Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (22 page)

THIRTEEN

HOW MANY DREAMS BEGIN under the glow of a white sun to be later shadowed from view by the appearance of heavy scuttling clouds? As astute as I like to believe myself to be I could not possibly come up with a reasonable answer. However, that did not stop me from pondering the question as another day broke. I had spent the night at Nevada’s, invited Siobhan to stay as well, but she had declined with a tight smile and head shake.

Leaving me alone.

Alone.

I started my sleep on the sofa, but after waking up for a late morning bathroom run, ended it in Nevada’s bedroom, in the tangle of her sheets, her coconut scent transferring from the covers to my sweat-soaked skin.

Morning arrived with dapples of sunshine painting the bedroom in strips of light that alarmed me of the dawn. I showered and brushed my teeth with Nevada’s toothbrush. Found a clean shirt and a pair of pants that came close enough to fitting me at the bottom of one of her drawers. With great effort, I did not allow my mind to wander to thought of whom the clothes actually belonged to.

By the time I left, the sun had given way to clouds. The smell of a coming rain was intense in the air. I thought back to that first day with Nevada, at the Farmer’s Market, while I walked back toward Chris Hall’s Accord. That day at the market had been a gray one filled with rain showers and heartache. I hoped this one would be different. Hoped this one would end with the right answers and happiness and sunshine.

I reached the Accord and stood there for a moment before easing inside. I allowed myself a deep, stirring breath. It had been easy up until this point. All thought and little tangible action. Nevertheless, Siobhan had raised a salient point. What happened when I started turning over rocks? What happened if I discovered the earthy core of Nevada’s soul was teeming with squirming worms? As much as I wanted to believe I would not hold it against her, I had to acknowledge my dark and cruel inner workings. I had to acknowledge them in order to manage them properly. Nevada might be carrying my child. No matter my feelings regarding her, that bond would last a lifetime. It did neither Nevada nor I any good to live through that lifetime with bitterness. Moreover, it would be poison for the child. My father had done well by me. I wanted to be a good father to my child in turn.

But what if things veered off in a different direction? What if I discovered that Nevada had come to some harm? Would I enact my old brand of justice on those responsible? Would I return to my past ways?

Another deep breath steadied me enough to drive. I could not allow myself to drown in a sea of
what ifs
.  I inserted the key in the ignition.

To Picasa.

THE CLOUDS OPENED UP in a punishing downpour, fogging my windows and toying with my visibility, just as I neared the bistro. I did not let the weather deter me, setting my wipers on high and passing by the eatery twice. Slowly, each time. My head was full of a barely contained rage. This was my first glimpse at any understanding of Darren Sweet. What if the rumors proved true? What if he really was Nevada’s pimp? The thought alone heated the blood flowing through my body. I had to get that under control though, because I needed Darren Sweet if there was any hope of discovering what had and had not happened to Nevada.

Still, I could kill him.

On my second pass, I searched for a parking space, finding one just across the street from the bistro.

I parked.

SO WHAT DID THIS first glimpse into the life of Darren Sweet reveal to me about the man? As I approached Picasa, it still was not very clear to me. The “bistro” was a small brick storefront with smudged windows and an ostentatious burgundy awning. Dual menus, for both lunch and dinner, were Scotch-taped side by side on the front door glass. The door itself was taller and wider than most, scarred and dark chocolate in color. It had big brass hinges gone to rust and a knob seated surprisingly firm in a loose escutcheon plate. Inside the eatery, arranged in the center of the floor plan, were a few small tables with chairs. Four more slightly larger tables, set up along the sides of the dining area, did not have chairs but rather long couches butted against the wall and were paired with thick pillows I had only ever seen on couches. It was lunch hour but the place was empty. Despite that, I smelled the inviting aromas of cooked food.

A bell above the door had chimed as I entered. A man with olive coloring walked out from the kitchen and greeted me. He wiped his hands on a dirty apron and flashed a hospitable smile. He had thick caterpillar eyebrows that reminded me of two of my scars, and a smile that would have made me uncomfortable if I was a woman.

“
Pos Eisai
,” he said. “I am Nicholas. Will you join us here or take out?”

The door behind Nicholas—to the kitchen I presumed—eased open and a college-age young man stuck his head out. He was prepared to yell something but swallowed the words the moment he spotted me. Rather than disappear in the kitchen again he stomped out into the dining area and plopped down demonstratively in one of the few chairs. His posture was poor and loose and he had already audibly sighed several times in that short span. He wore high-top Puma skater sneakers, faded skinny jeans, and a Michael Jackson RIP T-shirt. He had thick eyebrows as well, and a frown every bit as lascivious as old man Nicholas’s smile. He played with a Breast Cancer awareness bracelet on his slim wrist and eyed me curiously.

“Neither,” I told Nicholas.

His lustful smile held. “We have very reasonable lunch specials,” he offered.

I nodded. “I’m looking for someone. It’s very important. I’ll pay you for two lunch specials just for a moment of your time.”

“Pay me but not eat?” he asked.

“Sure.”

A frown knitted his eyebrows and erased the smile from his face. “What is this?” he asked. His son made a sound like a thoroughbred racehorse.

“I’m looking for a man,” I explained. “He either comes in or orders out a few times each week.”

Nicholas shook his head, waved his arms. “I don’t know.”

“I haven’t told you anything yet,” I said.

“I don’t know,” he insisted.

“His name is Sweet,” I said. “He usually orders your grilled vegetable sandwich, I believe.”

“I don’t know.”

“Darren Sweet,” I said.

The smile was long gone. The frown deepened. “You go or I call the police.”

“That’s not necessary, Nicholas.”

“You go!”

A chair scraped. I turned to observe the son rise from his seat, a smirk on his face, and disappear back through the door into the kitchen.

“You go,” the old man said once more.

I went.

IT TOOK JUST UNDER half an hour for the rain to let up and for him to come bustling out through the dark chocolate door at the front of the bistro, whistling the melody to a Katy Perry song, carelessly carrying a tall bag of food by the handle.  He did not flinch in surprise when I stepped in pace behind him. He just kept walking until he reached his car. A dark, late-model Saab parked in the space behind Chris Hall’s Accord.

“It’s no fun without a chase,” he said, placing the delivery bag of food on the Saab’s roof so he could root through the pocket of his skinny jeans. He came out with a keychain fob with a light blue rabbit’s foot attachment, used it to chirp the Saab’s locks.

“Darren Sweet,” I said.

“You don’t even introduce yourself,” he complained. “Just move in completely dry. That’s not so nice.”

I didn’t need this.

I turned to leave.

“Wait, wait,” he called.

I turned back.

He was smiling. “I’m a bit strong for some people’s tastes,” he said. “I get it, I apologize. I’m Nicky, by the way.”

“Little Nicholas.”

“Little?” he said, and smiled and blinked. “I beg to differ, MysteryMan. But you wouldn’t know any better unless you checked under the hood. You interested in checking under the hood?”

I ignored that. “Do you know of Darren Sweet?”

“Sweet Darren,” he said. “Of course. What has he done? I always thought that boy would get himself in some trouble or another.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “A feeling.”

“You have these feelings often?”

“Often enough.”

“I don’t have a sense of Sweet. What can you tell me?”

“Interesting boy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not a bit.”

“I need to speak with him,” I said.

“Just speak?” he said.

“I’m trying to locate a mutual friend. I was hoping Darren could shed some light on her whereabouts.”

“Locate a friend? Have you tried Facebook?”

“It’s a little deeper than that.”

“She’s
missing
missing?”

“Something along those lines,” I admitted.

“You don’t think Sweet Darren’s involved, do you?”

“I don’t know him,” I said. “You tell me.”

“Gossip is so ugly, Mystery Man.”

“Chris.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Chris,” I said. “Chris Hall.”

“And I’m Glenda the Good Witch,” he replied.

I reached for my pocket.

“Don’t pull out any ID,” he said, frowning. “You can buy them two for ten dollars on Broad Street. We’re just talking now. If it gets heavier we’ll figure something out.”

“It won’t get heavier.”

“You’re supposed to wait until I give you information before you break my heart. You’re new at this aren’t you?”

“Your father seemed to shut down when I mentioned Darren Sweet.”

Nicky played with his bracelet again. The smile disappeared. “Mother passed four years ago,” he said. “The bistro is all he has left. That’s why we do deliveries. Above and beyond, you know? He’s protective of the customers. Particularly the good ones.”

“Darren Sweet’s a good one?”

“You said it, Mystery Man, he’s eating our food at least twice a week.”

“I really need to talk with him, Nicky.”

His smile returned. “You used my first name to set me at ease. That’s a tactic the police use during interrogations of suspected criminals isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t you?” he said, smiling coyly.

“I really need to talk with him, Nicky,” I repeated.

“It is effective,” he said. “There might be some hope for you at this after all.”

“Can you tell me how I can get in touch with him?”

“You won’t hurt him?”

“That’s not my plan at all.”

“But possible?”

“Maybe he’ll try to hurt me,” I said.

“Hardly.”

“It’s been suggested to me he’s into some less than desirable things.”

“Like what?”

“Gossip is so ugly,” I said.

He smiled. “Touché.”

“What can you do for me, Nicky?”

“That a loaded question?”

Getting through a conversation with him might have been the heaviest lifting I’d ever have to do.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“You think I’m not?”

“Please?”

“A beggar,” he said, and clucked his tongue. “The big ones usually are.”

I didn’t respond.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “This might work out anyway. Father and I have been worried. It’d be good for someone to check on Sweet Darren.”