Better off Dead

Chapter 23

I thanked Wallwork before I hung up the phone but I was just being polite. The truth was his information was no use to me at all. Not in the short term, anyway. I figured his contact within TEDAC could bear fruit, in due course. He might help get an angle on Dendoncker’s bomb plot. But my immediate concern was Fenton. Wallwork had only turned up one solid address for Dendoncker’s business and I could tell from the location that it was one Fenton already knew about. It wasn’t the place I was looking for now. That was obvious. It was too public for Dendoncker. His other employees went there whenever they had a flight to service. Fenton had been there for the same reason. And that was while she was actively searching for her brother. She would surely have found him if he was there. Which meant Dendoncker must have another site he used for his wet work. Maybe more than one. It depended on the scale of his operation. And I had an idea how to tap into that. It wasn’t a sure thing. Far from it, in fact. But it was better than sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.

The Red Roan was busier than it had been when I passed by the day before. The lunchtime rush was still in full swing. There were two couples sitting outside. They were at round tables, perching on spindly metal chairs with brightly colored cushions and off-white parasols. Another pair of tables had been pushed together at the edge of the patio. Nine people were crowded around them. They were all different ages. Smartly dressed. I guessed they were colleagues. Probably worked locally. Probably celebrating something.

Not the people I was looking for. I was sure about that.

A pair of tall double doors was standing open at the center of the bar’s façade. There was a hostess station to the right, just inside. It was unattended so I crossed to a U-shaped booth on the far side and slid around until my back was against the wall. The room was a broad rectangle. The bar and the entrance to the kitchen were at one end. The space between the booths and the windows was filled with square tables. They were scattered around apparently at random. Each had a potted cactus on it. The walls were roughly rendered with some kind of pale sandy material. They were covered with oversized paintings of horses. Some were being ridden by cowboys out on the plains, rounding up longhorns. Some were racing. Some were standing around, looking disdainful. There were ten other people in the place. Two couples. And two groups of three.

Not the people I was looking for. I was fairly sure of that.

Fenton had an advantage when she saw Michael’s friend in there. She recognized her from a photograph. I didn’t know any of Michael’s friends. But I figured I had an advantage of my own. Experience. I was used to spotting soldiers in bars. Particularly when they were up to things they shouldn’t have been.

A waiter approached. He was a skinny kid in his mid-twenties. He had curly red hair tied up in a bun on top of his head. I ordered coffee and a cheeseburger. I wasn’t particularly hungry but the golden rule is to eat when you can. And it gave me something to do aside from flicking through a copy of the same paper I had read at breakfast while I waited for more customers to arrive.

I sat and watched for thirty minutes. Both couples paid their checks and sauntered out. One of the trios followed suit. Another couple arrived. It was the receptionist from the medical center and a guy in baggy linen clothes. He had white hair, neatly combed, and a pair of open leather sandals. They took a square table at the end of the room farthest from the bar. They were followed in by a group of four guys. They were wearing shorts and pale T-shirts. They were thin and wiry and tanned. They had probably worked outside their whole lives. They were probably regular customers. They took the table nearest the bar. The waiter brought them a tray of beers in tall frosted glasses without needing to be asked. He stood and chatted with them for a couple minutes then turned and smiled at the next customers who came in. Two women. One was wearing a yellow sundress. The other had cargo shorts and a Yankees T-shirt. They would both be in their mid-thirties. Both had brown hair down to their shoulders. Both looked fit and strong. They moved with easy confidence. And they had purses large enough to conceal a gun.

Maybe the people I was looking for.

The women took the booth two away from mine. The Yankees fan slid in first. She continued all the way around until her back was against the wall. Like mine. Her head and body were perfectly still but her eyes were constantly moving. Flitting from the entrance to each occupied table to the bar to the kitchen door. Then back to the entrance. Round and round without stopping. The woman in the sundress slid in after her. She glanced at the drinks menu then dropped it back on the table.

“White wine,” she said, when the waiter approached. “Pinot Grigio, I think.”

“That’ll work,” the Yankees fan said. “Bring the bottle. Don’t spare the horses.”

The women waited for their drinks to arrive and I watched them out of the corner of my eye. They leaned in close together. They were talking, but too softly for me to make out what they were saying. No one left the bar. No one else came in. The waiter dropped off their wine. There was a picture of an elephant on the label. The bottle was slick with condensation. He wiped it down with a towel. He tucked the towel into his apron pocket, then poured two glasses. He tried to strike up a conversation. The women ignored him. He soldiered on for another couple of minutes then gave up the attempt and drifted back to the bar. The woman in the sundress sipped her wine. She looked at her friend and started talking again. She was gesticulating with her free hand. The Yankees fan drained her glass in two mouthfuls and poured herself another. She wasn’t saying much but her eyes never stopped moving.

I slid out from my booth and approached theirs. I wound up standing where the waiter had been.

I said, “Sorry for the interruption but I have a problem. I need your help.”

The woman in the sundress put her glass down. Her hands rested lightly on the table in front of her. The Yankees fan switched her glass to her left hand. Her right started hovering over her purse. I waited a beat. I needed to see if it disappeared inside. It didn’t, so I sat down. I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m looking for a friend. His name is Michael. Michael Curtis.”

Neither woman’s expression changed. The Yankees fan’s eyes didn’t stop scanning the room.

I said, “He’s in trouble. I need to find him. Fast.”

“What’s his name again?” the woman in the sundress asked.

“Michael Curtis.”

The woman shook her head. “Sorry. We don’t know him.”

“I’m not with the police,” I said. “Or the FBI. I know why Michael’s here. I know what he’s doing. I’m not looking to cause him any trouble. I’ve come to save his life.”

The woman shrugged. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you with that.”

“Just give me an address. One place to look.”

“Have you got a hearing problem?” The Yankees fan’s eyes were finally still. They locked on to mine and didn’t move. “We don’t know this Michael guy. We can’t help you find him. Now go back to your table and stop bothering us.”

“One location. Please. No one will ever know it came from you.”

The Yankees fan reached into her purse. She rummaged around for a moment. Then her hand reappeared. She was holding something. Not a gun. A phone. She glanced down and it came to life. She tapped it. Tapped it again three times. Then held it up for me to see. The digits 911 were glowing on its screen. “Do I make the call? Or do you leave us alone?”

I held up my hands. “Sorry to have bothered you. Enjoy the rest of your wine.”

I slid back into my booth and pretended to read some more of the paper. The Yankees fan put her phone away and drained the rest of her drink. She picked up the bottle and topped off her friend’s glass. Then she poured the rest for herself. The receptionist from the medical center and her companion got up and left. The four guys ordered another round of beer. No one else new arrived. The waiter approached the women’s table. They waved him away. The Yankees fan finished her wine. She slid out of their booth and followed the sign to the restrooms. The woman in the sundress stood up, too. She made her way in the opposite direction. Toward me. She stopped in front of my booth. She put her palms down on the table and leaned forward until her head was as close to mine as she could get without sitting. “The Border Inn.” Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear the words. “Do you know it?”

“I could find it.”

“OK. Room 212. Twenty minutes. Come alone. It’s about Michael.” She straightened up and made it halfway to her seat. Then she doubled back and leaned toward me again. “When my friend comes back don’t say a word. This is just between you and me.”