thought about things.

  Why did the cops stop me? How did they know what I had been doing at the Nobody Inn? Had the bartender contacted them? If so, why?

  Maybe it wasn’t the bartender who had contacted the police. Maybe it was one of the customers. Maybe somebody had recognized Anna and the two goons in the pictures.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I had no idea what was going on. Which wasn’t unusual. Because things are not always what they seem to be. What at first appears to be a bad thing often turns out to be a good thing. And what at first appears to be a good thing often turns out to be a bad thing—my marriage, for instance.

  Being locked up in jail did not seem like a good thing. Nothing about my experience in Pottsland seemed like a good thing.

  I was supposed to be retired, no longer dealing with law enforcement, no longer dealing with trouble. And yet I was now once again dealing with both.

  I savored the irony.

  Anna had screwed up my retirement plans. Pretty faces have often led me astray. I was tired of it. I was hoping to spend less and less of my time thinking about women, and more and more of my time thinking about writing novels.

  Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling of my jail cell, I began to think about writing novels.

  Then my thoughts turned to Anna.

  CHAPTER 20

  THEY CAME FOR me in the early morning. Four of them. I was not surprised to see the two cops who had arrested me, but I had not expected to see the two goons from the bus station. Both goons were wearing Armani suits. Both cops were wearing uniforms. I was the only one without a matching partner.