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Following the GPS coordinates sent by comms, they drove the tiny, muddy backroads until they saw the signs for the White Kitchen Glamping World.
“Glamping? There was no fucking glamping when I was serving,” scoffed Gaspar. “A tent if you were lucky.”
“Same,” said Ghost. “Jesus, these things look like high-end cottages.”
“Good morning,” said a middle-aged woman sitting on the porch. She had a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, white rain boots on her feet, and a warm sweater-coat wrapped around her shoulders. “You boys looking for a place to stay a few nights?”
“No, ma’am. We’re looking for a man that did a favor for us, but we didn’t catch his name. He said he was staying here, and we just wanted to thank him properly.”
“That’s pretty vague,” she said, shaking her head. “I like to keep my guests’ information confidential.”
“I don’t need anything personal. I just need to know if he’s still here,” said Ian. “He’s about six-feet, tattoos, bald, rides a motorcycle, something like ours.” She shook her head.
“I know who you’re talking about, but his motorcycle wasn’t like yours. It was a police motorcycle.”
“He rode his fucking department bike to this shit?” murmured Ghost.
“You know your bikes,” said Gaspar quickly. “Sorry, most people just say it was a motorcycle, very generic. He does usually ride his department bike.”
“Well, I’m sorry, he checked out this morning. I haven’t even had time to clean the cabin,” she said.
“Damn. Do you mind if we take a look? There might be something that will help us.”
“Listen, this would go a lot better if you told me what you were really doing here,” she said, standing with her hands on her hips.
“You’re right. We’re sorry,” said Gaspar. “Let me explain.”
The woman listened intently, nodding occasionally. When he was done, she sat back down and let out an exasperated breath.
“I knew he was too good to be true,” she frowned. “Gave me a new television at the end of his first week here. Said he got a lot of stuff for free from the evidence lockers at the end of the year. I didn’t have a reason to not believe him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nine.
“Cabin twenty-two,” she said, handing him a key. “Just take the boat around the first bend, and you’ll see it. Dock it and walk up the steps. I haven’t been out there, so don’t know what condition he left it in.”
“Thank you.”
“One more thing. He said his name was Lou. Lou Rawlston. I don’t know if that’s real or not, but that’s what he said.”
“Comms, did you get that?”
“Got it,” said Pigsty. “I’ll have Cam and Luke go speak with Mr. Ray. We can see if that name rings any bells. In the meantime, I’ll do some searching.”
Taking the small flat-bottomed boat around the bayou, they found the cabin and let themselves in. It was neat as a pin. The sheets had been changed, the bed made, and the dirty linens placed in the bin. Dishes were done, the trash taken outside, and everything was spotless.
“Well, Lou is a neat freak,” said Ian.
“Yea. Or she lied,” said Ghost.
“I don’t think she was lying. Time to do some digging in the trash,” said Nine. He opened the bag, dumping everything on the counter. They separated it into piles, dumping the food waste back into the trash can.
“Lots of diet soda,” said Ian. “Hmmm. Diet soda and two discarded insulin pens. Our boy is a diabetic.”
“Interesting,” said Ghost. “I thought that would prevent him from being on the force.”
“Maybe no one knew,” said Nine. He held up a slip of paper. “Bingo. A receipt for a storage unit in Hopedale.”
“Hopedale? That’s nothing but a fishing village. There’s hardly anyone there any longer. Katrina completely destroyed it.”
