Free Trapline by Mark Stevens Page A

Trudy.
    â€œI’m suggesting,” said Jerry. “But you have to figure they all know each other, passing tips around. Not often you get a heads-up. We got lucky again.”
    â€œI wouldn’t even know where to start,” said Trudy.
    She had slowly given over control to Jerry. He knew the books, the online banking, the passwords, the cash flow, the payroll, the contracts, the debt. She signed papers as he explained. There was good communication and everything checked out. Things they ordered showed up. Except for the wonderful, lounging sex—Jerry didn’t care for quickies, preferred to relax naked or with few clothes on and talk for a while, see what developed and repeat—Jerry could have been her most trusted brother. She had turned into another chapter of herself and how she had behaved around George. She demurred. She wasn’t evaluating hidden dangers or preparing for them. She played second fiddle. Or played for another band. It was hard to admit. Allison would never have lost control.
    Maybe it was the shock from yesterday’s event, being right there , but she realized suddenly that she was about to tear up.
    â€œThey’re so loyal,” said Trudy.
    â€œMost,” said Jerry. “We’ve had turnover. It’s not like old company towns where you see them at Little League and the grocery store and church. We don’t know them, not really.”
    Jerry took off his wire-rims, wiped the lenses with a tissue.
    â€œWe didn’t promise them anything except pay,” he said. “Work comes and goes; they come and go.”
    Jerry put his glasses back on.
    â€œHowever, there’s a situation going on now. Alfredo Loya. Usually when someone slips back into the twilight, it’s not too big a deal. They seem worried this time. Someone called back to Gua ń ajato where he’s from and he hasn’t turned up.”
    â€œWhere did he work?”
    â€œWherever we needed him. He could fix anything—pumps, mechanical stuff—and he can do it fast. A real knack.”
    â€œHow long has it been?”
    â€œLast day here was two weeks ago, but it’s not like I can go poke around and try to pick up his trail. He’s just gone.”
    Now the tears came, trailing down her cheek. A couple. She had so much to do, so much she would do. She didn’t wipe them away.
    â€œIs he one of the ones, one of the ones without a matched social?”
    â€œYeah,” said Jerry. “He’s one of the seven.”

eleven:
monday afternoon
    The police staged the media briefing at the gazebo shelter in Sayre Park, not far from where Lamott first stepped off his campaign bus before his long meet-and-greet stroll through town and his appointment on the pedestrian bridge.
    Sheriff Allen Marrs handled the news conference flanked by deputies, City Council members, the mayor, and a bevy of state and federal types whom Bloom had never seen. Today, they were props. It wasn’t hard to imagine the cluster-fuck cop meetings and, without anyone in custody, the tension.
    Facing the scrum of media, Sheriff Marrs looked tired. He was smart not to shave. You didn’t want to show up looking like you’d thought about primping. Marrs had a high forehead, dark eyes, and a moustache that curled down at the corners.
    The main theme was reassurance. Sheriff Marrs was seasoned enough to follow the script, which was fluffier than cotton candy. He used lots of words, but added nothing new.
    Every possible resource devoted to the manhunt.
    We have leads but I can’t go into detail.
    Glenwood Springs is a safe and caring community.
    We urge anyone with information to step forward.
    Reward funds have been established for the successful prosecution …
    No mention of the disposable phone.
    Bloom had been in big media hordes in Denver and this one was right up there—national and Denver crews, national and local print reporters, Grand Junction,