Broken Angels

84

The snow was unremitting. At times Byrne and Vincent had to pull over to let a squall pass. What lights they saw-the occasional house, the occasional commercial enterprise-seemed to come and go in the fog of white.

Vincent's Cutlass was built for the open road, not the snow-covered country lane. At times they drove five miles an hour, wipers on high, headlights illuminating no more than ten feet ahead of them.

They passed through small town after small town. At six o'clock they realized it might be hopeless. Vincent angled to the side of the road, pulled out his cell phone. He tried Jessica again. He got her voice mail.

He glanced at Byrne, Byrne at him.

"What do we do?" Vincent asked.

Byrne pointed out the driver's side window. Vincent turned, looked.

The sign seemed to appear out of nowhere.

DOUG'S DEN.

There were only two couples in the restaurant, along with a pair of middle-aged waitresses. The interior was standard home-style small-town decor-red and white checked tablecloths, vinyl-covered chairs, a ceiling spiderwebbed with white Christmas minilights. A fire burned in a stone fireplace. Vincent showed his ID to one of the waitresses.

"We're looking for two women," Vincent said. "Police officers. They may have stopped here today."

The waitress looked at the two detectives with well-worn country skepticism.

"Can I see that ID again?"

Vincent took a deep breath, handed the wallet to her. She scrutinized it for what seemed like thirty seconds, handed it back.

"Yes. They were here," she said.

Byrne noticed that Vincent had that look. The impatient look. The Double K Auto look. Byrne hoped Vincent wasn't about to start body- slamming sixty-year-old waitresses.

"About what time?" Byrne asked.

"Maybe one o'clock or so. They spoke to the owner. Mr. Prentiss."

"Is Mr. Prentiss here now?"

"No," the waitress said. "I'm afraid he stepped out for a bit."

Vincent checked his watch. "Do you know where these two women went from here?" he asked.

"Well, I know where they said they were heading," she said. "There's a small art-supply store at the end of this street. It's closed now, though."

Byrne looked at Vincent. Vincent's eyes said: No it isn't.

And then he was out the door, once again a blur.