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“Paying attention to the details is what they pay me for.”
We drive through the downtown district and Jack’s truck slows dramatically enough for me to look up, expecting to see someone’s bumper in my face, but there’s not another car in front of us. Instead, I note Jack looking to the left, glaring at a man rifling through a trash can. The guy looks down on his luck, thin, dirty, in need of self-care and a nice long shower—maybe a visit to the nearest psych ward for good measure.
Jack speeds up a notch, and soon we’re headed into familiar territory.
“My mom’s diner is just down the street,” I say. “We could eat there if you want. I hear she has a mean hot pastrami as well.”
“Sure,” he says, his demeanor darkens and there’s a faraway look in his eye that suggests he’s not in the mood for hot pastrami or anything else for that matter.
“Looks as if Rob is here,” I say, pointing to the sheriff’s car parked out front, and something in me enlivens at the thought, but only because I was hoping to see Buddy again.
“Yup,” he growls as he pulls in alongside him. “Hey, I just remembered I needed to be somewhere.” He winces. “Do you think you could get a ride home with your boyfriend?”
My mouth opens and I choke back a laugh. “Yes,” I say. I would have reminded him that Rob isn’t my anything, but Jack left the proverbial building about five minutes ago. “If I dig anything up on those women, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” He offers a solemn nod and there’s an apology buried in his eyes.
I hop out and he backs up and leaves as if he were late for the preliminaries at NASCAR, like he forgot his kid at the mall two days ago.
Jack’s forgetting one other thing, the devil is in the details.
Paying attention to the details isn’t just what they pay me for—it just so happens to be my specialty.
If there’s a detail or two Jack thinks he can hide from me, he’s dead wrong.
9
Special Agent Jack Stone
Idrive like a bat out of hell, or out of rehab as it were, all the way back to the corner I saw the catastrophe unfolding.
The towering pines cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun and the distant peaks of the Rockies sit etched against a clear blue sky.
Main Street drags on with the townspeople and tourists running briskly into the businesses tucked along each side of the street.
I don’t see him.
A wave of relief hits me.
Maybe it was a look-alike, an apparition—hell, I’d take an alien at this point.
The bank on the corner is where I last saw him and it’s as empty as his checking account, and just about mine, too. I scour the area once more and my heart sinks.
That’s when I spot him, my brother, the jarring blot on the picturesque landscape.
Crap. I park the truck and jump out.
There he is. I shake my head in disbelief. Heck, I believe it.
His hair is mussed, his skin looks pale, and his lips are thin as paper, dry and cracked. His clothes are filthy but just as familiar to me as he is. His jeans are caked with dirt and probably vomit. His shoes are split open on one side, and I’m silently counting the cost of repairing him to meet with societal standards. Lord knows rehab didn’t work out yet again.
Jet lies sprawled near the shrubbery, and you may as well draw a chalk outline around him at this point. A part of me is tempted.
“What the hell, Jet,” I bark, grabbing him by the shirt and giving him a shake, but he’s struggling to open his eyes.
A discarded bottle lies next to him along with the remnants of fast food bags that I’m guessing he mined from the trash.
A car slows to my left and I glance up to see an older couple looking worried at the two of us. I quickly glance around and spot a group of teenagers gawking this way. The last thing I need is for one of them to whip out their phones.
