Page 42 of Distress Signal
“Now,” Jim started. “What’s this woman look like?”
Getting out my phone, I pulled up the photo Lane had sent, careful not to linger on it. Mistaking her for Reagan would be too goddamn easy.
“I remember her!” Rusty exclaimed. “Don’t get pretty little things like that in here much.”
“Was she with anyone?”
They all shook their heads, and Dodger said, “Sat in the corner by herself with a drink, playing on her little phone.”
“How did she seem?” I pressed. The fact that these guys even remembered seeing her was a miracle, but I supposed when you spent over half the day drunk, it became a natural state you learned to navigate the same way normal people navigated sobriety.
“Fine?” Jim supplied, like that was a silly question. “I wasn’t familiar enough with her to say any different.”
“How long was she here?”
“Couple hours. Had a few beers, nursing ‘em. Seemed to be killing time.”
Like she’d been waiting for someone, possibly?
I shifted my eyes to the side, sharing a look with West that told me he had a similar thought.
“Anything else you can remember?”
The three shook their heads in unison, and I nodded. The fact that they even recognized the photo was an impressive feat. At the very least, Lane now had visual confirmation she’d been here the night she went missing.
Still, the sheriff and his department had their work cut out for them—as did Trey.
Heavy footfalls echoed down the stairs at the back of the building, and Benny and Trey emerged from the hall a moment later. In his arms, Trey carried a stack of dusty banker’s boxes.
“Got the goods,” he said. “Benny was so helpful.”
“The fuck is this?” the man in question said as he moved back behind the bar, seeing the nearly full bottles in front of the old men alongside the empty ones. “Which one of you came behind my bar?”
All six of us—even Trey—raised our hands in similar gestures of,wasn’t me. Benny huffed, muttering and cursing under his breath about people acting like they owned the place.
“That’s our cue,” West murmured.
Trey and I nodded, and I said, “Well, thanks for your help,” clapping the old guys on the shoulders as I walked by.
“You too, Benny!” Trey threw over his shoulder as we headed outside.
When we were free from eavesdropping, Trey said, “I’d like to ring that fucking guy’s neck. If this wasn’t the only bar in town, I probably would.”
“We could help get rid of the body,” West supplied jokingly, holding his fist out, which I bumped with mine. “We’ve done it before.”
Without a doubt, Trey had as well, quietly and efficiently neutralizing threats to the President as part of his Secret Service detail.
“Let’s not take it that far,” Trey said diplomatically. “There’s no reason, even if he is a pain in my ass.” We reached his SUV, and he beeped open the hatch, shoving the box in beside the mobile command center he’d outfitted his vehicle with. “The upside is there are tapes from seven years ago, but they’reonlylabeled with the year, so it’s going to take me some time to comb them.”
“Surprised we haven’t heard from L?—”
West hadn’t even been able to get our brother’s full name out before Trey’s phone rang, his name popping up.
Answering, Trey put it on speaker. “Sheriff.”
“You guys still at the bar?”
“Just leaving,” Trey said. “I’ve got the security footage from last weekandthe tapes from seven years ago.”
