Every Precious Thing (A Logan Harper Thriller) Page 7

  The bartender filled a glass with something that almost looked like water, and set it on the bar. “Four fifty.”

  Logan pulled out a ten.

  When the bartender returned with his change, Logan pulled out his phone and turned it so the man could see the screen. “Did a guy come around last night and show you this picture?”

  The bartender glanced at Sara’s photo, then looked at Logan through narrow eyes. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “You kind of look like one.”

  “Army,” Logan said. “Once.”

  “That could be it, I guess.” The man jutted his chin at the phone. “So what’s the deal?”

  “My friend got beat up last night near The Hideaway. I think it was because of this.”

  The man shook his head, said, “I don’t know nothing,” and started to turn away.

  It was clear, though, that he did know something. “What did you tell him?”

  Swiveling back, the man said, “Didn’t tell him nothing. Nothing to tell.”

  “So he was here.”

  The bartender frowned. “I guess. So what?”

  “My friend wasn’t doing anything wrong. There was no reason for him to get beat up like that.”

  “Then that makes it all the worse, don’t it?”

  This time, the old man did walk off, not stopping until he reached the far end of the bar, where he started wiping down the counter. After a moment, Logan got up and walked over.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Already told you. Nothing.”

  Logan stared at him, his face immobile.

  The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you should leave.”

  Logan remained silent.

  The man opened the cash register and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here’s your money back. I don’t want it. Now get out.”

  Logan heard a chair behind him scrape across the floor. He didn’t know if it was someone coming to the bartender’s aid or heading for the exit, but there was no need to find out.

  “Sure,” he said. He took a step back, leaving the money on the bar. “Thanks for your help.”

  __________

  LOGAN’S ALARM WENT off at five minutes to two a.m. Though the El Camino’s seat wasn’t exactly the best place to sleep, it was better than the metal truck bed in back.

  He was in a parking lot behind an insurance office across the street from the Sunshine Room. He got out and walked over to the corner of the building and peeked around it at the bar. The lights were still on, and a few cars remained in the lot, but they wouldn’t be there for long. Two a.m. was closing time in California.

  He watched patiently as people trickled out and drove away. Finally there was only an ancient VW Bug left, so he guessed it must belong to the bartender. He climbed back into the El Camino, and pulled out onto the side street, his lights off.

  Leaning over, he popped open the glove compartment, intending to look for a piece of paper he could write the VW’s license number on. Just inside was a white business-sized envelope. Sara’s note. He didn’t remember putting it in there and guessed he must have left it on the seat, and Harp or Barney stuck it in the box so it wouldn’t be lost. This was not something he could write on, so he lifted it to see if there was anything underneath.

  That’s when he realized it wasn’t Sara’s note. It was the envelope Len had left his father.

  He knew he should just ignore it, but he’d seen how the contents had affected Harp. Maybe if he knew what was inside, he could figure out a way to help. He hesitated, then pulled open the flap.

  He’d been expecting a letter or a picture or something like that. What he found was another, though smaller, envelope. The paper had browned and felt stiff. He couldn’t help noticing the postmark in the corner: May 14, 1944.

  The addressee was Tommy Harper, and the sender was Neal Harper. A letter from Logan’s dad to his uncle.

  He took a breath and flipped it over.

  A letter that had never been opened. The reason was obvious. It had been sent right around the time Uncle Tom went missing.

  No wonder it had hit his father so hard.

  Carefully, Logan put it back the way he’d found it.

  What he knew of his uncle’s time in the navy was little. Tom had served as an ordnanceman on a PBY, which was a plane that landed on water, picking up downed pilots and inserting commando units in places where no other aircraft could get. He also knew Tom’s plane had simply disappeared while returning to its base in Perth, Australia, from a mission in southern Indonesia. That was pretty much it.

  Logan had always been wary of bringing up his uncle to Harp because anytime the subject had arisen, his father’s normal, easy-going manner would dim, almost in reverence.

  Refocusing on why he was sitting in his car in the middle of the night, he found an old map in the back of the glove box, wrote the VW’s license number on it, and waited.

  Twenty minutes passed before the old guy finally came out. He shuffled over to the VW like someone who’d lived hard and was now just marking the days. It took him two tries to get the Bug started, but when he did, he wasted no time hitting the road. Logan gave him a five-second lead before following.

  The town wasn’t big, so even though they drove clear to the other side, it was only seven minutes before the bartender pulled into the driveway of a small, boxy house. As he did, Logan coasted his El Camino to the curb a block away and killed the engine.

  The neighborhood had a weariness born from decades existing in the hot, arid desert. Almost half the houses on the block had FOR SALE signs in their front yards, and many looked like their tenants had already moved out.

  This wasn’t a neighborhood of trees or hedges, but of poorly growing grass and dirt, so Logan had a clear view of the bartender entering his house. Once the front door closed, he quietly exited his car.

  The first thing he did was to check for any indication that someone else also lived there, but there was very little outside. As far as vehicles went, the VW was it. After a quick scan to make sure no one was watching, Logan jogged up to the fence at the side of the house, and took a look over it. More dirt, a couple of forgotten lawn chairs, and a pile of scrap metal in the back corner.

  He lifted the latch and opened the gate. It groaned a little, but not enough for anyone but him to hear. The first thing he noticed once he’d rounded the back of the house was a concrete patio butting up against the building’s foundation. Sitting in the middle was a rusting Weber grill, a lonely monument to a past real or imagined. There was only one door along the back of the bartender’s home. It was at the top of a three-step staircase on the left, near where he’d come in, a window filling its upper half.

  Logan checked the knob. Locked.

  If he’d had the right tools with him, he could have picked it easily enough, but he didn’t. He glanced back at the yard, his eyes settling on the discarded lawn chairs. They were the metal kind, with the plastic straps that served as seat and backing. Only the plastic had rotted away, leaving just the frame and a few tattered fragments. He walked over and picked one up, checking its heft.

  Perfect, he thought.

  He carried the chair to the edge of the patio, took careful aim, and threw it at the grill as hard as he could. While the base of the Weber remained standing, he scored a direct hit on the top. It flipped off, tumbled through the air a couple times, and clattered loudly onto the concrete.

  Logan immediately raced back to the house, hiding around the corner. Barely five seconds passed before he heard hurried footsteps thundering through the house and then stopping just on the other side of the door. He could imagine the bartender looking through the window, trying to see what had caused the noise.

  A moment later, the door opened.

  “What the hell?” the man muttered.

  As soon as the man descended the steps, Logan peeked around the side. As he’d hoped, the bartender was heading for the patio, his back to the
door. Without hesitating, Logan slipped over to the stairs, then into the house. Moving quickly now, he passed through a kitchen, a small dining room, and entered a slightly larger living room.

  Outside, he heard the man pick up the chair and call out, “Who’s out here?”

  Logan crossed into a tiny hallway and headed straight into the only bedroom.

  From the look of the bed covers, the man had already been lying down when the chair hit the grill. A quick scan of the room revealed the only practical hiding place was the three-foot space between the bed and the far wall. As he dropped into it and tucked himself tight against the bed, Logan heard the distant thud of the kitchen door closing.

  Less than a minute later, the bartender walked back into the bedroom, muttering under his breath. There was a metallic groan as the bed compressed under the man’s weight. Holding his position, Logan listened until the man’s breathing became deep and regular. Finally, he extracted himself and stood up.

  He found the man’s wallet on the dresser. According to the driver’s license, the guy’s name was Brian Pearson, and he’d just celebrated his fifty-ninth birthday the year before. That was surprising. He looked a hell of a lot older to Logan.

  Putting the wallet back down, Logan approached the bed and gave Pearson a shake.

  “Wake up.”

  The bartender’s breath caught, but he remained asleep.

  Logan shook him again. “Hey, Brian. Wake. Up.”

  This time, Pearson opened his eyes with a start. He began to push himself up, but Logan shoved him back to the mattress.

  “What’s going on? Who—”

  “What did you tell him?” Logan asked.

  “Huh? What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”

  “Brian, answer the question. What did you tell him?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “You’re…you’re that guy from earlier.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Jesus. This is my house. Get the hell out!”

  Again Pearson tried to rise. This time when Logan pushed him back, he left his hand firmly on the man’s chest, holding him in place.

  “I told you there was nothing to tell,” Pearson said.

  “You told me a lie, Brian.”

  “I didn’t,” he said, but his eyes were clearly saying the opposite. “Wait. How do you know my—”

  “Are you the one who had him beat up? Is that why you don’t want to say anything?” Logan asked. “I’d be happy to return the favor if that’s the case.”

  “No, no! Please. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t even know about the fight.”

  “I don’t think I believe that,” Logan said, shifting more weight onto Pearson’s chest.

  “It’s the truth! I just sent him over there, that’s all.”

  Logan eased back a little. “You sent him? Why?”

  “Because of the picture. Why else? I’d seen the woman before, a few years ago.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  He shook his head. “No. I never talked to her. Just saw her with someone.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

  When Pearson didn’t answer right away, Logan pressed down again.

  “Okay, okay,” the man said, nearly coughing. “Her name’s Diana. Diana Stockley.”

  Diana? “Is she the bartender at The Hideaway?”

  “Yeah,” Pearson said, surprised. “You know her?”

  Ignoring the question, Logan said, “You’re telling me you saw the woman in the picture and Diana together?”

  Pearson nodded. “Came in a couple times on Diana’s nights off. Like I said, a year or two ago. After that, I never saw the woman again.”

  Logan was silent for a moment. “Where does she live?”

  “The woman? I have no idea.”

  Logan shoved him in the chest again. “Diana.”

  “Oh, uh…near the high school. I…I can give you her address.”

  __________

  LOGAN LEFT A shaken Brian Pearson with the promise of a return visit if the man said so much as a word to anyone about their conversation. Then he drove to Diana’s house.

  While the homes in her neighborhood were a bit newer and better taken care of, the number of FOR SALE signs was about the same. Braden was apparently in the midst of downsizing.

  The Hideaway’s bartender actually lived in one half of a duplex with a nice shade tree out front and some decent grass in the yard. The house was located on the corner, and had three cars parked in the shared, double-wide driveway, so there was no telling if Diana lived alone or with someone.

  Her unit was the one on the left, farthest from the intersection. Logan walked up the stone path to the covered porch, and peeked through the window beside the door. The lights were off and all was quiet, so he assumed she must be asleep. He took out his flashlight, focused it to a tight beam, and aimed it through the glass.

  On the other side was a typical living room, albeit one that could use some straightening up. Clothes and a couple of boxes lay haphazard on the couch and the nearby stuffed chair. A few more boxes were scattered across the floor.

  He doused the light and turned his attention to the door, once again wishing he had proper lock-picking tools. As he’d done at Pearson’s house, he tried the knob. Tools, he realized, weren’t going to be unnecessary. The door was unlocked.

  He pushed it open wide enough so he could stick his head in. The mess wasn’t contained to what he’d seen through the window. There was stuff everywhere. Even in the kitchen at the other end of the living room, he could see that all the doors to the cabinets were hanging open. It felt like the place had been systematically ransacked.

  With growing dread, Logan stepped inside, made his way over to the hallway, then paused.

  Dead silence.

  Son of a bitch.

  Hoping Diana was just a light sleeper, he tiptoed down the hall, running his light through the bathroom as he passed. It, too, had been strategically picked over. There were two more doors at the end of the hall. The first led to a small bedroom that contained only a bed and a nightstand, and nothing else.

  The last door opened into the master bedroom. Diana’s room. It turned out to be the messiest in the whole place.

  It was also unoccupied.

  Diana was gone, and Logan had a very strong feeling she wasn’t coming back.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DIANA HAD BEEN caught by surprise. She’d convinced herself that if nothing had happened by now, they had acted in time, and everything was going to be all right. But that unrealistic dream had shattered the moment a man walked into The Hideaway with a picture of Sara.

  Diana had been smart enough to avoid the guy for the most part, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on the verge of panic the whole time he was there. That’s why she had foolishly allowed herself to sneak away for a moment and call Richard.

  Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

  At the very least, she should have waited until she got home to make the call.

  Damn him! His heart was in the right place, but even more than she did, he let his emotions control his actions at the worst possible times. Of course, when a situation had anything to do with Sara, they both had emotions that ran about as high as they could get.

  Richard didn’t tell her what he’d done until the next morning. He didn’t know if he’d killed the man or just knocked him out. The only thing he did know was that he’d destroyed the phone the picture was on. She didn’t have the heart at the time to point out there had to be other copies out there.

  Once he confessed, she immediately called the hospital, saying she heard there’d been a fight near the bar, and was wondering if anyone had been hurt. What she learned was that a man had been brought in, but his condition didn’t appear to be life threatening. What little relief Diana took from that was outweighed by the fact that the man had come into The Hideaway and asked about Sara at all.

  She and Richard should have skipped town then, but she wante
d to keep an eye on things. “Just a few days,” she’d said.

  Then, the very next night—that night—another man came into the bar, and on his phone was the same picture of Sara. This time she did wait until she got home to call Richard.

  “We’re leaving,” she told him.

  “What happened?”

  “Another one showed up.”

  “Where is he?” She could hear what he was thinking in his tone.

  “No,” she said quickly. “We’re getting out of town. Now. We leave him alone. Understand?”

  She raced through her duplex, going through all her possessions, and grabbed only what she needed. Before leaving, she scrawled a note to her landlord, then added a postscript for her boss as an afterthought. She stuffed the message in an envelope and put it on the kitchen counter. She would have liked to talk to Mary Ralston, The Hideaway’s owner, but there just wasn’t time. Maybe someday she’d call her and explain.

  It wasn’t until she was twenty miles out of town that she remembered the picture taped to the underside of her nightstand drawer. There were times when she’d look at it every night before she went to sleep, and other times when she’d go weeks without remembering it was there. It was a comfort, a reminder of the important things.

  Though it would be hard for anyone to find, eventually someone would. And if it was the wrong person? She could not let that happen.

  She called Richard, and told him to wait for her in Kingman, Arizona.

  “You’re going to confront him, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  Ahead she spotted a turnaround in the center medium, and slowed to take it. “Please, just wait for me. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Braden was even deader than it had been when she’d left not long after two a.m. As she turned onto her street, she noticed a blue Chevy El Camino parked at the curb in front of her house. It had definitely not been there earlier.

  Fully alert, she drove past her driveway, parked at the curb half a dozen houses down, and made her way back on foot. She approached the side of the house, and peeked through the kitchen window. From there, she had a partial view through the living room and into the hallway that led to the bedroom.