Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(59)

From this information, DeMarco was able to surmise two things: that the withdrawals of eighty dollars each week were used to cover his admission to whatever strip club he had visited that night, his drinks, plus his champagne room visits. The combined six-hundred-dollar withdrawals were not.

The third fact DeMarco was able to glean from his information was this: Bonnie had lied.

DeMarco stared at the notes on his legal pad. He said, “Where would she and Huston spend six hundred dollars on a Thursday? Or maybe on Friday. Or both.” He already knew, thanks to an earlier call to the English Department secretary, that Huston had taken a personal day on the Thursday in question but had shown up for his afternoon office hours on Friday afternoon, then had rushed home in time to catch Tommy’s sixth-grade basketball game.

By all appearances, the writer’s life had veered from its routine only from approximately 6:30 a.m. Thursday until noon or so on Friday. A thirty-hour anomaly.

DeMarco asked himself who besides Bonnie could account for this change. Not Danni. Not Nathan. Possibly Bonnie’s brother, Moby, but DeMarco knew that if he contacted Moby, Bonnie would soon be alerted to it. What about Tex? Tex who? No last name, no last known residence, nothing but his association with Bonnie.

DeMarco needed another coffee after all. But he had filled his mug only halfway when a thought occurred to him. With coffeepot in hand, he walked briskly to Bowen’s office. He said, “I’m going to need Carmichael and Morgan for a little overtime tonight.”

“Of what nature?” Bowen asked.

“Tits and asses.”

“You want to see theirs?”

“Keep your fantasies to yourself,” DeMarco said. Then, “Plainclothes. I need them to watch Whispers from the inside while I watch it from the outside.”

“You have reason to believe Huston is going to show up there?”

“No. But the woman who owns the place. There’s something not right about her relationship with Huston. I think it went deeper than she claims. Plus there’s another character there who might be of some interest.”

“You sure this isn’t just an excuse to look at naked girls again?”

“That’s what I subscribe to Showtime for. Just authorize the fucking overtime and expense money, okay?”

“Expense money for what? Let me guess. The three of you are going to have to buy a few lap dances, right?”

“It costs fifteen dollars to get inside. If they don’t sit around the stage, they won’t have to tip the dancers. Besides, I want them sitting at a table, where they can keep an eye on the entire place. But they’ll have to look legitimate, for Chrissakes. A couple beers each, maybe a drink or two for the girls. It’s a hundred dollars max. Quit your bitching and take it out of petty cash.”

“That’s three troopers with what, four hours OT each?”

“Or pull our guys back and let the sheriff’s department and game commission handle it.”

Bowen blew out a noisy breath. “Any thoughts on what might be going through his head right now?”

“Huston’s? Pain. Grief. Anger. Murderous rage.”

“You have a theory, don’t you?”

“I always have a theory.”

“You going to share it with me?”

“E equals mc squared.”

Bowen sat motionless, staring hard at DeMarco’s face.

“What? It’s revolutionary. People are finally going to realize what a genius I am.”

Nodding his chin toward the coffeepot in DeMarco’s hand, Bowen said, “You drinking straight from the pot now?”

“I brought it for you, asshole. You want a refill or not?”

Bowen pushed his empty cup across the desk. “I’m getting a little annoyed with your insubordination, Ry. From now on, it’s Sergeant Asshole.”

DeMarco filled the cup. “In the spirit of love, peace, and harmony, sir, I will do my best.”

? ? ?

DeMarco returned to his office and set his coffee mug on the edge of the desk. Instead of refilling it, he had emptied it out and rinsed it clean in the lavatory. No more caffeine. His stomach was sour enough already, his mouth foul. He wished he had some chewing gum or breath mints, a candy bar, something to create the illusion of sweetness and cleanliness. But he had nothing. There was a vending machine in the lounge, but that was half a building away. Too far to walk for an illusion that would dissipate after a few minutes.

He turned to his right and looked at the whiteboard on which he had copied the names and notes from his legal pad. What usually happened when he was deep into an investigation was that one or two of his scrawls would appear to stand out from the rest, appear darker or slightly raised off the surface of the board, and he would know then that those names or clues were pivotal and held the keys to a resolution. But not this time. The longer he stared, the less distinct the writing became, the less legible, until all of it swam before his eyes in a blur.

“Go home and take a nap,” he told himself. He turned to the window behind his desk. It was still a beautiful day outside, blue skied and sunny. Warm enough that he could sit on his back patio with a jacket and gloves and a ski cap on, stretch out on the chaise lounge, lose consciousness for a while. Maybe he would try Huston’s prescription of meditation and progressive relaxation. Except that he didn’t know how to meditate. Did it involve prayer of some kind? Prayer had never worked for him. Television sometimes worked, but only at two or three in the morning with the volume low and the flickering images muted behind a glass of Jack and melting ice. Not a good prescription for an afternoon nap.