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“Where?”
He gave me an address I didn’t recognize.
“What is that, a bar or something?”
“No, it’s residential… owned by some woman named Rose Shriver.”
“What the fuck? Who’s Rose Shriver?”
“According to what we’ve got on file, nobody we know. Nothing on record for the address, either – no visits from us, anyway, any time in the last ten years.”
This made less and less sense.
“Alright – I’ll go check it out.”
I thought about going on my Harley, but if Abrams had stolen Roach’s phone, then I didn’t need to advertise my presence from half a mile away. So I swung by my house and got my ’73 Barracuda instead.
The address was in a rundown neighborhood with a bunch of homes from the 40’s or 50’s. Looked like paper mill company houses, even though there wasn’t a mill in Richards. The house was right on the verge of looking like shit, with peeling paint and a lawn with more brown patches in it than green.
It had something else, too: a Harley in the driveway.
The fuck?!
It was one I recognized, too, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Only thing I knew was that it wasn’t Roach’s. He had a Bonneville he’d let go to shit.
Whoever was inside probably wasn’t the goddamn PI, then.
I parked my car a couple hundred feet away and watched in my rearview mirror.
I thought about going up to the front door and banging on it, but if this was some sort of Santa Muerte hideout… unh-unh.
My mind began to work out other options.
What if it’s just a Midnight Rider, and Roach is here passed out on his couch?
I was going to ream both of them a new asshole if that was the case.
Or… what if it was a Midnight Rider… and Roach WASN’T passed out on his couch?
From there my paranoia kicked into high gear.
What if I was actually right without knowing it? What if that fantasy situation I’d concocted for Jack was true?
What if we did have a DEA mole in our midst?
Impossible.
But…
I had to get in there and look around. And whoever lived there couldn’t know about it.
I could wait five or six hours…
Or, if they really were a Midnight Rider, I could flush them out easily enough.
I called Eyeball. “Text everybody in the club – emergency meeting at the Roadhouse in 20 minutes.”
He was understandably alarmed. “What’s goin’ on, Lou?”
