Page 54 of Finders Keepers
“I wasn’t sure the quality of the hospital food.” Nate handed him a spoon. “Gotta be better than Jell-O at any rate.”
Wesley let out a huff that turned into a hiss. He pressed a hand to his side. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Nate said, pulling up the chair while Wesley took a small mouthful. Amazing. The granola had softened to the point where he could swallow without chewing. Chewing hurt as he’d found out earlier when the nurse had brought him breakfast.
He’d barely finished his parfait when someone knocked and pushed the door open a few inches.
“Mr. Byerly?”
Wesley looked up. A woman stood just inside the doorway, plainclothes, early forties, badge clipped to her belt.
“I’m Detective Anna Hollis, Cass County Sheriff’s Office. Mind if I come in?”
Chapter Eighteen
Nate stood as Wesley shook his head.
“Not at all. How can I help you?”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I’ll keep this short; you’ve been through enough already. I’m here about your assault and a possible connection between you and a missing thumb drive.”
“Would you like a chair, Detective?” asked Nate.
“Yes. Thank you.” She offered him a nod and faint smile.
Nate tugged the chair he’d been sitting in around the hospital bed.
Detective Hollis maneuvered it closer to the bedside and sat. She pulled out a small notepad from her pocket and flipped it open. “Go ahead, Mr. Byerly.”
Wesley shifted slightly, careful of his ribs, and walked her through the events of two days ago.
The pen scratched across the page in quick bursts, shorthand maybe, Wesley thought.
“So what about this thumb drive?” She looked up, her eyes sharp and steady, dark as chestnuts.
“If I had a thumb drive in the backpack, it would’ve had third-grade lesson plans or thomething on it.” Then Wesley remembered—and hesitated. His ribs ached, but not half as much as the tightness in his chest. Would she judge him? Well, it didn’t matter. He’d been judged his whole life. “But I loaned the one I usually take to the club to my neighbors.”
“Your usual one what? And what club?”
He nodded. “The bag I take into Omaha. There’s a place I go thometimes. A private club. That’s where I was the night of the original attack.”
A wisp of surprise flickered across her face. “I was told this was a single incident. You’re saying there was another assault?”
Nate squeezed his hand in silent support and encouragement.
Wesley gave a brief explanation—where he’d been, what had happened—leaving Nate out of it. Nate’s presence at the club didn’t seem pertinent at the moment.
She took notes, her pen clicking softly as she wrote. “And you’d brought a different bag that night because the regular one wasn’t available?”
“Right.”
“Who has that bag now?”
“Annie and Hank Monroe. Neighbors. They borrowed it for a trip.”
“And this club in Omaha—what kind of club are we talking about?”
Wesley hesitated for half a beat, then exhaled. “It’s a private membership club. Dithcreet. Gay-friendly. It’s...not illegal or anything. But people go there expecting privacy.”
