Night Watch (Kendra Michaels #4)(65)

He turned back toward the street. Dapper Dan’s Pub was on the corner next to the tiny sundries store that probably made most of its sales from lottery tickets. He crossed the street and walked into the dark pub.

A curling match, of all things, was on all three televisions above the narrow bar. Two elderly men, obviously regulars, stared absently at their beers.

The bartender, a plump woman in her seventies, was wiping off the stools. She didn’t acknowledge him even after he sat down on one of them.

“A pint of Pride,” he said.

Still no acknowledgment.

After a few moments, she walked behind the bar and pulled his beer from a well-worn tap. She placed it in front of him.

“Appreciate it,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. My uncle used to work at that factory.”

The bartender snorted. “Everybody’s uncle used to work at that factory. At least around here.”

Rye smiled. “How long’s it been shut down?”

A patron with a Santa Claus beard spoke up. “Twenty-three years last March. But most of the workers were let go five or six years before that.”

“And the place has been empty ever since?”

The bartender nodded. “There was talk about building computers there, but it never came to anything. The local government bent over backward to make it happen, but the company went to Taiwan instead.”

He shrugged. “Well, someone’s been going in and out of there lately.”

The bartender and her patrons stared at him. He’d tried to make it sound casual, but his tone had probably been a bit too insistent, he realized. “I mean, the gates look like they’ve been automated. Recently. I thought it might mean the factory was opening again.”

The second bar patron shook his head. “No such luck. There have been some people coming and going from there, but no one local.”

“I don’t think they’re workers,” the bartender said. “The cars are too nice. A couple Bentleys, a Mercedes, Range Rovers, those kind.”

“I think they’re stripping the place for parts,” the Santa Claus look-alike offered. “Or maybe there’s a crew in there designing a remodel.”

The bartender shook her head. “The only remodeling that’s gonna be done there is to level it to the ground.”

“Those cars come every day?” Rye asked.

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Saturday and Sunday, too.”

“Huh. Just cars? No trucks or construction equipment?”

“A few trucks last year. Lately, just cars.”

Rye turned in his stool and looked out the front windows toward the factory. “It’s right across the street. I’m sure they must stop in for a pint once in a while.”

“Never, and they don’t go next door for chewing gum or a pack of smokes. Me and Alfie, the owner there, were just talking about it. Those people are too snooty to bother with the locals.”

“Huh.” Rye stared at the factory for a moment longer. “They’re there right now?”

“Sure. I’m pretty sure there are always people there around the clock.”

“Strange.” He downed the rest of his beer and stood. “Well, good day to you all.”

He’d just the reached the door when he was aware that the bartender had followed him.

“Drug dealers or spies?” she suddenly asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You ask too many questions. I figured you’re maybe Scotland Yard or maybe Mi6.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness. “We’re not fools here, you know.”

He smiled. “I’m sure you’re not. But I assure you that I don’t belong to either of those august organizations. I’m only guilty of having an insatiable curiosity.”

“You wouldn’t admit it if you were.” But she still looked disappointed. “I was getting excited. You saw how boring it is in this town. Like I was telling Alfie, it’s pretty sad when it takes people running back and forth into an old factory to cause us to perk up and have something to talk about. It wasn’t like that when we were younger. Maybe our minds are going as dead and rotting as this town.”

“I believe you have a very sharp mind,” he said gently. “You just made a bad guess.”

She shrugged. “You still asked too many questions. I could be on the right track.” She turned away. “By the way, my name is Dorothy Jenkins. Drop in anytime. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, and maybe we’ll have another chat.”

“Ryan Malone.” He nodded and smiled as he opened the door. “And maybe we will, Dorothy.”

*

“AN OLD UNIFORM FACTORY?” Lynch’s voice was incredulous on the phone.

Rye climbed into his car and closed the door. “Yes. According to Dr. Porter Shaw’s vehicle navigation system, this was one of his most frequent destinations.”

“No hint of what’s going on there?”

“None. The locals are clueless. I traced ownership records for the factory, and it was purchased by an overseas holding company, a couple of years ago.”

“What holding company?”

Rye glanced at his tablet computer. “An outfit called Schyler Investments, Ltd.”