AllFreeNovel
Share Us
47
GAFFER'S RIDGE
FRIDAY MORNING
Griffin and Carson left Fayreen, silent and glaring, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Griffin said, “The bank is one block over. I read up on Quint Bodine, since I doubt he’ll tell us much himself. Even though Savich is focused on Sherlock and their case back in Washington, he’ll still have MAX decrypt those files as soon as possible.”
Carson patted his arm. “If my wife had been in an accident and had her memory wiped, I’d be distracted, too. I’d probably forget even your name, much less a bunch of files.”
Griffin smiled at her, couldn’t help it. Then he thought of Rafer Bodine, of what he’d done to her, or what he might have done to her—if—if Griffin hadn’t been close, if he hadn’t heard her, what would have happened? No, he wouldn’t go there. And Rafer’s mother, Cyndia Bodine. Given what she’d done to Sherlock, she was, to his mind, even more dangerous. And now Rafer was going home. “After we see Quint Bodine, I want you to know we’re sticking together. If you need a bathroom break, you check in with me first, all right?”
Carson would have rolled her eyes, but he had a point. She nodded.
They looked up to see Jenny striding down the sidewalk toward them. She stopped, grinned. “I just missed you guys. I took Fayreen a lovely frittata for brunch—with my famous breakfast fries so maybe she wouldn’t try to poison you, Griffin. She even thanked me, added under her breath you guys were up to no good in here, trying to ruin Gaffer’s Ridge. Hey, will you be coming to the café for lunch today? There’s a college kid who works at the FedEx, comes by for a slice of my meatloaf afterward every single day. He heard you kicked Sheriff Bodine out of his office and he’s dying to meet you, shake your hand, probably ask for an autograph.” She grinned.
“It’s a plan,” Griffin said. “I’ve never signed an autograph before.”
Griffin and Carson split off from Jenny and walked the block over to Gaffer’s Ridge First City Bank on High Moon Street. It was a warm day already, the sun bright overhead, the boutiques and antique shops doing great morning business.
The bank was a square redbrick building with a sign over the double doors stating it had been built in 1909. It looked straight out of the Old West, complete with two original-looking hitching posts out front.
“I wonder if they sprinkled sawdust on the floor,” Carson said as she preceded Griffin into the bank.
“How about a free beer if you open an account?”
There wasn’t a western bar or any sawdust inside. The floors were highly buffed wide oak planks, and Remington-type color murals covered the walls showing a cattle drive, a rodeo scene with a cowboy doing rope tricks, and a western hoedown, with cowboys riding through on horses and women walking in long dresses and bonnets, carrying baskets, their children playing with hoops. A line of half a dozen customers waited their turn to be beckoned by the tellers seated behind a long counter made of dark oak etched with more scenes from the Old West. They heard soft music in the background, a spaghetti western theme.
Suddenly everyone went quiet.
“We’ve been spotted,” Griffin said low, and smiled and waited until everyone in the bank had turned toward them. Griffin held up his creds. “Hello. I’m FBI Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, from Washington, D.C. We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Latisha Morris, Amy Traynor, and Heather Forrester. We’d appreciate any help you can give us. If you or your neighbors have any information, please come by the sheriff’s station.” Griffin knew that in a town this size, everyone knew everything about everybody. If anyone did know anything, particularly about Heather Forrester, he hoped they’d come forward.
There was a buzz of conversation too low for Griffin or Carson to make out. Carson touched his arm and he turned to see a tall, aristocratic-looking older man, beautifully dressed in a gray three-piece suit, a pale blue tie, and black Italian loafers, stride out of a room at the back of the bank next to a huge vault. He paused, frowned, then closed the door behind him.
They recognized his son, Rafer, in him as he got closer. While Rafer would have fit into the western setting, his father looked like he’d be at home in an old-world drawing room, holding a brandy in his long, thin fingers.
All eyes were on them again when Quint Bodine stopped directly in front of them, gave a cursory look at Carson, looked at her again, then resolutely turned to face Griffin.
He said in a melodic voice, pitched low so no one would overhear, “My wife called to tell me my son has arrived home. He’ll be staying with us, since his cottage has been marked with yellow crime scene tape and he was told he couldn’t return. May I ask how long it will be until you’ll be satisfied, finally, that you have nothing at all against my son?”
Griffin said, “Mr. Bodine, I assume?”
“You assume correctly.”
“I’m Agent Hammersmith, and this is Dr. Carson DeSilva.” He handed Bodine his creds. Bodine waved them away. “I know who you are.” He looked at Carson. “And you. You are the woman accusing my son of kidnapping you and tying you up in his basement.”
Carson nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Duct tape, not rope. You left out the part where he pulled a gun on me and would have killed me if Agent Hammersmith hadn’t come in and kicked the gun out of his hand.”
Bodine went silent, studied the two of them. Griffin saw he kept looking back at Carson. Because she was drop-dead gorgeous? Griffin didn’t think so. He had more the look of a man who wanted to—what? Maybe strangle her with his bare hands? Make her disappear?
Quint finally said, “Come to my office.” He turned on his heel and walked to some discreet stairs tucked behind an unmarked door.
That brief meeting would be fodder for gossip for days, Carson knew, giving a quick look back at the lobby with at least twenty people staring after them. If no one had heard what they’d said, it wouldn’t matter, they’d fill in the blanks.
