“Speaking of which,” I said, glossing over the fact that I’d just learned about this ski resort via an underage junkie prostitute in a motor lodge an hour ago. “I hear they reached a deal to tear the place down?”
“What’s that?”
“The Maple Motor Inn.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I read something about that.”
“Isn’t that what you’re talking about? Replacing it with a new ski resort?”
“That’d have to be a pretty small resort!” Turley laughed. “No, I meant the new condos going up across town, big money trying to cash in on the Black Mountain crowd.”
“I thought they were building a new resort at the TC.”
“Not that I know of. Where’d you hear that?”
“I can’t remember.”
“The Maple isn’t owned by the same folks as the truck stop. I don’t know why anyone would want it, frankly. Kind of a dump.”
“Maybe they want some new luxury condos there too.”
“Next to the truck stop?” Turley said. “Who’s plunking down good coin to live next to that freak show?”
“These other condos you’re talking about-Lombardi’s building them?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“You know who the developer is?”
“Don’t recall. It was in yesterday’s paper.”
“That’s all right,” I said. I knew I still had the Herald lying around somewhere.
“Hold on,” Turley said. “Got it right here.” I heard rustling pages. “Um, it says the developer is Campfire Properties.” He paused. “Why are you so interested, Jay? Looking for some investment property?” He laughed.
“Not exactly. I’ll let you go. I should call it a day too. Just be sure Ramon calls me if he hears anything.”
“Of course,” said Turley. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you. Charlie’s a big boy. Probably picked up some sweet young thing at the Peachtree. So long as he didn’t mack on the wrong trucker’s girl, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
I knew Turley was joking. But the comment got me thinking about that computer shop and Charlie pissing off those crazy bikers.
“Something wrong, Jay?”
Maybe it was time to trust Turley more. “Charlie and I stopped by that computer shop.”
“When?” Turley asked.
“Couple days ago.”
“And?”
“Have you actually been in there? Felt more like a motorcycle gang clubhouse than a computer removal store. Guys were tatted, jacked up, heads shaved, looked like they’d all done lengthy stints in NH Correctional.”
“Commanderoes.”
“Common what?”
“Commanderoes. Motorcycle club. Gang. Bad dudes. Not as big or well organized as the Hells Angels or anything, but still not guys you’d want to mess with.”
“I thought you told me it was a computer shop?”
“It is. Your brother lives in a sketchy world. Attracts all sorts of undesirables.”
“Jesus Christ, Turley-and you sent me in there?”
“Hold on, Jay. I never told you to go anywhere. All I said was that Chris had a business operation. I never said to start investigating any crimes.”
“No, just that it was in everybody’s best interest if I found my brother first.”
Typical cop doublespeak. This is why I could never trust them. It was a dirty cop trick. Technically, no, he hadn’t told me to go up there. Just wound me up and pointed me in that direction.
“That stretch of the Turnpike isn’t even in our jurisdiction,” said Turley. “That’s Longmont County. Gave them a ring after all this went down. Police Captain’s the one who told me about the Commanderoes hanging out there. Probably trading hot merch for drugs.”
“Stolen electronics? Drugs? Why don’t you send somebody to arrest them?”
Turley laughed. But not like we were in on the joke together, more the way you’d laugh at a little kid who didn’t yet understand gravity or the offsides rule in hockey. “Don’t work like that,” he said. “You need warrants, there’s court orders, lawyers, wrongful arrest lawsuits. Protocol has to be followed. And, like I said, that’s Longmont’s territory, not Ashton’s. It’s not like there’s a law against being high.”
“Yes, Turley, there is. And laws against stealing and dealing drugs too.”
“I don’t know what they are or aren’t doing in there, Jay. I’m only speculating. Nobody cares about a few dopers.”
“Someone cared enough to send up a detective from Concord when one of them died.”
“Yes, because it potentially affects careers and multi-million dollar real estate deals.” Turley sighed. “If you want to know more about the Commanderoes, you really should talk to your ex’s new boyfriend.”
“Brody?”
“He ran with them back in the day, if I recall.”
My stomach sank. I’d known Brody was in a motorcycle club. Just didn’t think it was that kind of motorcycle club.
As if he could hear the panicked thoughts racing through my head, Turley did a quick about-face. “A long time ago. Like years and years. Sorry I said anything. I’ve been working too many hours straight. Should’ve kept my big mouth shut. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“What do you know about it, Turley?”
A fist pounded outside my door.
I automatically gripped the phone like a hammer.
“Open up! It’s me, Charlie.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Charlie looked like a giant freeze pop, chunks of ice in his hair, skin tinged an unhealthy shade of blue, entire body convulsing with a teeth-chattering shiver as he cupped his hands and huffed into them.
“What the hell happened to you?
“Dude, you have no idea,” Charlie answered, blowing past, searching my claustrophobic kitchen, scatterbrained.
“Did you walk here?”
“You have any beer?”
“Fridge,” I said. “You sure you wouldn’t rather have some hot coffee?”
He waved me off with a dismissive flick of the wrist.
I blasted the radiator, cranking the dial as high as it would go, old pipes sputtering before unleashing hot, hissing steam.
Charlie swiped a cold one from the top shelf, leaving behind the empty plastic rings beside the borderline edibles-a crusted wedge of Cracker Barrel cheddar, a questionable hardboiled egg at least two weeks old. He popped the tab and took a good long glug. A rosy glow returned to his cheeks. He dropped into the chair, kicking out his big, booted feet. Dirty snow water pooled underneath.
“Where did you run off to?” I asked. “You couldn’t at least text me you were okay? I actually called Turley.”
“Lost my phone.”
“When? I’d talked to you, like, five minutes earlier.”
“I ran into this guy who said he knew your brother.”
“Where?”
“Coke machine at the motor lodge. Tweaker. Trucker cap, fuzzy little mustache. Never got his name.” Charlie peered up. “You have any cigarettes?”
I reached for my coat on the table before remembering I’d given the whole pack to that girl at the Maple. “Sorry. All out.”
“This kid swore he knew your brother, said he was supposed to meet him, in fact. That’s when I phoned you.” Charlie drained another swallow. “What’d Turley have to say?”
“A lot.” I decided to hold off on motorcycle gangs and real estate deals for the time being. “So what happened? I take it you didn’t find my brother?”
Charlie rolled his eyes and shook his head. “After I hung up with you, we’re standing outside the door. Kid’s jumpy as hell, flinching practically every time a snowflake lands. He’s staring into the storm. A pair of headlights pulls into the gas station. Suddenly he says, ‘We’ve got to go now.’ And I’m, like, ‘to meet Chris?’ And he says, ‘Yeah, Chris.’ I told him I have to wait for my friend first. He says I can wait but he’s leaving, and he takes off running toward that little parking lot-you know, not the main one, but the one for the motel.”