“You remember when you came back up here after you were done running around with Randy? What did you tell me?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I told you what happened. About how we ended up at Leopold’s house.”
“And about how you were kidnapped and held hostage in the basement.”
“All right, Leon, I don’t have to relive the whole thing now. What’s your point?”
“You told me that they thought you were working for this guy named Harwood, right? That’s why they did that to you?”
“Yeah?”
“And when you told me that, what did I say?”
“I don’t honestly remember. I’m sorry.”
“I told you we should try to find out about Harwood, so we could help them, right?”
“Okay, I remember now. And I said forget about it.”
“Exactly. And do you think I just forgot about it?”
“Knowing you, no,” I said. “Now that you mention it.”
“I just poked around a little bit, Alex. On the Internet, looking up the name Harwood.”
“Okay, what did you find, Leon?”
“Nothing,” he said. “At least it seemed like nothing at the time. I was searching through a database of old newspaper articles, looking for any hits on Harwood. You know, like if I found an article about a man named Harwood being arrested for stalking somebody. Something like that. But I came up empty. So I let it go. But then I remembered, somewhere when I was looking, I saw those two names together. Harwood and Zambelli.”
“Where did you see them together, Leon? Were you able to go back and find it?”
“Sure, all I had to do was go back and look for any articles that had both of those names,” he said. “I’ve got it right here. Harwood-Zambelli, Incorporated. A real estate development company, formed in 1969. They were mentioned in a state investigation in 1977 after purchasing an acreage lot from the state. There was some suspicion of bid tampering, but no charges were ever filed.”
“Harwood-Zambelli,” I said. “Any first names in the article?”
“No, but I’m gonna keep looking.”
“Real estate, huh? Just out of curiosity, where’s the land they bought?”
“It’s up near Traverse City,” he said.
“A couple hours north of here,” I said. “Do you have anything else on that?”
“That’s all I have right now,” he said. “I just thought you’d like to know. Assuming there’s a connection.”
“Be a hell of a coincidence if it isn’t,” I said. “Damn it, Leon, you do good work, even when you’re sitting on your ass all day.”
“So what are you going to do now?” he said.
I looked out at Maria’s car, less than thirty feet away. “I’m feeling a little dry,” I said. “I’m gonna go have a drink.” I hung up, got out of the truck, and walked right through the front door.
Nothing happened. It wasn’t at all like the scene in the saloon, when the gunslinger pushes open the swinging doors and the piano stops playing and everybody looks up. Nobody even noticed me. They all went on eating their breakfasts or brunches or drinking their early beers.
Maria was in the same spot as the night before. She sat reading a newspaper, with an empty plate on the bar in front of her. I went right over and sat down next to her.
“Ms. Zambelli,” I said. “Good morning.”
She put her paper down and looked at me. It was my first chance to see her up close, and for the love of God, she had eyes that could make a man write poetry.
Or hell, even sing Romeo’s song. In French.
The last woman I had known with eyes like that was Sylvia Fulton, and those eyes had owned me for a year and a half before she finally went away. Maria’s eyes were darker, but they had that same way of making you feel like you were losing your balance when you looked into them.
“Do I know you?” she said.
The bartender stepped in before I could say anything. He leaned over the bar until his face was about twelve inches from mine, and he said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
When I had first hit this town the night before, it seemed a little strange that I’d found Maria so quickly. Just walked into the only bar, and there she was. But then it hadn’t taken long to see why she could hide in plain sight like this. There were certainly enough well-armed men around to come to her rescue.
“Your name’s Harry, if I recall,” I said. “Where’s Rocky? I wanted to say hello to him when I came in.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to get out of here,” he said.
“Yeah, count to ten,” I said. “That always works for me.” I threw a couple bills on the bar. “And then get me a beer.”
He didn’t look down at the bills. He didn’t get me a beer. Instead, he took exactly one step backward and then, without taking his eyes off me for a second, grabbed the phone off the wall.
“Hold on, Harry,” she said. “Before you arrest him, let’s hear what the man has to say. It might be good for a laugh.”
“Now why on earth would you arrest me?” I said to him. “I’m just sitting here trying to buy a beer.”
He didn’t say anything. I could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped the phone.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you guys would think of something.”
“We’re waiting to hear your story,” she said. She picked up her pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. “Do you have a light?”
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
Harry put the phone down and produced a lighter. As he held it to the tip of her cigarette, once again he never took his eyes off me for a second. The man was talented.
“You like having big men around to look after you, don’t you,” I said.
“You’re not exactly a lightweight yourself,” she said. “I have to admit, you’re put together better than any of those other men Charles has sent after me.”
“By Charles, I assume you mean Mr. Harwood?”
“Aren’t you the guy who’s been following me around in the white Cadillac the last couple days?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I drive a truck.”
“Well, who the hell are you, then?” she said. “No, wait. Let me guess.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and then blew the smoke straight upward. “I bet you I know. My brother told me a couple men came by his house last week looking for me. Mother convinced him that Charles didn’t send them, but Leo’s still not convinced.”
“I thought your brother hates being called Leo,” I said.
“Aha, so you were one of those men,” she said. “I thought he sent you on your way without telling you where I was.”
“Ms. Zambelli,” I said. “Maria.” Harry bristled when I said her name, like I had taken an indecent liberty. “Didn’t your brother tell you who we were?”
“I think he mentioned a couple names,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “I don’t remember them.”
“My name is Alex McKnight,” I said. “Which shouldn’t mean anything to you. But the man I was with was Randy Wilkins.”
She looked at me without saying anything. After a long moment, she looked away.
“Do you remember him?” I said.
“He’s the man who was shot here a couple days ago,” she said. “That’s where I’ve heard that name. The chief told me.” She looked up at Harry, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy watching me.
“Yes,” I said. “Randy was looking for you. Do you remember him? From thirty years ago?”
“No,” she said. “That was a long time ago.”
I hesitated. “You don’t remember him? Your mother did. As soon as she saw him.”
“My mother has a good memory,” she said. “It’s one of her many gifts. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit most of them.”
“My God,” I said. “I don’t believe this. You’re telling me you don’t remember him. And he didn’t find you here?
