Run Away(45)

Simon sported a dress shirt, tie, and black loafers—he had, after all, been heading to a memorial service—while half the guys in here wore cotton gym tanks with no sleeves, a look no man over forty should ever try, no matter how well built. And these guys weren’t well built.

Hats off to them, Simon thought, for not caring.

He took a stool two away from Enid. She didn’t look up from her drink or glance his way. On the other side of him a guy wearing a porkpie hat was bouncing his head up and down as though to music but no music was playing and he wasn’t wearing earphones. A rainbow of rusted license plates took up most of the back wall—probably plates representing all fifty states, but Simon wasn’t really up for checking. There were neon signs for Miller High Life and Schlitz. An oddly ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling. This place, like the inn, was all dark wood, but that was the only similarity, like this was the poorest of poor cousins of the inn’s rich dark wood.

“What’ll you have?”

The barmaid’s hair was the color and texture of the hay on that hayride and done in a quasi mullet that reminded Simon of an ’80s hockey player. She was either a hard forty-five or a soft sixty-five, and there was little question she had seen it all at least twice.

“What kind of beer do you have?” he asked.

“We have Pabst. And Pabst.”

“You choose for me.”

Enid still had her eye on her drink, not so much as glancing in his direction, when she said, “You’re Paige’s dad.”

“Wiley tell you?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “He didn’t say a word. Why did you come today?”

“To pay my respects.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, it is. But I am sorry for your loss.”

She didn’t react to or acknowledge that. “So why are you here?”

“My daughter is missing.”

The barmaid opened the can and plopped it in front of him.

Enid finally turned her head toward him. “Since when?”

“Since Aaron’s murder.”

“That’s can’t be a coincidence.”

“I agree.”

“Your daughter probably killed him and ran.”

Just like that. No emotion in her voice.

“Would it matter,” Simon said, “if I said I don’t think that’s the case?”

Enid made a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. “You gamble at all?”

“No.”

“Yeah, but you’re some big stockbroker or something, right?”

“I do financial advising.”

“Yeah, whatever. You still play the odds, right? Try to figure out what’s safe and what’s risky, all that?”

Simon nodded.

“So you know what the two most likely possibilities are, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

“One, your daughter killed Aaron and is on the run.”

“And two?”

“Whoever killed Aaron took or killed her too.” Enid Corval took a sip of her drink. “Come to think of it, Possibility Two is much more likely.”

“What makes you say that?” Simon asked.

“Junkies aren’t great at not leaving clues or eluding the police.”

“So you don’t think she killed him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Simon said, trying to stay methodical here, detached. “Why would someone take Paige?”

“No clue. Hate to say this, but odds are, she’s dead.” She took another sip. “I’m still not sure why you’re here.”

“I’m hoping you know something.”

“I haven’t seen Aaron in months.”

“Do you recognize this guy?”

Simon handed her his phone. Elena Ramirez had texted him a photograph of her client’s missing son, Henry Thorpe.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Henry Thorpe. He’s from Chicago.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know him. Why?”

“He may be connected into this.”

“Into this how?”

“I don’t have a clue. It’s why I’m here. He’s missing.”

“Like Paige?”

“I guess.”

“Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

A scowling biker with a shaved head pulled out the stool between them so he could lean on the bar. Simon noticed the black iron-cross tattoo and maybe a half swastika sticking out from under his shirt sleeve. The biker noticed him noticing and stared him hard in the eye. Simon stared back and felt the red start to rise.

“What are you looking at?” Biker Boy said.

Simon did not blink or move.

“I asked you—”

Enid said, “He’s with me.”

“Hey, Enid, I didn’t mean—”

“And you’re interrupting a private conversation.”

“I, I mean, how was I supposed to know?”

Biker Boy sounded scared.

“I was just getting some beers, Enid.”

“That’s fine. Gladys will bring them over to you. You wait over by the pool table.”