Lassiter

32 The Missing Client

I left Ziegler’s house around midnight. I wanted to tell Amy we had a lead on Snake Aldrin, so I risked waking her, but no answer. We hadn’t spoken since the cops hauled us away from the Grand Jury, and I was worried.

Where the hell is she?

The rain had stopped and the asphalt shimmered like polished obsidian in the glow of the streetlights. I banged the front door open and walked into my dark house. I heard snoring from Granny’s bedroom. Csonka lay on the living room tile, under a ceiling fan. He was snoring, too, hind legs twitching. Probably dreaming of chasing a lady bulldog through Bayfront Park.

A smack-smack-thud was coming from the backyard. I sneaked a peek and saw Kip, hitting the heavy bag. Rapid-fire combinations. Punch-punch-kick. Harder and faster than earlier in the evening. One flurry after another, matchstick arms lathered in sweat. Furious in his intensity. Watching him, I felt waves of heat inside me. I guess that’s what unbridled love feels like.

I wasn’t about to order him to go to bed. Let him be tired and sore tomorrow. Let him carry some self-confidence to school along with his algebra book.

I tried Amy’s cell early the next morning, but the call went directly to voicemail. I thought about Ziegler’s offer. Would Amy ask my opinion? I didn’t want her to take the money and run. I wanted a stab at finding Snake, now that we had his real name. But was I able to give solid advice? Years ago, I’d failed Krista. Maybe now I was trying too hard to make it up to her sister.

The spicy aroma of carne asada greeted me as I walked up the stairs to my office. Jorge was already preparing lunch at Havana Banana. I sneaked past Cindy while she was on the phone, arguing with the repairman who could not seem to find parts for my black-and-white Edsel of a photocopy machine.

Still no return call, so I rang the motel on South Dixie Highway where Amy was staying.

“Checked out early this morning.” The male desk clerk spoke with a backwoods twang.

“You sure?” I sensed trouble the way seabirds sense an oncoming storm.

“Tall, pretty girl. One suitcase. Paid cash.”

“Did she leave a message for Jake Lassiter?”

“No messages. No smiles. Bit of a hurry.”

“No forwarding address?”

“Ain’t the post office. She was driving a car with Ohio plates, if that helps.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“ ‘Birthplace of Aviation.’ ”

“What?”

“On the plates. The Ohio slogan.”

“Right.”

“ ‘Open for Business.’ That’s West Virginia.” I heard him chuckle. “I see a lot of states passing through here.”

The clerk rambled on about the Ocean State, the Elevated State, and the Garden State while I tried to process the information about Amy.

Where did she go? Why won’t she return my calls?

“When she paid the bill, did she say anything at all?” I asked.

“Sure, she asked for directions.”

“What! Why didn’t you say so?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Where? Where’d she want to go?”

“Shooting range. She asked where she could go for target practice.”