Free County Line by Bill Cameron Page A

story.
    Yay.
    Eventually one of the beards let me out of the car.
    “I called your lieutenant. She vouched for you and your girlfriend’s boyfriend.”
    “She’s not my lieutenant. I’m retired.” I don’t know why this point is so important to me. Maybe because it’s so irrelevant to everyone else.
    “No one is your anything, are they?”
    That didn’t deserve a response.
    “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t talk to Mister Whitacre on the phone.” The implication being if I’d called, maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a puddle of his own blood outside a Chinese bakery.
    “Like I said, I couldn’t reach him.”
    “So you drove all this way on the off chance you’d run into him.”
    Given the circumstances, I’m not thrilled by his choice of words. “I have a lot of time on my hands, Inspector.” In his shoes, I’d have questions too. Dead man, hit-and-run, last seen talking to two guys who can offer no explanation for why the victim ran into a busy street. The car involved, a blue Ford Focus, was found a dozen blocks away, the interior on fire. Stolen. All I have going for me is the fact I’m an ex-cop and I wasn’t driving the Focus.
    “One more question.”
    I don’t think he could hear my teeth grind. “Sure.”
    “The name Biddy Denlinger mean anything to you?”
    That caught me up for a moment. The mysterious Biddy has a last name. “He mentioned the name Biddy, but he didn’t say who they were.”
    “Whitacre had a note in his Filofax. ‘Biddy Denlinger, 8:00 p.m.’ He’d scratched it out, but maybe this Biddy showed up anyway. Whitacre wasn’t talking with anyone when you got here?”
    “He was alone at the bar.”
    “The bartender doesn’t remember anyone but you and your friend either.”
    “Pete and I didn’t get here til ten.”
    “So I heard.” He sighs. “I’d tell you not to leave town, but gone might be the best place for you.”
    “Maybe the San Francisco tourist bureau would think otherwise.”
    “You planning on spending a lot of money while you’re here?”
    My pension would say no. “Not feeling too welcome, to be honest.”
    “A lot of that going around.”
    Back in Walnut Creek, Pete offered me his couch. I was awake before sunrise, drinking Pete’s coffee and working the Google on his computer under the cool glow of the grow lights on his wall of plants. By the time Pete woke, I’d found Farmersville, found Preble County Line Road. Found my long list of Whittakers. What I didn’t find is Ruby Jane, except as the owner of record of a small chain of Portland coffee houses. Even the mighty Google has its blind spots.
    Pete poured himself coffee and opened the vertical blinds over the sliding glass door. Watery light filtered in across his balcony. “What’s the plan?
    “I think I need to go to Ohio.”
    “Okay. I’ll arrange some time off work.”
    “You’re not coming with me.”
    “Try and stop me.” He turned on his heel and left me alone in his living room before I could argue the point. I heard the shower start, and took the opportunity to slip out. When I returned an hour later with underwear and toiletries, jeans and a couple of t-shirts, all in a black nylon pack, he informed me he’d booked us on a red-eye out of Oakland with a change in Denver. We’d get into Cincinnati about seven the next morning.
    “Pete, I don’t need a goddamn sidekick.”
    “You’re not the only one who cares about Ruby Jane.”
    “Moving to fucking Walnut Creek is an odd way of showing it.”
    “What are you complaining about? I’m out of your way, aren’t I?
    “That’s not the point.”
    “I don’t have to justify myself to you. And I don’t need your permission to go to Ohio.”
    I wanted to argue further, but what was the point? Were our positions reversed, I’d insist on coming.
    Pete spent the day on his computer, making his print-outs and offering up obscure data points about Farmersville. Elevation: 879 feet. Population: 937, down