Gone(21)

There was one small sedan and a huge pick-up truck that said Rafferty Bros Contracting on the side of it, in the parking lot. The logo on the truck was a hammer and handsaw forming an X-shape. The bed was loaded with construction supplies. Apparently, the Raffertys worked on Sunday. So much for the day of rest.

Looking out at the empty restaurant, Peter felt something touch him, startled, and realized it was Althea. She took his hand.

He looked around the car, to see if anyone was watching. He and Althea had made an agreement that they remain professional. No public displays of affection. Just two cops, doing the work.

“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

It wasn’t easy to keep things compartmentalized like that. Stock County only had a few deputies, and they’d each had their own car until last year. That was when Deputy Alan Cohen had walked into the house in South Plattsburgh and stood over a basement meth lab set to blow.

The explosion had taken Cohen with it. Later on, word came down that he’d been awaiting backup. But the backup hadn’t arrived as quickly as Cohen needed — not anyone’s fault, the deputies were usually far-flung, only two on shift at a time, maximum — and so Cohen had ventured into the house alone. Since Cohen’s death, every shop now carried a deuce — two cops per car. Peter wondered where the extra money was coming from in a bear economy, but budgets weren’t his job.

His job was to protect and serve. And now he did it with the love of his life at his side. It wasn’t always easy.

She was easy, though — she was about the easiest person to love he’d ever known. He’d never expected to have a relationship like this, to settle in with a steady companion. But then along she’d come, a new deputy for the department, and everything had changed.

She rubbed his hand for just a moment before letting it go. He hadn’t responded when she’d asked if he was doing alright. So she answered for him. “Yeah, you’re okay, tough guy.”

“You ready?”

“Always.”

They got out. The morning air was cold, but the sun was out, rising above the tree line. Peter and Althea crossed the dirt parking lot, scuffing up the sand. For a moment everything was quiet. Maybe no one was working on a Sunday after all. Then the squeal of a power drill broke the silence, followed by the pounding of a hammer. The pounding reverberated off the trees surrounding the restaurant. It really was the middle of nowhere out here, with Hazleton about three miles away, New Brighton four miles in the other direction.

Peter knew about suburban sprawl, and businesses opening along the outskirts of developing communities. He didn’t think this was what Nick Spillane had in mind — Hazleton and New Brighton were far from developing. Quite the opposite: people were draining away. When Peter attended school in Hazleton, the graduating class had forty-five kids. This year it would be thirteen. Half the residents of Stock County were on some type of disability or welfare. The rest worked in the health field, for the county, or got their income from carpentry or some other trade.

No one came out to greet the two deputies, so they went round the back, where the sounds were coming from. Peter nodded to Althea, who took one way around while he took the other.

He came across piles of construction materials — OSB board, foam insulation, stacks of laminate flooring. A few thousand dollars of materials sitting outside with no cover except for a tarp that had come unhooked from one of its bungee cords and flapped in the breeze. Spillane had some big bucks, that was for sure.

The back of the building was getting an addition. Two-by-four framing shaped out a new room and the beginnings of a deck. Peter saw a carpenter bent over one of the floor joists. Big, long, two-by-six boards ran parallel, suspended over an uneven ground. The carpenter was screwing them into place, power drill whirring in his grip. He stopped and looked at Peter, standing just beyond the framework.

“Morning,” the carpenter said, setting aside the drill.

“Morning.” Peter hung his hands on his belt. He had to squint in the sunlight.

“Looking for the owner?”

“I am. Is he here?”

The carpenter hesitated, looking at the nice bruise around Peter’s eye. The carpenter was in his late forties, wild hair full of sawdust. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Well, you mean Nick? Carm is here, though. She’s around somewhere. I, ah . . .”

“I’ll find her.” He appraised the construction. “Looks good.”

“Thank you.”

Beyond the new framing he saw Althea, near the rear entrance. She was talking to someone inside. As he approached, Althea gestured towards him. “And here is Deputy King.”

A shrunken little woman stood in the back door, grey hair in a bun. She wore an apron, a long grey skirt, and a flower-patterned blouse. Her eyes were dark, her complexion olive. She offered Peter a smile, something lurking in her glittering eyes. Something that told him she was a tough cookie.

“Morning, ma’am,” Peter said.

The doorway was just a square cut in the plywood, elevated above the ground about two feet. No stairs in place yet.

“This is Carmelita Spillane,” Althea said. “This is her restaurant.”

“Oh great, great,” Peter said. “Doing a lot of work, huh? Looks very nice.”

“I was just telling Mrs. Spillane that we were hoping to have a word with her husband, but he’s not here.”