Aspen hadn’t been privy to that.
Obviously Blake was way ahead of her.
“Well,” she said, “that’s the only thing that I know of, sort of offbeat, that might somehow explain something.”
He nodded.
“It was a good thought,” he said. “But unlikely.”
She ran her other theory by him, the theory that maybe Rachel hadn’t actually been abducted in the parking lot of The Fort at all, but had in fact been abducted somewhere else earlier. Then they dropped her car off in the parking lot to make it look like she’d been abducted there.
Again, he didn’t seem overly impressed.
“We had, and still do have, the best private investigators in the state working on the case,” he said. “I’m sure they considered that theory. In fact, I’m almost positive they have. I remember talking to them at one point about the fact that Rachel gassed up near her house about twenty minutes before she was supposed to arrive at The Fort. It was about a twenty-minute drive there, which meant she was on her way. So if she wasn’t taken in the parking lot, she somehow had to be pulled over before she got there. I don’t see how that could happen. As I recall, her spare tire was in good condition, meaning she hadn’t pulled over with a flat.”
He shrugged.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m only saying that it doesn’t seem to fit the facts.”
“I didn’t know all those facts,” she said.
“No way you would have,” he added. “But your theories are impressive, especially for someone who just started thinking about it. I can tell we made the right decision hiring you.”
“I hope so.”
“I already know it,” he said. “You’re going to be a partner some day. I can tell.”
6
DAY ONE-SEPTEMBER 5
MONDAY EVENING
When Draven woke from his nap, the room was dark and it took him a few moments to remember he was in a sleazy Pueblo hotel. He wandered into the bathroom, took a long piss, then recalled getting the tattoo this afternoon and flicked the lights on to have a look.
It wrapped around his right arm, above the bicep.
“Good job, Mia Avila,” he said.
Between that and the scar on his face, he looked downright dangerous.
Maybe he needed another one now.
On the other arm.
Something different, though.
He took a swig of Jack Daniels and then headed for the shower, getting it as hot as he could stand it. When he came out he felt like a new man, a man with a full night ahead of him. He slipped into jeans and a black muscle shirt and then headed down the rickety hotel stairs. He drove around downtown Pueblo until he spotted a bar with thirty or forty Harleys out front, then parked his beat-up Chevy a block down the street and doubled back on foot.
The place was packed, dark, loud, and rowdy.
Nice.
Red vinyl booths lined the left wall, and a long bar ran down the right. In the back, by the restrooms, were a couple of pool tables and a small dance floor, with a handful of drunks twirling around with no sense of coordination or timing.
There had to be over two hundred people in there.
They weren’t just drinking.
They were either shit-faced or on their way.
Tattoos were everywhere.
Plenty of women, too.
Perfect.
He found a space at the bar big enough to squeeze into, ordered a Bud Light, and then looked around for backup prey, just in case Mia Avila turned out to be problematic.
At least half the women were dogs.
Bow-wow.
Worse than dogs, not even worth a bone.
Two nice ones, though-both heavily tattooed and wearing muscle shirts-were playing pool in the back. He wandered in that direction, leaned against the wall, and watched ’em without being too conspicuous.
They would work just fine.
Either of ’em.
He walked over and set two quarters on the table. “I got the winner,” he told them.
“That’ll be me,” one of them said.
“My ass,” the other one said.
Five minutes later he was up, racked ’em, and let the woman break. Two stripes went in.
“You can still take solids if you want,” he said.
She laughed, then walked over and leaned in.
“Are you interested in a little side bet?”
He cocked his head.
“What’d you have in mind?”
“The loser buys beer.”
That sounded good.
“Fine, but now you got me motivated,” he warned.
She ran a finger down his face.
Along the scar.
And laughed.
“It won’t matter,” she said. “I’m still going to kick your ass.”
“Start kicking.”
She was about twenty-seven, five-feet-three with jet-black hair, the same color as his, in fact. It hung loose and she constantly tossed her head to get it out of her face.
Very sexy.
Her name was Martina.
She won the first game.
And the second.
Then Draven had to piss like crazy and headed to the men’s room while she racked ’em up.
A man wearing a leather vest with no shirt underneath walked into the restroom just before Draven did. The guy walked past three empty urinals and into the stall, then left the door halfway open and started pissing.
Draven could tell that the jerk was pissing all over the toilet seat.
When the guy came out, Draven looked inside and checked.
Sure enough, the seat was still down.
Covered with piss.
Nor had the guy flushed. Draven flashed back to a time last year when he had to crap like crazy and had to wipe someone else’s piss off the seat.
“Goddamn pig,” Draven muttered under his breath.
The man looked at him.
“You got a problem, buddy?”
Draven stared back at him. “Maybe I do.”
The biker paused, as if deciding.
Then he had a knife in his hands and said, “You little bitch.”
Draven punched, hard and fast, going for the nose and getting it. Blood splattered from the guy’s face. Then Draven hit him in the stomach, below the ribs, as hard as he could. The guy immediately doubled up and fell to the floor. Draven grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the toilet.
Then shoved his face in it.
And held him there while he struggled.
After a long time, Draven pulled the guy’s head out, let him catch his breath, and then shoved his face back in.
The asshole kicked, but it did no good.
“Now you wish you flushed.”
Draven kicked him in the balls, pulled his head out, and threw him on the floor.
Two minutes later, he was running down the street with three bikers chasing him.
Gunfire erupted.
The windshield of a car next to him exploded.
He zigzagged and ran even faster.
After he lost them, he circled back to the bar and hid behind a pickup truck across the street. When they returned, he memorized their faces. Then headed back to the hotel.
When he got there, he knocked on the door next to his.
A woman opened it.
Not exactly a prom queen, but not the opposite either. Her short punked-out blond hair reeked of pot. For some reason he liked her right away.
“You still open for business?” he asked.
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him inside.
“You look dangerous,” she said. “That gets me hot.”
7
DAY TWO-SEPTEMBER 6