Smiling nervously, Dayle shook her head. “No, thanks,” she murmured, a hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll just heat up some soup later. Thanks.” She gently closed the door, then whispered into the phone, “You were saying?”
“Well, I was about to say that old Ted has to be pretty full of himself to put Gil down as a reference. Then again, Gil’s dead. And like I say, Ted did do a good job. Even I have to admit that much. But…well…”
“Go on,” Dayle urged him.
“I think of that speech you made about fighting homophobia, and I applaud you, Dayle. But I see Teddy Kovak standing with you, and I’m telling you, he’s not on our side.”
They followed Vicki Bender’s station wagon past the post office minimall. Sean stayed two or three cars behind her. She couldn’t help looking around at other cars and wondering if Avery was in one of them. Had he even made it to Opal? Certainly, she would have heard something on the radio if he’d been arrested or hurt. It was hard concentrating on her conversation with Nick in the backseat. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?” she asked.
“You were giving me the skinny on this men’s club.”
“That’s right,” Sean said, eyes on the road. “According to the neighbor, it’s a bunch of hunting buddies, very few of whom hold steady full-time jobs. Yet they all seem financially fit. For example, your late friend, Charlie Stample, owned a gun and tackle store, open three days a week—as long as there wasn’t a sign on the door saying GONE HUNTING.”
“Other incomes,” Nick said, nodding. “It explains all that expensive crap at Charlie’s place. This hate group must pay well.”
Up ahead, Vicki Bender turned into the parking lot of a bowling alley. On the side of the long building, blinking neon white bowling pins led to a sign: OPAL STRIKE N’ SPARE—THE KINGPIN RESTAURANT—GAMES N’ FOOD.
Sean parked five rows away from Vicki Bender’s station wagon. Clutching the bundle of mail, Vicki headed into the bowling alley.
The glass door was still swinging back and forth when Sean and Nick stepped in after her. Rock and roll oldies were piped over speakers, competing with the echoing din and clamor. The place smelled of cigarettes and shoe leather. Vicki knocked on a door by the vending machines. As the door opened Sean glimpsed five men inside, seated at a round table; it looked like a poker game in progress—except one of the men had a laptop computer in front of him. They seemed normal enough, between the ages of thirty and fifty, dressed casually, but clean. They didn’t look like monsters. In fact, all of the men stood up when Vicki walked into the room. Then the door closed.
Sean and Nick strolled over to a rack of bowling balls. She kept glancing back at that closed door. “Well, any ideas?” she asked, over all the noise. Someone had cranked up Del Shannon’s “Runaway” on the speakers. “We can’t hang around here too long. Someone’s bound to recognize us.”
Nick feigned interest in a bowling ball. “Just keep cool. I’m thinking.”
“Well, don’t blow a fuse,” she muttered. Sean checked the back room door again. The girl at the shoe-rental booth was staring at them. “Is it too soon to call in the state police or the FBI?” Sean asked. “We could try to explain the situation to them.”
“No way,” Nick replied. “If what Grandma Hildy says is true, these guys are friendly with the police. Someone would tip off the local authorities about what’s coming around the pike, and—chain reaction—these guys would scatter or clean house before anyone got near Opal. No, nice try.”
Sean sighed. Nick was right. And if Avery were here, he’d be the first person they’d arrest—not someone from the group. Outside of the late Charlie Stample’s Polaroid, they had no proof implicating these other people in the celebrity murders. “I have a little recorder in my purse,” she said, thinking out loud. “Too bad we can’t pry a confession out of one of them.”
“We could always grab the first guy who comes out to use the can,” Nick said, studying the closed door. “Then we can take him for a ride to a remote spot, and
“Abduct one of them—right here? Are you nuts? This is their turf. We’ll have the whole group on our tail—and the local police too. We’d never make it.” She took another look toward the shoe-rental booth.
Snapping her gum, the girl leaned on the counter and continued to stare at them. Sean guessed she was twenty-five—with more than her share of hard knocks. She might have been pretty at one time, but now she just appeared tired and burned out. The red STRIKE N’ SPARE T-shirt hung on her emaciated frame, and she’d carelessly pinned back her limp brown hair.
“That woman in the booth won’t stop looking at us,” Sean whispered.
Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Huh, she’s checking out my butt.”
“Oh, would you please get over yourself for just five minutes?”
But Nick wasn’t listening. He was on his way to talk to the girl, whose face lit up as he approached. Fascinated, Sean watched them. Nick whispered something to her. She giggled and tossed back her head—the official flirt laugh. After a minute, she took a pencil from behind her ear, then scribbled something down on a score sheet. She looked up and caught Sean staring.
Sean turned away—toward the rack of bowling balls. A couple of minutes passed, and then Nick came up to her. “Okay, the wheels are in motion,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. In schoolgirl penmanship with little circles over the
“What are you talking about?” Sean asked.
“We’re going for a ride with Larry Chadwick,” Nick whispered. He threw a smile at Jill, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. She winked back.
“What’s going on?” Sean said.
“In a minute, Jill’s gonna step into that room and tell Larry Chadwick he has an emergency phone call from his wife. Jill thinks it’s all part of a practical joke. When he comes out to take the call, I’ll walk up, tell him I have a gun, and we’ll go to his car—”
“My God, this is insane—”
“You hang by that meeting room door, and make sure Jill doesn’t screw up. She’s supposed to tell the boys that Larry will call them from home later.”
“How could she be dumb enough to cooperate with you in this—this ‘practical joke’? You’re a total stranger to her—”
“Doll, she’s twenty-seven years old, handles smelly shoes all day for minimum wage, and she’s hot for me. Believe me, she’s dumb enough to cooperate. Once you know these guys have bought Jill’s song and dance, head outside. I’ll make Larry flash his headlights. Are you following me?”
Sean saw the young woman come out from behind the booth. She started toward the meeting room door.
“We’ll drive out of town,” Nick went on. “You’re the lawyer. Promise Larry a deal, immunity for his confession. We’ll get it on that recorder of yours, then call the state police once we’re far enough away from Opal.”
“And they’ll arrest us for kidnapping, you idiot,” she said urgently. She watched Jill knock on the door. “My God, she’s going through with it. This is crazy. I don’t have the power to make any immunity deals—”
“Well, maybe Larry Chadwick won’t know that.”
One of the men opened the meeting room door. Jill said something to him, and pointed toward her booth. The man nodded, then stepped back inside. The emaciated girl turned and gave Nick a sly smile. Then she scurried toward her workstation.
“Nick, this is a terrible idea,” Sean said.
“It’s all we got, babe,” he replied. “See you in Larry Chadwick’s car.”
“No—” she started to say, but Nick started toward the shoe-rental booth. Someone emerged from the little conference room, a tall man with wavy, strawberry-blond hair and wholesome good looks. He was about forty, and wore pressed khakis and a crisp white shirt. He looked very familiar.
Nick strolled up to the man—just as he reached for the phone on the shoe-rental counter. Sean moved a bit
