Finders/Keepers (An Allie Krycek Thriller, Book 3) Page 2

  She was blonde and beautiful, and twenty years ago (Who are you kidding, old man? More like thirty years ago) he would have flirted with her, told her the green of her eyes reminded him of a beautiful jade ornament he once saw while he was traveling around East Asia during his Army days.

  “He going to live, Mary?” a voice asked.

  Hank glanced up at John Miller. Thirty-five, handsome, and not at all out of shape. His suit was tailored, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt on his dress shoes despite the gravel parking lot he would have had to walk through just to reach the diner.

  “He’ll be fine,” the pretty girl, Mary, said.

  She stood up and pulled the surgical gloves off her hands. For someone wearing drab black paramedic clothes, she still managed to cut a fine figure, and Hank once again wished he was much, much younger. Mary was five-five, but she only went up to the bottom of Miller’s chin. He towered over her and literally looked down at Hank.

  “He looks terrible,” Miller said.

  “Feels like twins are trying to push their way through my leg,” Hank said.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Mary said and rolled her eyes. “She clipped you. You’re lucky.”

  Right. Lucky. That’s one way to look at it.

  “You need me for anything else?” Mary asked Miller.

  “You done with him?” Miller asked.

  “Nothing else I can do here. He needs to go to the hospital and get it properly sutured. But for now, those bandages should keep him from bleeding to death. Not that he was really in any danger of that. Like I said, he’s real lucky.”

  “Then I guess you’re done.”

  Mary looked back at Hank. “See you around, Lou.”

  I wish, he thought, and managed a half-smile. “Thanks, doc.”

  “Not quite there yet.” She smiled back (Be still my heart) before leaving him with Miller.

  Hank looked down at his leg dangling over one of the booths at the back of Ben’s Diner. There was a lot of blood over the parts of his pants that Mary had cut away to get to his wound and bandage it. The diner had almost entirely emptied out except for the three of them, with four or five people still in the parking lot with some of the uniformed state troopers that weren’t busy taking witnesses to the hospital.

  “Wrong place, wrong time, huh?” Miller said.

  Hank turned back to him. “Story of my life. Did you find my .32?”

  “Uh huh.” Miller pulled an evidence bag out of his blazer pocket. The snub nose was inside. “What were you doing with it?”

  “I got a permit, kid.”

  “No, I mean, what were you doing at Ben’s carrying it?”

  “I carry it everywhere. Hence the permit. Can I have it back?”

  “Did you fire it?”

  “No.”

  Miller handed it back to him and Hank shoved the gun, still in the bag, into his pocket. “We’ve processed it, so no harm in letting you have it back.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Miller ignored the sarcasm, said, “So what were you doing here when it happened?”

  “What do you think I was doing here? It’s a diner. I came here to dine.”

  Miller pursed a smile, and Hank thought, What’s the matter, kid? The old fart’s giving you a hard time? Well, tough shit.

  “You were in the bathroom when it went down?” Miller asked.

  “I was taking a leak, yeah.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Don’t you already have enough statements from the other witnesses?”

  “I do, but I also have an ex-cop at my disposal, and I’m banking on his version of the story being more thorough, more helpful.”

  Hank grinned back at Miller.

  Flattery will get you into an old man’s good graces, you little shit.

  “I was in the bathroom when they came in,” Hank said. “No one fired a shot—at least, not yet—but there was plenty of screaming. From them, from the customers, and I think Rita, too.”

  “Rita’s one of the waitresses?”

  “Uh huh. Anyway. I bided my time while they cleaned out the place. First they collected the cell phones, then the money, wallets, and whatever valuables people had on them. By then I was at the door and could see two of them moving around up front. I thought there were just two of them. My mistake.”

  “There were three.”

  “Yeah. The woman.”

  “Where was she?”

  Hank nodded at the kitchen in the back hallway. “Just my luck, never knew she was there until, well,” he said, nodding at his bandaged thigh. “After she shot me, she put her knee on my back and told me not to fucking move.”

  “She said those words? ‘Don’t fucking move?’”

  “Something to that effect.”

  “Have to be specific about everything, Hank; you know that.”

  Hank grunted. “Look, kid, I already told one of the troopers everything and you got two bullets for ballistics—the one that went through my leg and the one she put into the floor next to my head. I can come in later and give you another statement if you want, but right now my leg is fucking killin’ me.”

  Miller nodded. “I’ll get one of the troopers to take you to the hospital.”

  “Who says I’m going to the hospital?”

  “You heard what Mary said—”

  “She’s just a kid; what does she know?”

  “Hank…”

  “My leg, my choice,” Hank said, and got up and limped to the door.

  He grimaced the whole time, as if someone was stabbing spears into his groin with every single step, but at least his back was to Miller and the little shit couldn’t see how much pain this little show of rebellion was costing him.

  Or, at least, he hoped Miller couldn’t see.

  * * *

  “Problem?” one of the men had said.

  “No problem,” the woman had answered.

  “Looks like a problem to me,” the second one had butted in, before adding, “Heroes get dead, right?”

  “No,” the woman responded.

  That single word. No. As if she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Of course, she had a gun—the same one she had shot him with, for fuck’s sake—and that was a hell of an equalizer in any situation.

  And yet, the way she had responded to the two guys, with no fear whatsoever…

  Who the hell are you, lady?

  That question bounced around inside Hank’s head for the entire seven miles back to his place. The interstate flew by, along with the occasional squad car going back and forth in front of Ben’s Diner. The nagging question helped to keep his mind off the pulsating pain, though as soon as he pulled his beat-up Bronco into the trailer park and climbed out, it was back with a vengeance.

  “You okay, Hank?” a voice asked from behind him.

  He looked over at Mrs. Haines sitting on her front porch next door. The woman had all five of her cats sleeping in a semicircle at her feet, which was nothing new, since the animals rarely journeyed beyond the property or Haines herself. Hank used to wonder if it was possible for animals to be as morbidly obese as their human counterparts; he had his answer after meeting Mrs. Haines.

  “Fine. Why?” he said, and flashed his best put-on smile.

  “You’re limping,” Mrs. Haines said, gesturing with her freshly manicured hand. “Is that blood?”

  “Oh yeah, that. Just a little accident.”

  “Looks painful.”

  “Nothing a little spirit can’t lift.”

  “I hear that,” Mrs. Haines said, producing a bottle of Jim Beam from behind her.

  Hank grinned, wondering if she ever fed any of that to her kitties. Probably not. Ol’ Jim was a lot more expensive per bottle than all those cans of tuna she had stacked up in the pantry inside her place.

  He fished out his keys and let himself into his home, slamming the door behind him. He struggled to the back, stopping only to grab a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey, then sat
down on his bed and twisted open the lid. The whiskey burned its way down his throat and settled in his gut, and he welcomed the warmth spreading across his belly and, eventually, down to his legs.

  Like most days, Hank fell asleep satiated.

  * * *

  “Stay down.”

  His eyes fluttered open. The lids were heavy, like they always were when he woke up from a whiskey spree, and it took a moment before he could adjust to the brightness filling up his home. Shit, he’d forgotten to pull the curtains closed again.

  Outside, someone was revving their engines, the noise like a sledgehammer working against the back of his skull. Probably that dumbass Jackson kid and his motorcycle. Hank swore one of these days he was going to sneak over there and take that thing apart in the middle of the night.

  Hank struggled out of bed but made the mistake of putting too much weight on both legs, and it was all he could do not to howl from the pain.

  Sonofabitch.

  He finally made his way to the shower and stepped inside, thought about taking off his clothes first, but decided what the hell, his pants were already ruined and his shirt had blood on it already, which meant he was going to get rid of them anyway. He could probably clean the shirt, but that would require a trip to the Laundromat in town, and who the hell had time for that?

  “Stay down.”

  Would he have gotten up (crawled) for the gun if she hadn’t said that? Maybe. It wasn’t really what she said but the way she had said it, as if she were doing him a favor trying to keep him alive. Or maybe that was just his imagination. In his vast experience with criminals, armed robbers were rarely that kindhearted.

  He remembered turning his head and sneaking a look up at her, for all the good it had done. Like the two guys robbing Ben’s with her, she had on a white mask. Nothing fancy—one of those cheap plastic accessories you could get just about anywhere, with a rubber band at the back to hold it in place. She had long, black hair, was slightly taller than average height, and was wearing slacks, a shirt, and a leather jacket. All black.

  And gloves. All three robbers had worn gloves.

  They’re taking the cell phones, he remembered thinking when he peeked out of the bathroom door and saw them collecting the devices around the establishment.

  That was a smart move on their part. Most strong-arm robbers weren’t that clever or didn’t have the foresight to think about what was going to happen after they left, but these had. Taking the phones meant no one could call the cops as soon as they left the diner. And that was exactly how it had happened. After their car, a white Nissan, took off, everyone had scrambled to find a phone. It took someone pulling into the parking lot about ten minutes later before they could even dial 911.

  Smart. Real smart.

  He recalled their back and forth conversation while he was lying on the floor. They didn’t trust one another. Or, at least, the men didn’t fully trust the woman, and vice versa. So what were they doing robbing a diner together? They clearly weren’t longtime partners, except maybe for the two men, and even that was doubtful—

  His accent.

  Hank turned off the shower and stumbled outside. He bypassed the bath towel and grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter, slumping into the seat. He dialed the number from memory and hoped they hadn’t changed it since he retired—

  “State Police,” a voice answered. “Where may I direct your call?”

  “Detective John Miller,” Hank said into the phone.

  “What is this in regards to?”

  “The robbery at Ben’s Diner.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Hank did his best to ignore the spots of blood dripping down his leg from his bandaged thigh. At least the pain had lessened. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the adrenaline or from the hot spray—

  “Detective Miller,” a voice said through the phone.

  “Miller,” Hank said, “it’s me.”

  “Me who?”

  He sighed. Was the little punk messing with him? If he was, Hank wasn’t going to give Mister Perfect the satisfaction—

  “Hello?” Miller said. “Who is this?”

  He really doesn’t remember me.

  “Hank Pritchard,” he said into the phone.

  “Oh, Hank,” Miller said. “You okay? I followed up, and they told me you never checked into the hospital—”

  “I’m fine. But listen to me; I thought of something.”

  “About the robbery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get a pen and paper…”

  “He’s a Brit,” Hank said. He practically blurted it out.

  “What?” Miller said. “Who?”

  “One of the guys that robbed the place. The one in charge. Or I’m pretty sure he was the one in charge. He seemed to be calling the shots.”

  “Okay. How do you know he’s British?”

  “His accent.”

  “He had an accent?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “No one said anything about an accent in their statements…”

  “Because he’s good, and he’s probably been around the world enough times that it’s not readily noticeable anymore. It took me just now to remember it. I’m telling you, Miller, the guy’s British. Or he was.”

  “Was?”

  “It’s a weak accent, but it’s there. He hasn’t completely gotten rid of it.”

  “Okay, so he’s a limey,” Miller said. “Or he used to be?”

  “You can’t just stop being a Brit, but you can lose the accent.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. That’s good to know, I guess.”

  “You guess? That’s it?”

  Miller didn’t say anything right away. Hank thought he could hear the little punk actually sighing, as if he were doing Hank a big favor even just talking to him on the phone.

  “Well?” Hank said.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Hank,” Miller said. “Okay, you’re certain he’s from across the pond—or used to be at some point—even though no one else at the diner heard any accents. I’m going to put that in the notes as a possibility, even though I’m not sure how that helps us catch them.”

  “You add it to the profile. Three people. Two men and one woman. One of the men has a slight accent. He’s almost lost it, but it’s still there if you listen closely enough. It’ll narrow down the search.”

  “We’ll definitely do that,” Miller said, though there was a lack of conviction in his voice that made Hank grind his teeth just loudly enough that the detective heard it. “You okay, Hank? You don’t sound so good. Maybe you should get some rest and call me again tomorrow when you think of something else.”

  You mean “something else more useful?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Hank said, and before Miller could say anything else, he hung up the phone.

  He sat still for a moment, hands on the dusty oak table that his wife had bought years ago from a garage sale, determined to put it in the RV they would eventually buy when he retired and they drove around the country doing whatever it was that old married couples did. Instead, Hank ended up putting it in this used manufactured home parked barely fifteen miles from the house they had spent so many good years in together.

  He was literally sitting in his own liquids, water dripping off his head and soaked clothes onto the carpeted floor. The little rivulets of red coming from his thigh looked more pink now, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor, then gingerly went to work on his pants, grimacing every time he ventured too close to the bandaged thigh. He finally got the pants off and flung it away, but it didn’t get very far (Damn, was he getting weaker, too?) and watched it land in a pile next to the shirt.

  Hank found himself staring at his wet clothes. He was tired and didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. And there was something—

  What the hell is that?

  There was something st
icking out of one of his pant pockets—the sharp corner of a white piece of…something. Hank bent down and picked the still-wet pants off the floor and stuck his hand into its pocket.

  He rummaged around, found it, and pulled it out.

  It was a folded piece of paper—one of those slips the waitresses used to jot down orders at Ben’s Diner. This one was for a cheeseburger (with extra pickles), diet soda, and a side of fries. There was no reason it should have been in his pocket. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to order before his bladder forced him to visit the bathroom first, and then the robbery had happened—

  So how the hell had it gotten into his pocket? Did someone…put it there?

  He flipped the piece of paper over and saw a phone number scribbled on the empty white spaces in blue ink. The numbers were slightly distorted because of the water and heat from the shower he had taken, but there was still enough intact that he could make out all ten digits. He didn’t recognize the area code; it wasn’t a local number.

  “Grab his phone,” the Brit had said.

  “He doesn’t have one,” the woman answered after going through his pockets.

  She had gone through his pockets. While she was doing that, it wouldn’t have taken much for her to leave something behind—like a piece of paper with a phone number on it.

  But why would she do that? That was the part that didn’t make any sense. Why would you put a piece of paper with a phone number in the pocket of the guy you just shot?

  Then again, she had also refused to finish him off, and even argued with the other two over it.

  What the hell is going on here?

  He stared at the phone, then at the piece of paper in his hand…then back at the phone.

  He didn’t move or act for the next five minutes.

  Finally, Hank picked the old receiver off the cradle and punched in the numbers. He swallowed, then cleared his throat, then spent the next few seconds waiting for the number to connect, going through a few hundred scenarios about what he was going to say when someone finally picked up—

  “Hello?” a female voice answered on the other end.

  “Um, hello,” Hank said.

  “Who is this?” the woman (girl?) asked.

  “Someone, uh, gave me your number.”