Free Cooler Than Blood by Robert Lane
Authors: Robert Lane
that Greenwood was a fine place for what I was doing—leaving.
McGlashan had texted me the Colemans’ home address in response to my text to him the previous night. He had also said the Hocking County Sheriff’s office had paid the Colemans a visit yesterday, but no one was home. I wanted to take a look for myself. I’d just brought up directions on my phone when Kathleen called.
“Why aren’t you in the seat next to me?” I answered and took a bite out of an apple. I had bought it from a man in a plaid shirt at the produce stand. It was a challenge eating the apple, placing her on speaker, and navigating back to the map app. At least I wasn’t texting.
“Look hard—I’m there beside you,” she said. “Where are we?”
“Ohio.”
“Ohio?”
“Iroquois word. It’s south of Canada.”
“Not much isn’t. You take a wrong turn going over the bridge?”
I took another bite of the Royal Gala. “I need to look for some people who were the last to see Jenny and make certain she didn’t double back.”
“Is it possible she’s there—in Iroquois country?”
“Unlikely. I’m only giving it a day.”
“And then?”
“Good-bye, Columbus.”
“Think positive.”
“Hello, Kathleen?”
“I like that better.”
I lowered my window and tossed the core into the ditch. The roar of the road invaded the car and was sucked out just as quickly when I raised the glass.
“How’s Maugham?”
“Sleepy, but good.”
“That’s my recollection as well.”
“You’ve read it?”
“‘The fact that a great many people believe something is no guarantee of its truth.’ Book’s worth it for that alone.”
An SUV blowing smoke and doing ten was suddenly in front of me. My right turn onto the Colemans’ driveway was a short distance ahead. I decided to settle behind the SUV instead of punching the pedal to pass on a two-lane road in a car that had less horsepower than Fred Flintstone’s. “Tell me about you,” I said.
“Sophia and I are painting my library.”
“And Sophia?”
“She hasn’t displayed any inclination to hunt you down with a butcher’s knife, if that’s what you’re asking. I think she’s relieved to be out of the marriage.”
Sophia Escobar and Kathleen had become close friends two minutes after they’d met. That was about a week before I—FBI Special Agent Natalie Binelli did the official act—put Sophia’s husband, Raydel, behind bars. He was in possession of the Cold War letter and was leveraging it as blackmail to reduce his IRS bill. He also was an unwilling participant in human trafficking. The “unwilling” part knocked a few years off his sentence.
I inquired, “Do you have any clothes on right now?”
“I thought we were discussing Sophia.”
“Does she have any clothes on right now?”
“Dream on.”
“Just curious.”
“Are you interested in my life,” she asked, “or just my body?”
“You think a man is capable of making that distinction? But if it makes you feel better, tell me about your life.”
“Well, since you’re so genuinely interested, we decided not to do an accent wall. I think that phase will pass and—”
“Kathleen?” I was at the Colemans’ drive, and there was a problem.
“I was—”
“I got company. Time to punch the clock.”
“You know, don’t you, that my interest in you is purely physical?”
“I like where this is going, so keep that thought.” I disconnected and pulled off to the side of the driveway. The Colemans’ house was set back about a hundred yards.
I don’t know how many sheriff’s and police cars Hocking County, Ohio, fielded, but I’d bet Kathleen’s first edition of The Razor’s Edge that every one was parked on the Colemans’ property. And if I was wrong?
Not my book.
CHAPTER 11
I continued up the dirt-gravel drive, and fifty feet from the house, a man with a gun stopped me. He had a badge as well, but a badge doesn’t rattle my attention like a six-shooter does. I hit
McGlashan had texted me the Colemans’ home address in response to my text to him the previous night. He had also said the Hocking County Sheriff’s office had paid the Colemans a visit yesterday, but no one was home. I wanted to take a look for myself. I’d just brought up directions on my phone when Kathleen called.
“Why aren’t you in the seat next to me?” I answered and took a bite out of an apple. I had bought it from a man in a plaid shirt at the produce stand. It was a challenge eating the apple, placing her on speaker, and navigating back to the map app. At least I wasn’t texting.
“Look hard—I’m there beside you,” she said. “Where are we?”
“Ohio.”
“Ohio?”
“Iroquois word. It’s south of Canada.”
“Not much isn’t. You take a wrong turn going over the bridge?”
I took another bite of the Royal Gala. “I need to look for some people who were the last to see Jenny and make certain she didn’t double back.”
“Is it possible she’s there—in Iroquois country?”
“Unlikely. I’m only giving it a day.”
“And then?”
“Good-bye, Columbus.”
“Think positive.”
“Hello, Kathleen?”
“I like that better.”
I lowered my window and tossed the core into the ditch. The roar of the road invaded the car and was sucked out just as quickly when I raised the glass.
“How’s Maugham?”
“Sleepy, but good.”
“That’s my recollection as well.”
“You’ve read it?”
“‘The fact that a great many people believe something is no guarantee of its truth.’ Book’s worth it for that alone.”
An SUV blowing smoke and doing ten was suddenly in front of me. My right turn onto the Colemans’ driveway was a short distance ahead. I decided to settle behind the SUV instead of punching the pedal to pass on a two-lane road in a car that had less horsepower than Fred Flintstone’s. “Tell me about you,” I said.
“Sophia and I are painting my library.”
“And Sophia?”
“She hasn’t displayed any inclination to hunt you down with a butcher’s knife, if that’s what you’re asking. I think she’s relieved to be out of the marriage.”
Sophia Escobar and Kathleen had become close friends two minutes after they’d met. That was about a week before I—FBI Special Agent Natalie Binelli did the official act—put Sophia’s husband, Raydel, behind bars. He was in possession of the Cold War letter and was leveraging it as blackmail to reduce his IRS bill. He also was an unwilling participant in human trafficking. The “unwilling” part knocked a few years off his sentence.
I inquired, “Do you have any clothes on right now?”
“I thought we were discussing Sophia.”
“Does she have any clothes on right now?”
“Dream on.”
“Just curious.”
“Are you interested in my life,” she asked, “or just my body?”
“You think a man is capable of making that distinction? But if it makes you feel better, tell me about your life.”
“Well, since you’re so genuinely interested, we decided not to do an accent wall. I think that phase will pass and—”
“Kathleen?” I was at the Colemans’ drive, and there was a problem.
“I was—”
“I got company. Time to punch the clock.”
“You know, don’t you, that my interest in you is purely physical?”
“I like where this is going, so keep that thought.” I disconnected and pulled off to the side of the driveway. The Colemans’ house was set back about a hundred yards.
I don’t know how many sheriff’s and police cars Hocking County, Ohio, fielded, but I’d bet Kathleen’s first edition of The Razor’s Edge that every one was parked on the Colemans’ property. And if I was wrong?
Not my book.
CHAPTER 11
I continued up the dirt-gravel drive, and fifty feet from the house, a man with a gun stopped me. He had a badge as well, but a badge doesn’t rattle my attention like a six-shooter does. I hit