Chapter Twenty-One Sloane
Chapter Twenty-One
Sloane
The dream catcher dangled from my rearview mirror as I parked in front of the Bistro.
Inside customers filled small tables, and servers moved around the Italian-style restaurant.
It hadn’t been open thirty-one years ago, so I’d not paid attention to it.
I glanced down at my T-shirt and jeans. Not dressy, but they’d have to do.
I walked up to a greeter. He glanced up from an iPad. A frown suggested he was ready to tell me to hit the road.
“I’m meeting Grant McKenna.”
Raised eyebrows and a slight nod. “He arrived about thirty minutes ago.”
I followed him through the packed dining room to a table in the back. As we approached, Grant stood. A gentleman. I didn’t meet many of those. “Sloane. I was beginning to wonder.”
I pulled out my chair and sat. “Sorry. An interview went long.”
He sat and motioned the waitress over. “What can I get you to drink?”
When she arrived, I glanced up at her. “A cola. With lots of ice.”
“Will do,” the waitress said.
“How are your interviews going?” He always stared at me with keen interest.
“Hard to say yet. Everyone has been willing to talk to me. As expected, lots of emotion. Thirty-one years erases as many memories as it exposes.”
The waitress arrived with a cola in an iced glass. Condensation dripped down the sides as a thin layer of foam skimmed the top.
“Do you think you’ll find them?” he asked.
I sipped my soda, savoring the sweetness. “I’d rather hear about you. What brings you to Dawson? We’ve established our first meeting wasn’t by accident. I’m guessing you didn’t happen by the Nelson farm, did you?”
“No.”
“Do you work cases like this often?”
“Whenever local law enforcement calls, I try to assist.”
“That’s your job?”
“I’ve gotten my private investigator’s license. I do this pro bono.”
The waitress arrived with a large pizza and set it on the table.
“I ordered,” Grant said. “Do you eat pizza, or would you like to order something else?”
“Pizza works for me.” The garlic and tomato smelled good, and I realized how hungry I was. “Salads waste my time.”
We each served ourselves pizza. I folded my slice like a taco and took a bite. We both ate in silence. Finally, he set his slice down and wiped his fingers on a cloth napkin. His nails were neat and even but not professionally done. He liked order, but he wasn’t fussy.
“What do you like?” he asked. “Beyond the work.”
“It’s all about the work,” I said. “That drives me.”
“Why?”
“Your work doesn’t drive you?”
“It’s not the first thing on my mind when I wake up in the morning.”
“That’s lucky for you.” I took another bite. “I go to bed with my stories on my mind. I dream about them, and the ghosts are waiting for me each morning.”
“Ghosts?”
I set my pizza down and wiped my fingers clean. “They tend to circle me until I find them or catch their killer.”
His head angled. “What if you fail?”
“I’ve not failed yet.”
“Do you have a plan if you do?”
I shook my head. “I never have a plan B.”
He drew in a breath. “You’re a burn-your-bridges kind of person.”
“Yep.”
“What about family? Friends?”
“This feels a little like a job interview. If you think you’re working with a super-stable person, think again.”
That prompted a grin. “I know what I’ve gotten myself into.”
He didn’t. But arguing wasted time. “I have no family. And friends are hard to make when you travel all the time.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“I do just fine.” There were times I’d envied families with a strong connection. But I never related to what they felt. The closest I came to that feeling was satisfaction when I finished an article.
“Cabin life still agreeing with you?” he asked.
“My phone is an extension of my right hand. Feels a bit like I’m missing an appendage.”
He chuckled. He was attractive. Dark hair, square jaw, and eyes that missed little.
He loved the work as much as I did. He could have been retired on a fishing boat.
But he was here eating pizza with me, trying to wrap up a case no one cared about.
I suspected he was a strong believer in right and wrong.
Black and white. Me, I checked ethics and embraced the gray.
Grant leaned forward a fraction. “You’re looking at me like I’m a suspect.” He wasn’t annoyed. In fact, I thought he was enjoying my scrutiny.
“Randomness happens. But circumstances can be manipulated to direct the randomness.”
“Meaning I manipulated all this? I intentionally met you at the conference, slept with you, and found you here for a reason?”
“Did you target me?”
He paused. “I did. I knew Colton was on the verge of getting out of prison, and you were also investigating the Mountain Music Festival. Your past articles were effective. For the record, the sex wasn’t part of the plan.”
I wasn’t offended. Like me, he had an agenda and went after it. “Happy accident. Fair enough. How goes my interview request with Colton?”
“He’s dragging his feet.”
“Why would he rush? He holds the cards. And he likes the game. Likes teasing everyone. The kills were thrilling, but this endless game of ‘Where are the girls?’ is far more fun. Colton’s silence keeps us all imprisoned in some way.”
“Interesting way of looking at it.”
I reached for another slice of pizza. This was the first time I’d been hungry all day.
“What did Colton do with the bodies?” he asked. “How did he transport them?”
“One of the trailers. And he had help.”
Grant stilled. “Taggart believed he stowed the bodies and came back after the crowds cleared.”
“Possible. But I don’t think so.”
“Who?”
“Not sure, but I’m betting this person or persons is still alive. Their existence is another reason why Colton stays quiet.”
“An emotional connection to the accomplice?”
“No. Colton doesn’t want his helper revealing the bodies’ location.” I pulled off a piece of cheese. “Bodies mean no chance of freedom. Their combined silence prevents mutually assured destruction.”
“I’ll pull Colton’s prison visitor logs and any correspondence for the last thirty-one years.”
“I’d like to see those names.”
“Consider it done.”
“Great.” I took a few more bites. “Thanks for the meal and the help.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ll catch up with you when there’s more to discuss.”
“You pissed at me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t care enough to be pissed.”