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“This is him.” I held up a receipt for Preston Bradford. “It’s his real name, but at least it has a signature on it.”
“That’s something,” Rob said.
Finding at least one receipt with Preston’s name on it gave me a renewed burst of energy. I found another John Miller—definitely a regular—but even though I finished out the box with no potential leads on an alias for Preston, I was determined to keep looking. Even if I had to go through every old receipt in this place.
The next box had a few Johns, although I doubted any of them were actually Preston. The handwriting on one was completely different. Another had been spilled on and the last name was obscured, so it wouldn’t have been any help. And the third was just John Miller again.
Heidi, a local girl who worked at the Copper Kettle, came up behind the counter. “Morning, Rob.”
“Oh hi there, Heidi,” he said. “Have you been filled in on what’s going on?”
“Yeah. I just got here for my shift. It’s terrible.” She pulled her hair back and tied it in a low ponytail. “What are you doing with those? Can I help?”
“Sure. The man we think took Marigold is Preston Bradford. He started coming in here pretty regularly and I could have sworn at least once he used a credit card with a different name. Seems like it was John something.”
“Do you mean the crappy tipper?”
I glanced up. “What?”
“He was the rich guy, right? Always dressed nice. He looked like he had plenty of money but his tips were terrible.”
“Figures,” I said. “Do you remember him using a different name?”
“No.”
“Damn. Actually, that gives us one more clue. A guy named John who tips like shit.”
“Are you going through all the receipts?” Heidi asked, pulling a box toward her.
“Yep. If the cops come up with a better lead, great,” I said. “Until then, I’m going to track that fucker down any way I can.”
I had to. I had to find Marigold. Maybe digging through receipts was useless, but so was driving up and down the highways with no idea which way he’d taken her. What else were we supposed to do?
Keep doing stupid shit until something worked.
Rob brought out more boxes. Heidi found a Preston receipt and we came up with a few more Johns, but nothing that seemed like it could be Preston’s alias. I started to wonder if Rob had remembered it correctly. What if the name on his credit card had been something else? James or Josh or Jake. Was it definitely John? Had we missed it already in one of the boxes we’d searched?
I was in such a rhythm—grabbing a receipt, checking the name, setting it aside—I almost missed it. A receipt with the name John Saladin.
It wasn’t just the crappy tip that caught my attention. It was the signature. The name on the receipt was John Saladin, but the signature read Preston Bradford.
He’d made a mistake. Used the wrong card. Signed the wrong name.
“I got him.” I jumped off the stool and took the receipt, along with one that had his real name and signature, over to Garrett. “Check this out. This one says John Saladin, but that’s his signature.”
“Holy shit,” Garrett muttered. “You’re right.”
“What can we find out about him? There’s gotta be something.”
He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Hey. Can you run the name John Saladin? Anything you can find.” He moved the phone and spoke to me. “Brenna at the station. She’s a research genius.”
I nodded. Standing with my arms crossed, I tried to hold still while my body buzzed with anticipation.
“You’re kidding,” Garrett said. “Yeah, I’d say that’s significant.”
“What?” I asked.
“Property records show a piece of land about two hours north of here owned by a John Saladin. It’s pretty deep in the woods, but it looks like there’s a cabin on it.”
