Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(51)

“Who, besides everybody?”

“Nate Romanowski. He wants the birds.”

The Blade whistled. “Nate Romanowski? That Nate Romanowski?”

“The same. But he’s not the same. Instead of fighting back after he left the unit, he went off the grid and now he’s pretending he’s legitimate.”

“I don’t get that,” the Blade said. “If anybody should be on our side, it’s him.”

“He doesn’t have any fight left in him,” Soledad said. “He’s washed-up.”

“Damn,” the Blade said. “I used to look up to the guy. The stories I heard about him . . . he was badass.”

“He’s old and soft now. He’s married and has a kid.”

“Are we gonna get rid of these birds in Seattle?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

The Blade chuckled at that. He and Soledad seemed to share a private joke.

“Then what are we going to do in Seattle?” Randy asked finally.

“We’re going to light the fuse,” Soledad said.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


    Lola Lowry


Joe loosened his belt and settled into his lounge chair in front of the television in the living room. He was happy, sleepy, and a little bit drunk. The Dallas Cowboys game was a few minutes away and he hoped it would be dull and boring so he could squeeze in a nap.

For the first time since he and Marybeth had moved in, the house felt full. The aromas from the feast still lingered and he couldn’t think of anything that smelled better.

The Thanksgiving meal had been wonderful, although rounds of dessert were still to come. The women of all ages in the dining room were howling with laughter and they’d scarcely noticed that he’d slipped away. The shady exit from the dinner table was a move he’d worked on for years and, by all accounts, nearly perfected.

Daisy had found him, of course, and she was collapsed on the side of the chair. April’s big dog, LeDoux, seemed to worship Daisy, and soon there were two dogs on the carpet. Tube had come out of the dining room long enough to assess where Joe was, but he’d turned and gone back because, although he was only half Corgi, his outlook toward humans was all Corgi. Tube instinctively knew that the people in the house had gathered primarily to appreciate and admire him. He’d gone back into the kitchen so as not to deprive them any longer.

Lucy had arrived with her friend, Fong Chan, an hour before they ate. Fong was petite and polite and she spoke perfect English. She told everyone during dinner that she had been texting her parents in Hong Kong about the trip with Lucy and the Thanksgiving dinner and that they were happy she’d met a friend. She read out a text from her parents thanking Lucy and everyone in the family for the special occasion.

She mentioned that her parents were considering a move from Hong Kong because of the Communist oppression there. They favored California, but Fong said she’d now convinced them to take a look at the Mountain West because she’d found people to be especially welcoming.

Lucy was courteous and attentive to her friend—she was always the perfect host—but she’d slip out of character to parry a jibe from one of her older sisters or slip in a good-natured insult when they were talking. As always, Lucy read the room better than anyone in the family other than Marybeth, and she knew just what to say at the perfect time to either delight her parents or enrage her sisters. It was good to have her home.

Kestrel was too busy to eat. Instead, she cruised from diner to diner to get bits of food, which everyone gave her. Liv said she didn’t like the idea of her baby girl imitating a dog, but even she fed the toddler a piece of turkey with gravy.

Sheridan reveled in playing the big sister, the one with the actual job who lived in the real world. She chided April about being “practically unemployed” and Lucy for being cocooned at college. Her comments, made good-naturedly, were greeted with rolled eyes from both of her sisters.

April switched from beer before the meal to wine after, and she got louder with each glass. She was already challenging Sheridan to another wrestling match at some point. Fong was alarmed, until Lucy assured her there would be no real violence.

Liv had brought a pot of cornbread and oyster stuffing that she said she’d learned to make from her grandmother back in Louisiana. Joe loved it and had eaten way too much of it. When he burped in his chair, he could taste oysters.

From where he sat, he could see out through the living room window to the front lawn and the woods beyond. He glanced over from time to time to make sure the gargoyle-looking man Marybeth had encountered that morning wasn’t coming back. The day was cool and still, marked by errant swirls of wind that picked up fallen leaves and danced them around in pirouettes, then dropped them again. There were still a couple of late elk-hunting areas open in the mountains, but the season was winding down. He didn’t feel guilty taking the day off and not patrolling. Even the few elk hunters remaining usually made their way into town for a Thanksgiving meal at a restaurant or church.

He periodically checked his phone for text messages from Sheriff Tibbs or Gary Norwood in regard to their day-old murder investigation. Both of them were apparently taking the day off as well. Either that or they had nothing new to report.

The plate number he’d written down from the car on the road the night before proved to be a dead end. It was a rental belonging to Budget Rent A Car. It had been rented by someone called Bob Hardy from Syracuse, New York. A New York DMV quick records check had come up empty.