No One Will Miss Her(32)

Bird almost guffawed himself. There was only one person Cutter could be referring to. Bird tried to keep his expression neutral.

“The Richards woman?” Cutter blinked, and Bird pressed: “Are you trying to tell me that Dwayne Cleaves was sleeping with Ethan Richards’s wife?”

Cutter sucked his teeth and dipped his chin—affirmative—and Bird snorted. An affair would have been a relevant lead, but this one smelled like bullshit.

“Come on, man. You know who her husband is? And she’s a beauty queen, or was. Hard to believe a woman like that would bother with someone like your friend.”

The snark had the desired effect; Cutter bristled. “Maybe Dwayne gave her what her husband couldn’t,” he said.

Bird smiled. “I’m sure that’s what he told you.”

“No, man,” Cutter said, loudly enough that several heads swiveled in their direction. He cringed, then lowered his voice. “I saw fucking pictures. He had one of those shitty phones with the little, tiny screen, but you could see plenty. You could see her mouth just fine.” He grinned again, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. “That girl was a freak.”

“Hey,” a voice said sharply, and both Bird and Cutter looked up—Cutter flashing the guilty grin of a kid caught talking during detention. The bartender was glaring, one balled fist resting on the bartop. He turned his attention to Bird. “You done with this asshole?”

Bird glanced at his watch. “I do have to go, yes. Let me get my check, and Cutter”—he shoved a pad and paper across the bar—“write down your name and number. Here’s my card, too, if you think of anything else.”

The bartender returned with the check. He pushed it toward Bird with a grunt, then turned.

“You. Either order a drink or get the hell out,” he said to Cutter. Cutter flashed the guilty grin again, flipped a wave to Bird, and skipped out the door. Every pair of eyeballs in the room tracked his journey, and the door swung shut behind him with a squeak.

Bird turned back to find the bartender still there, still glaring.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” Bird said.

“He brings a bad element into my place of business,” the other man said, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Bird tossed back the last of his drink, tossed some cash and another business card on the bar, and left.



His phone started to buzz just as he slipped into the driver’s seat. He fished it out of his pocket with one hand, using the other to twist the key in the ignition.

“Yes?”

“It’s Ed.” The voice was familiar, but Bird couldn’t place it until it added, “Behind the bar. You’re sitting in my parking lot.”

“Oh,” Bird said. “Hello. I didn’t forget to tip, did I?”

There was a short bark of laughter. “That’s not why I’m calling. That guy you were talking to—”

“The one you wanted me to arrest?”

Ed grunted. “Whatever. He’s bad news and generally full of shit. He’s also loud as hell. Some of the other folks couldn’t help overhearing. You know, about Dwayne and that woman from the city.”

“I’m listening,” Bird said.

“Look, I don’t know what Dwayne was up to, if he was up to anything. It’s not my business, and I don’t want to know. But I did see those city folks. Not in here, just coming and going. They had a big black SUV, real nice. Expensive. It was hard to miss.” There was a pause. “One of my regulars, he don’t want to give his name, but he says he saw it passing by the other night.”

“Which night?”

There was a muffled sound in the receiver as Ed pressed a hand to the microphone; Bird could make out the cadence of a question. A moment later, Ed returned: “Last night, he says. Around midnight.”

“Thank you, Ed.”

Bird hung up the phone and smiled.





Chapter 13

The City




“I’d like to liquidate my accounts.”

The words sounded very loud and strange in the quiet of Adrienne’s car. She cleared her throat, tried again, dropping her voice into a deeper register. The confident alto of an anchorwoman, or a CEO presenting an annual report. She couldn’t sound like a scared little girl. Would she be able to say it when the time came? Could she say it without her voice shaking?

“I’d like to liquidate my accounts,” she said softly. “I’d like to liquidate my accounts.”

The traffic crawled along, the car crawling with it. It would be after dark by the time she got back. She had taken her time after the coffee shop, walking aimlessly through the streets, stepping in and out of stores. Not buying anything, just drifting, enjoying the sight of pretty things lined up on shelves or hanging on racks. Getting a little bit lost, ultimately, so that she lost track of where she’d parked the Lexus and walked two blocks in the wrong direction before she realized her mistake. She retrieved the car just in time to get caught in the snarl of the city’s endless rush hour, but even that wasn’t so bad. It was nice in here: the near-silent purr of the motor, the softness of the leather seats, the comforting sight of the gym bag resting on the passenger seat beside her, headlights and streetlights flicking on outside as the sky turned dusky. She was safe, cocooned. And alone. At last, alone. After all those hours of self-conscious performance, of giving her all to the one-woman show called Nobody Is Dead and Everything Is Fine, here at least was a place where she could scream, or cry, or slump, without worrying that someone was watching. Without having to manage her image. Without having to keep it together for his sake, knowing that she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.