Free Cooler Than Blood by Robert Lane Page A

the button again, and my window obeyed. I like things like that.
    “You a friend of the Colemans?” he demanded. He looked as if his clothes had been pressed while he was still in them. His hair wouldn’t ripple in a typhoon; not a crease marred his uniform, and his sunglasses covered the top half of his head. He had enough communications gear on his left shoulder to coordinate a NASA launch. A tag on his uniform said, “Kevin Trimble.”
    “I’m being retained to look for a girl, Jenny Spencer, and—”
    “May I see your driver’s license, please?”
    I handed it over to Kevin, along with my Florida PI license. He separated them like playing cards and studied them in his left hand. His right hand remained free and in the vicinity of his gun.
    “What’s your business here?”
    “I’ve been retained by the family of Ms. Spencer to try to locate her. She was attacked a few nights ago by one of—”
    “We’re fully aware of what happened to Ms. Spencer.” He handed back my PI license but not my driver’s license. “Why are you here?”
    “I wanted to take a look around and see if there’s anything that would help me locate her. What brings the cavalry out? Just get a warrant?”
    “You don’t think we’re competent in that area?”
    “Pardon?”
    “You don’t think we’re capable of searching the premises? I think we can do our job better without civilians, Jake.”
    “I’m not doubting your competence, Kevin. I would just—”
    “That’s Officer Trimble to you.”
    “And that’s Mis ter Travis to you.”
    Trimble and I did a few rounds of staring, and then he said. “Stay here.” He walked off with my driver’s license. Like I was going to skip town without it.
    I got out of the car and leaned against the side. I texted McGlashan that the cavalry was camped outside of the Colemans’ and inquired if he could put in a good word. I pondered where to rest my head that night, as my flight was late tomorrow morning. I debated whether to return to the airport and grab one of the on-site hotels or take a cabin in the nearby woods. Southeast Ohio was where the final cube of ice during the last ice age, around twenty thousand years ago, had finally succumbed to the sun and deposited foliage from Canada. Global warming isn’t a bad initiative around here—twenty thousand years on the global clock was three seconds ago. Maybe two. As far as an airport hotel room, it would have free chocolate chip cookies in the lobby and go downhill from there. I could already taste it. Smell it. That was close enough for me.
    Fifteen minutes later, another man with a gun marched toward me. He halted about four feet away. “Mr. Travis?” He held my license, or what I assumed was mine, in his left hand.
    “Yes.”
    My new visitor was the Pillsbury Doughboy with a badge. He looked as if he finished off a six-pack every night and thought covering his habit with a uniform would add credibility to his lifestyle. His reflective sunglasses mirrored the green hills and blue sky. His ears were beet red, as if he and Rudolph shared the same gene pool. No nametag.
    “I’m the sheriff in charge here. I got a call from a sheriff’s detective in Florida that you’re an ex vet and that I’m to share with you what we got.”
    Ex vet? Isn’t a veteran already an “ex?” But at least McGlashan had come through for me, and hopefully Glow Ears would let me play. “Thank you, sir.” I said. “I’d be most appreciative of any information you have.” You have no idea how physically painful it is for me to talk in that manner.
    “I don’t.”
    “Don’t what?”
    “Have any information I’m going to share with you.” He handed back my license.
    “You’re not going to play any reindeer games with me?”
    “What?”
    “Help me out here? Do what’s in the best interest of finding a missing girl?”
    “You need to leave now, Jake. We’re conducting an investigation on the property, and it’s closed to intruders.”