Free The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie Page B

old watch with a cracked face, a small wooden box. Inside were Jimmy’s medals.
    Peter set the box atop the pictures to keep them from blowing away.
    “His military paperwork? VA paperwork?”
    “In the file cabinet,” said Dinah. She had her arms wrapped around herself because of the cold. The wind smelled like rain. The bare trees waved overhead. “It takes up a whole drawer.”
    Peter didn’t know what the paperwork might tell him. He certainly wasn’t going to go through it out here in the wind.
    The last item was a bulky manila envelope with JOHNSON, JAMES written on it in neat black marker. A business card stapled onto the corner, with the Milwaukee police logo on it. A detective. Peter looked at Dinah, asking for permission. She nodded. Peter upended the envelope and slid the contents out on the table.
    Keys, a wallet, a rolled leather belt. Nothing else.
    Was this all Jimmy had with him when he died?
    Peter picked up the keys. Four of them, on a plain ring. A Toyota key with a black plastic grip, a key printed with the Green Bay Packers logo, and two others, maybe for a padlock or a cheap door lock. He looked at Dinah.
    “The black key is for the car,” she said. “The Packers key is for this house. I don’t know about the other two.”
    The wallet was leather but cheap, the seams torn and peeling. It held a driver’s license, a library card with bent corners, six dollars in cash, a folded grocery-store receipt for canned soup and instant coffee, and a scrap of torn paper with words written in Jimmy’s easy hand:
worth more dead than alive.
    Peter looked at the paper. It fluttered in the wind. Somethingabout it was familiar, but he couldn’t grab on to it. He held it up for Dinah.
    “Yes,” said Dinah. “The police thought it was a suicide note.”
    Something there didn’t sound quite right to Peter, but he couldn’t figure out why. He filed it in his mind for further thought.
    He tapped the driver’s license. “This has your address. Where was Jimmy staying?”
    Dinah shook her head. “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “Jimmy never told me. He kept saying he wouldn’t be there long. He said he’d let the boys visit when he found a better place.”
    “Didn’t the police look?”
    “They didn’t find anything. I asked that detective. He was actually pretty helpful. The tavern where he worked didn’t have a different address for him, and the VA didn’t, either. He wasn’t listed with the phone or cable companies, or the power company. The detective couldn’t even find a bank account.”
    Peter was surprised the man had tried that hard. “But you must have had some idea, right?”
    “If there was an event with the kids, he’d meet me at the school, or come here and I’d drive.” She scratched her chin. “Once, maybe a month before he died, he called to say he was running late. He asked me to pick him up on the corner of Twentieth and Center. He must have lived nearby. It’s not the best neighborhood. I told the police, but they never did find it.” She shook her head. “I kept telling myself I’d go over there and look. You know, go knock on doors. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I think I was afraid of what I’d find.”
    “Well,” said Peter. “It’s a good idea. And now there’s a better reason.”
    Not that the man’s things were likely to be there anymore. But maybe Peter would find somebody who knew him.
    He just had to find a crack, a fingerhold.
    —
    The last item in the police evidence envelope was a leather belt. Peter ran it through his hands and smiled.
    Jimmy called it his traveling belt. It looked like nothing more than a sturdy leather belt, but a hidden flap on the inside opened to reveal a long, narrow compartment. It was a pickpocket-proof way to carry money, and very useful if you were a Marine on furlough intent on getting seriously drunk. He was willing to bet the police hadn’t realized what it was.
    Peter opened the