Page 45 of The Children of Eve

CHAPTERXXXIII

Jason Rybek, friend to BrightBlown’s buds and bud of his own to the missing Wyatt Riggins, had just finished putting the second of his bags in the trunk of his car when I called his name.

I’d been waiting outside Rybek’s condo in North Deering since before dawn. Zetta Nadeau had located the house for me. I’d called her the evening before to ask if she had any idea where he might be living. Zetta told me that she and Wyatt Riggins had been out to Rybek’s condo only once, and she hadn’t been in a hurry to return. The place was bordering on filthy, and something in the mangy carpet had bitten her on the ankle. She’d also experienced a contact high from the pot Rybek and Riggins had shared, which left her with a headache and required her to launder everything she’d been wearing to get the smell out. Worst of all, they’d insisted on playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers while smoking indica-dominant Strawberry Glue, and except for maybe two or three songs, Zetta really hated the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Zetta didn’t recall the number or the street, only the general area. Still, she told me she’d recognize the condo if she saw it because of what she described as its “higgledy-piggledy” construction. So, bless her heart, she’d headed to North Deering that night and driven around until she located Rybek’s building. She spotted his Daewoo Lanos, which he’d bought because Danny McBride’s character owneda similar model inPineapple Express, even if Rybek’s was lime green, not yellow. It was into the same Daewoo Lanos that Rybek was currently piling his belongings as a prelude to exploring pastures new, or so I presumed.

Donna Lawrence had given me Rybek’s name, but only because she calculated that it was better to appear cooperative than the opposite. I imagine calls had subsequently been made and a decision reached that, all things considered, it might be better if Jason Rybek found somewhere else to listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers for a while, possibly on BrightBlown’s dime. When Rybek failed to show up at the farm the following day, Lawrence could shrug her shoulders and remark on the general unreliability of potheads these days.

I could have tackled Rybek immediately after Zetta called back with his address, but knocking on strangers’ doors late at night, even strangers of the mellower kind, was best left to the police or people who enjoyed being shot at. Anyway, if what Zetta said about Rybek’s evening routine was correct, he was more likely to head for the hills come morning, especially if he’d been informed that I’d be looking for him elsewhere later in the day, which would give him a head start.

Rybek was in his late thirties or early forties, with dark curly hair heading for a mullet unless someone staged a crucial intervention, and the calves of a runner or rock climber. He was wearing cargo shorts despite the morning cold, a puffer vest over a long-sleeved T-shirt, and tan boots. His eyes were clear when he turned to face me. As Donna Lawrence had intimated, Rybek might have lacked ambition but not discipline—especially if it meant avoiding a potentially unwelcome conversation with a private investigator, a prospect that might encourage a person to get up early and get gone.

“Shit,” he said. “You’re him, right?”

“Depends on who you were or weren’t expecting,” I replied. “I may need more details.”

He rubbed his nose. It was chilly enough to cause it to run. He couldhave done with another layer of clothing, or pants that reached his ankles.

“The PI,” he said, “the one who visited BrightBlown.”

“That’s me.”

I kept my distance, but more out of good manners than anything else. Rybek didn’t strike me as a threat. He didn’t even look worried, just resigned, as though this happened to him all the time and he was forever on the verge of making a clean getaway before being pulled up short by Fate.

“On your way to work?” I asked. “I was told you wouldn’t be expected until ten, but meeting a self-starter is always heartening.”

He leaned against the car and regarded his boots silently.

“I have to advise you,” I said, “that I’m not a morning person, so I was already in a bad mood before I arrived to find you only moments away from making this a wasted trip. If I’d hit that snooze button, you’d have been in the wind, forcing me to hunt you down for needlessly depriving me of my rest. That might have made me fractious.”

Over by the garbage containers, a one-eyed cat was picking at a fallen chicken carcass, its claws scratching against the plastic. Rybek gave the impression that he’d have been happy to change places with the cat, one-eyed or otherwise, because he knew how the carcass felt.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he said.

“Yet here we are, standing in the cold, talking.”

He nodded miserably.

“Your boss at BrightBlown informed me that you’re good at your job,” I said.

“If they find out we’ve spoken, I won’t have a job.”

“There are others. Given your skill set, I doubt you’ll be unemployed for long. Or—”

Rybek looked up.

“We talk,” I continued, “you drive away, and the bosses at BrightBlown are none the wiser. My only interest lies in establishing thatWyatt Riggins is safe. That’s what I was hired to do, so unless you buried him in your yard, I have no reason to make your life difficult. Not yet.”

I let the last two words hang in the air so they could do their work. For Rybek, it was a question of balancing minor inconvenience now against major inconvenience later. Unfortunately, it was my experience that many people opted to kick the can down the road because they were dumb. Jason Rybek, I hoped, was not dumb.

“He’s not buried in the yard,” said Rybek, in case I was tempted to take hesitation as confession and look for a spade.

“That’s reassuring to hear. Do you think Wyatt is buried someplace else?”

“He’s trying his best not to be.” Rybek kicked at the gravel of the driveway. “I wish he’d never shown his face here. I like this town. I had a good thing going.”

“You still do. I make my living from prudence.”

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