Chapter 2 Gabe – Monday Morning Part Two
GABE: MONDAY MORNING: PART TWO
Shivering slightly in the too-thin jacket he’d decided to wear that morning, Gabe peered out the Honda’s mist-coated windshield.
He’d already cracked the driver’s side window an inch or so to try and keep the glass from fogging while he waited, but the heavy mist surrounding the town of Westfort and this particular hill was cold, cloying, and persistent.
Gabe was fucking freezing. But a favor was a favor, and Gabe was particularly suited to this one.
The address he was focused on sat across the street and to his right, at about one o’clock, maybe one fifteen, and Gabe was just a guy, sitting in his car, watching a house.
As one does. Doing his best to appear unremarkable and commonplace.
Not casing the joint. Not waiting for the creep inside to leave.
“Come on already. You’re going to be late for work, dude.”
Maybe Gabe’s idea of being on time and this guy’s were wildly different.
Possibly it was fine for Randy to show up whenever he dragged his ass in.
Gabe’s own job history was not the nine-to-five version, and he suspected that he also might not have excelled on a set schedule, but one thing Heidi had impressed upon him was being on time.
A few more cold minutes passed before the front door opened with a loud scrape and rattle, as if it didn’t fit the frame properly.
“Finally,” he whispered.
A youngish man Gabe recognized from a selfie that Althea Mortine had shared with him emerged. Gabe lifted his cell phone to his ear, pretending he’d pulled over to answer a call. Randy Witherspoon didn’t appear to notice that he was being watched from the Honda.
In his late twenties, Witherspoon was of average height and carried a not-quite-to-term paunch that bulged under his blue Mariners hoodie.
This was the springtime uniform for many of the less fashion-forward in the Pacific Northwest. The only things missing were sandals and black socks.
Instead, he wore a pair of battered leather sneakers and socks that were possibly gray.
Gabe hoped he wore socks because wearing sneakers with no socks was truly disgusting and having that color of ankles was even more so.
Gabe shuddered.
Blissfully unaware there were eyes on him, Randy pulled the door shut with a slam that echoed across the street and proceeded to lock it with a key he then shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.
Althea had given Gabe a key, one that was supposed to fit the back door.
He hadn’t asked where it came from, but the likelihood that her granddaughter had provided it was high.
She was the reason Gabe was there, after all.
Which had him wondering if she suffered from self-esteem issues because, based on what Althea had told him via Elton, Randy W.
was no prize. He pushed those thoughts away for another time.
Tucking one hand into the pocket of his hoodie, Mr. Oblivious traipsed across the ragged green-brown lawn to the sidewalk, his attention held by something on the cell phone in his other hand.
He then turned to his right, heading toward Westfort’s downtown area.
While he walked, he shoved his phone away and pulled his hood up, presumably with the belief that the material would protect him from the misty rain. It would not.
Gabe knew where Randy was going but wanted proof he’d made it there before letting himself into the house. Technically, he wasn’t breaking in since he had a key, but he certainly hadn’t been invited.
Potato potahto.
“It is, in fact, breaking and entering,” Casey had sternly informed Gabe the night before.
The thing was, Gabe never cared much about possibly breaking the law when Casey crossed his arms over his chest in that way he did. Ranger Man’s biceps were always distractingly sexy.
“But is it? Is it really, if the key fits and all that?” He’d held up the key, waggling it so the light hit it. The possible breaking and entering was a favor for Elton’s woman-friend, Althea Mortine, and Gabe would never say no to Elton.
Ranger Man, on the other hand, was pissed at both of them.
He’d been rewarded with a long stare and then a shake of the head. Casey should’ve known that Gabe would do just about anything that Elton—and, by extension, Althea—asked of him, even enter an empty house that he wasn’t maybe invited into in order to retrieve personal belongings.
“Gabe, be careful. Please?”
“I’m always careful.”
So here he was, being careful and making extra certain that Randy Witherspoon really was out of his house. And now he finally was.
Starting the Honda’s engine, Gabe continued to surreptitiously watch Randy over the top of his cell phone until he was almost out of sight. At the last second, Gabe pulled away from the curb, the phone still pressed to his ear, and drove slowly enough that he wouldn’t pass Randy right away.
After heading east and downhill for a couple of blocks, the guy turned right again and disappeared down a steep cement staircase that led to Water Street and downtown Westfort.
Gabe knew that at the bottom of the steps, on the far end of a short street that dead-ended where the staircase stopped, was the pot shop where Randy Witherspoon was supposed to be spending the next few hours.
“Excellent.”
The time had come for some entering and retrieving. If he hadn’t been behind the wheel, Gabe might have rubbed his palms together again and possibly cackled. Instead, his phone vibrated, rattling against the hard plastic of the drink holder in the console, and scaring the crap out of him.
“Maybe I should cut down on my coffee intake,” Gabe muttered as he looked down at the screen and pressed Accept.
“What?” he said.
“What?” Gabe could hear the frown in Elton Cox’s voice. “What kind of greeting is What?”
“It’s the greeting I use when some people are interfering with my stakeout.”
There was a choking sound, as if Elton had been in the middle of a sip of liquid—undoubtably, coffee.
“Yes, I said stakeout.”
While on speaker—because he knew if he ended the call, Elton would just call him back until he answered—Gabe performed a three-point turn and directed the car back toward Oblivious’s address. Just in case someone else was inside, he pulled over and parked a block or so away.
The intel had been a bit vague seeing as Hero Mortine—not for the first time, Gabe thought Althea’s granddaughter had a very cool name—had dumped Randy over a month ago, as soon as she discovered he was a petty thief.
Why she had been with him in the first place was a question, especially considering the strong likelihood that he did not wash his socks.
On the other hand, Gabe could relate. Over the years, he’d rarely made good choices when it came to romantic partners, although his bar had been set a tad higher than the likes of Randy Witherspoon.
The situation with Ranger Man was a bit of an anomaly.
Would it last? Gabe wanted it to. But thinking about Casey Lundin was not what he needed to be doing right now.
“Focus, Gabe,” he muttered.
“What?”
Crap, he’d hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Nothing. I’m heading over to the house now.”
Taking one last careful look around, he got out of the car and tucked the phone into the front pocket of the too-light jacket.
The cold of the afternoon once again made him regret that he hadn’t grabbed the fleece-lined flannel one he’d permanently borrowed from Casey.
Stuffing his hands deep in his pockets to try to warm them a bit, he began trudging back toward the Witherspoon house, which was situated on prime real estate at the top of one of Westfort’s many hills.
Property taxes up this way had to be pretty high, even if Randy’s place didn’t scream “prime.”
A few houses away, Gabe paused, only sort of pretending he was short of breath, and surveilled the neighborhood, checking for twitching curtains, pale faces staring through windowpanes, and the like. Elton was still on the other end of the line.
“There’s no one out and about. The house feels empty, and the neighborhood is quiet,” he told the old man. It was a Monday, so any kids should have been at school, and most adults were probably at work. Fingers crossed.
He’d started walking again while giving Elton the rundown, and now he was almost directly in front of the address.
“I’ve arrived at the target.” Elton had told him to stop acting like the job for Althea was some kind of spy operation, so of course he had to use words like target.
“There is no target, Gabriel. You’re finding Althea’s locket and bringing it back here, that is all.”
“Karne’s Acme Retrieval Service,” Gabe quipped as he sauntered down the cement walkway to the front door, glad that the mist had stopped for the time being. “Nah, I don’t like that one. I need something catchier.”
Randy’s place could have been nice. Years ago, it must have been a lovely home, but those days were long gone, the structure having been neglected for decades.
The exterior paint had long ago peeled like an August sunburn, and although he could only see the moss-covered eaves clearly, the roof was probably the same.
The front lawn was a tangled mass of overly long grasses and other weeds.
At some point, a push mower had been abandoned near the front of the house and weeds had grown up through the thing, anchoring it to the ground.
A spring morning glory vine had wound its way through the handlebar, a single white bloom bobbing jauntily in the slight breeze.
“Maybe it’s art?”
“What?” Elton said.
“Nothing.”