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He ate it while he drove to the gate. “Adios, Jane!” he called out while he filled his mouth with ice cream and chocolate. “Thanks for fucking nothing!”
He unlocked the gate, drove through. And tossing the padlock keys out the window, started the drive east.
As Beck and Morrison walked across the street to their car, the grocery store clerk stood outside the market smoking a Marlboro to settle her nerves.
“Hey! You’re those feds, aren’t you?”
“Ma’am.” Morrison stopped at the passenger door, as he’d lost the toss to drive. “Special Agents Morrison and Beck.”
“Deb said there were feds poking around yesterday about some crazy guy. My day off.” She took a long drag. “Had my own crazy guy just a bit ago. Crazy eyes. Bought enough food for an army battalion. Gave me a look, a smile that turned my blood cold.”
“Is that right?” Beck felt a little hum, walked over. “We left a sketch of the man we’re looking for with the manager. Have you seen it?”
“Nah. I clock in, do my job, clock out. Mind my own business like everybody should.”
“Would you mind taking a look now?” Beck opened her briefcase, took one of the sketches out of a file.
“Guess I could. I’m taking my break because Crazy Eyes shook me up some.” She took the sketch, shoved at her sliding glasses. Shook her head. “Nope. This guy had shorter hair, sort of dirty blond—what I could see of it. And he…”
Pausing, she frowned. “Wait a minute. I guess maybe. It’s the eyes, those crazy eyes. But this one didn’t have a beard so much as a lot of scruff, and I think he had more weight in his face. But those eyes…”
“How about his height?” Morrison asked. “How tall would you say?”
“About six foot. Maybe just under.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yeah, he said how a man’s gotta eat. I said, ‘Stocking up,’ because he had two full baskets of food, and he said how a man’s gotta eat.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“Didn’t sound like he’s from around here.” She shrugged and smoked. “More like back east, I guess. It maybe could be him, I can’t swear to it. But something wasn’t right about that guy. That I can swear to.”
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“No, sorry. Usually I’d’ve called for Tiny—he stocks shelves—to help him load up, but I didn’t. Just wanted him gone. Never saw him around here before that I noticed. At least I never checked him out before. Mustn’t live too far, I’d think, as he bought a shitload of frozens.”
Though she was reluctant, they got her name and contact.
“What are the odds?” Morrison wondered.
“Good enough to do another quick check. If you’re Rozwell, somehow got a place close enough to town to come in to buy food, what else do you stock up on?”
“If I’m holed up here, I’m going to buy a whole lot of alcohol.”
“Yeah, you would. Let’s follow the feeling, Quentin, show his picture one more time at the liquor store.”
When they walked into the liquor store, the clerk looked up from a paperback novel. Not the clerk from yesterday, Beck thought. Younger brother maybe.
“Help you?”
“FBI. Special Agents Beck and Morrison.” Beck held up her badge.
The clerk slid off his stool. “Oh, hey!”
“We’re looking for someone.”
“As long as it’s not me.”
