Gone(22)

“Oh? Do we know where he is?” Peter cocked his head to the side.

“Church,” Carmelita said. Her voice was deep for such a small person.

“And do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Can I help you with something?”

Althea beat him to it. “Just routine, ma’am. We’re helping out the investigation into the missing family. Do you know the Kemps?”

Carmelita turned and looked at something inside the restaurant before responding. “No, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve heard about the disappearance, though?”

Carmelita shook her head. “No, no.” She had an Italian accent, Peter thought. Subtle, but there. He thought he could see a couple dark hairs on her upper lip quivering in the bright sunlight. One of her eyelids didn’t open quite as wide as the other. She was probably seventy-five years old. Maybe eighty.

“Well, it could be possible your husband, or perhaps some of his workers, know who the Kemps are, so that’s why we’re hoping to talk to him. We want to talk to everyone who saw them last. It helps us get a picture of where the family members were, what they were doing.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” Carmelita said. She seemed distracted, her mind elsewhere. Maybe she’s got something in the oven, Peter thought.

He stepped closer. “Mrs. Spillane, have you noticed a film crew around? Guys and gals with cameras? Maybe talking to your husband about his business?”

“His business?” The woman’s sparkling eyes narrowed. “What business?”

Peter waved a hand. “The restaurant business. Or, I don’t know, whatever else your husband was involved with. Buying and selling old iron, glass, paper, cordage, that sort of thing.”

Off to the side, the power drill and pounding noises seemed to get louder — the chorus was joined by some other tool, splitting the air with a shrill racket. Carmelita’s words were temporarily lost.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Peter said, coming even closer. “Say again?”

“I say, ‘what business is it of anyone?’” she shouted, leaning down.

The construction abruptly halted, and Peter heard footsteps through the restaurant. He glanced at Althea. He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes, so he looked away. There was an accusation there, like he was overstepping, being rude. He didn’t think he was being rude. He’d been asking some simple questions. A family was missing, for God’s sake. You couldn’t tiptoe around everyone’s feelings.

A man appeared in the doorway behind Carmelita. “What’s going on Carm?” He looked out and met eyes with Peter. Brad Rafferty squinted at the cops, then his eyes flashed with recognition. “Oh,” he said.

Peter’s hand closed around the grip of his gun. His thumb popped the holster thong.

Brad put his arm around the elderly woman. “These police bothering you, Carm?”

“They’re talking about Nick. They’re asking questions about him.”

“We’re here because of the missing family, the Kemps, and we—” Althea began.

“She doesn’t know anything about that,” Brad said. He gave Althea a certain look. Over the past year, Peter had learned to spot that look; he knew what it meant. Brad was measuring Althea, judging her by the color of her skin.

“Why don’t you come down from there,” Peter said.

Brad wiped his hands on a rag. He dropped the rag on the floor and hopped from the doorway. His boots hit the dirt, pluming up the dust, right in front of Peter.

Althea came closer. Peter held up his hand to her, kept the other on the gun. He could see Brad’s belt — nothing holstered there. Maybe there was a weapon strapped to his ankle beneath his work jeans. It was possible there was something within his flannel shirt, but Peter didn’t see any bulges, save for the man’s physique; Brad was two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

“Okay,” he said, close enough for Peter to smell the coffee on his breath, “I’m down.”

Peter leaned inches closer. “Turn around. Step to the wall, and put your hands on it. You’re under arrest for assaulting John Hayes last night.”

“I didn’t assault nobody.”

“No?” Peter pointed to his face. “I didn’t do this shaving.”

“I don’t know how you got that.” He jerked his head toward Althea. “Maybe it was your woman there? She get a bit rough with you?”

Peter reached out, took Brad by the shoulders and spun him around. He shoved and Brad stumbled toward the wall, bracing himself with his hands splayed. A second later Peter was behind him, patting him down. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

“What’s going on?” Carmelita sounded more angry than concerned.

“. . . anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney . . .”

He found the weapon. A small .380 in a pocket holster. Peter removed it carefully and handed it to Althea. He kept searching and found a utility tool in Rafferty’s back pocket, one with a razor blade. A pack of cigarettes and a Zippo in his flannel shirt. He didn’t need to tell Althea to check if the gun was loaded. She already was. “It’s a KEL-TEC,” she said, “P-3AT. Standard magazine. It’s loaded.”