Free Dead in Her Tracks by Kendra Elliot Page A

Who do you think keeps it afloat when Bob takes a weekend off? He doesn’t just sit on his ass here year-round. I take over at least one weekend a month.”
    On the bar next to him Jake had an open bag of Doritos, ranch dip, four empty Snickers wrappers, and the remains of one of Nell’s giant cinnamon rolls.
    “Hungry, Jake?” Stevie asked.
    “I eat when I’m pissed.”
    “How’d you lose so much weight, Jake?” Stevie said in a deceptively polite voice. “I didn’t even recognize you the other day. You look great.”
    Jake’s chin lifted the slightest bit. “Workin’ out.”
    “Where at? This town really could use a gym,” Zane added.
    “I got equipment at home.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Sweat beaded on his temples.
    “You feeling okay?” Stevie laid a hand on his shoulder. “You look a little shaky.”
    “You would too if you had cops breathing down your back. What do you want?”
    “We want to know if Bob was dealing oxy,” said Zane. “We know he was using heavily. Was he selling it too? We found a lot of cash in his house with no explanation.”
    Jake sucked at hiding his guilt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “He’s dead, Jake. It’s not like you can screw things up for him. But we’ve got some missing women and we know Bob was involved with Vanessa Phillips’s murder. We’re just trying to put the pieces together.”
    “Bob wouldn’t hurt anybody!”
    Zane wanted to bang Jake’s head into the bar, knock a little sense into him. “Bob admitted he killed Amber Lynn. That falls under my definition of hurt . How about your definition, Stevie?”
    “Absolutely. I suspect he hurt the other three missing women,” she prodded.
    “That wasn’t his fault! Amber Lynn just got in the way.” Sweat rolled down the side of Jake’s face, and his hand shook as he lifted his coffee cup.
    “Did you know there’s a pill you can take that gets rid of your withdrawal symptoms, Jake?” Stevie asked. “Make the headache and shakes and nausea go away. How’s that sound to you right now?”
    Hopeful eyes looked at Zane. “That true?”
    The man looked miserably sick, and Stevie had nailed it that he was in withdrawal. “How long since your supply ran out, Jake?”
    “A few days.”
    “Bob kept you in oxy?” Zane asked calmly.
    “Yeah, took away my appetite. People started noticing I was losing weight.” Jake’s head hung over his coffee like he wanted to dive into the cup, drown in the caffeine. “He didn’t sell it. He didn’t need to.”
    “What do you mean he didn’t need to? Where’d his cash come from?”
    “The bar makes lots of money. He just used the oxy for himself . . . and gave some to me.”
    “For free?”
    “He never charged me.”
    “How long had he been giving it to you?”
    Jake chewed on his lip. “Must be about two years now.”
    Zane looked at Stevie. How did a drug dealer make money if he gave away his product for two years? Jake had to be mistaken. Or lying. Although he seemed to be a pretty lousy liar.
    Zane pulled out the picture of the two missing Medford women. “Seen these two in the bar?”
    Jake blinked and struggled to focus on the picture. “Pretty.”
    “Very,” said Zane. “But no one’s seen them for months. Do they look familiar?”
    “Dunno.”
    “Did you ever see Bob leave with a woman?” Stevie tried a different tack. “Was he able to get them to go home with him very often?”
    Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah. He was the best. He said women liked the tough-guy look.” He pulled up his sleeve to show a tattoo on his forearm. “He said tattoos always work on the women.” His tattoo read Only the strong servive .
    Zane hoped Jake hadn’t paid too much for it.
    Stevie averted her eyes from the tattoo and make a small choking noise. “So Bob was popular with the ladies,” she managed to say. But you don’t recognize these two in the pictures.”
    Jake looked again. “No. We mostly get