after Jerry Lee Lewis, a badass fifties rock ’n’ roll singer. My parents have a male Rottweiler—Killer’s one of his offspring. The elderly neighbor that raised Killer from a pup died last month and Dad took him back.”
“How did he end up living with you?” Raine was fascinated by the small window into the lives of the McCloud family.
“His choice—not mine. I had dinner with my folks a few days after Dad picked him up and Killer jumped into my truck bed. He wouldn’t get out so I took him home with me. He’s been there ever since.”
“He adopted you?”
Chase shrugged. “Apparently.”
“Brave dog,” she commented.
“Not really. Have you seen the size of his jaws and teeth?” Chase said dryly. “I’m not about to tell him he has to go back to Dad’s.”
His wry humor caught Raine off guard, startling her into laughter.
Chase glanced sideways at her. “Tell me about your brother.” He switched off the radio, cutting off Mick Jagger in midlyric. The silence that filled the vehicle was suddenly loaded with intimacy.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything you can tell me. The more I know about him, the easier it will be to second-guess his actions. Start with his work schedule. You said he lives above the Saloon because of the long hours he works. Did he have any trouble with a customer lately that was out of the ordinary?”
“Not that I know of.” Raine paused, mentally considering her conversations with Trey over the last weeks before he disappeared. She couldn’t think of any comments he’d made about customer interaction that went beyond the usual complaints. “Most of the clientele in the Saloon and restaurant are regulars and local. Every now and then someone starts a fight but Trey hadn’t mentioned any specific problems.”
“Exactly what does he do at work?”
“Everything—he’s completely in charge of managing the Saloon and I’m responsible for the restaurant, although we substitute for each other if needed. Trey fills in behind the bar on occasion, deals with the Liquor Board, acts as bouncer if anyone gets too rowdy, hires and fires employees—everything required of the owner.”
“Has he fired anyone recently?”
Raine shook her head. “No.”
“What about at the restaurant? Any disgruntled ex-employees holding a grudge?”
“Not that I’m aware of. We’re a family-run business in a small town, which means most of our employees have been with us for a long time. There’s always some turnover during the year but we haven’t fired or hired anyone for months.” She paused, trying to remember any incident with an unhappy employee. “I can’t recall any recent problems with employees beyond the usual small issues like scheduling or pay raises.”
“What about his personal life? Any girlfriends with unhappy ex-boyfriends?”
“If there are, I haven’t heard about it. Trey has a lot of women friends but as far as I know, he’s never been serious about any one of them.”
“Maybe one of them wanted more than friendship.”
“Maybe.” Raine searched Chase’s profile but couldn’t read his thoughts. “Do you think Trey’s disappearance is connected to his personal life in some way and not to whoever wrote the letter?”
Chase shrugged. “I’m giving equal weight to any theory. When someone goes missing, it’s often connected to a personal issue.”
He continued to ask questions about Trey. The time seemed to fly and Raine was surprised when the lights of Billings appeared. Chase drove down a side street and angled the SUV into a parking slot a half block away from the neon sign spelling out Bull ’n’ Bash.
Raine looked up and down the street, noting the rough neighborhood. “Charming place,” she said dryly.
“Oh, yeah.” Chase leaned sideways and opened the glove compartment.
His shoulder pressed briefly against hers and the space was suddenly too small. Raine sucked in a breath and pressed her spine against the seat in a vain effort to distance herself but it wasn’t enough. Her lungs filled with the faint scent of aftershave and soap and she felt vaguely threatened by his size and sheer presence, though he didn’t say a word or look at her.
He removed a handgun from the compartment and shifted back into the driver’s seat.
Unnerved, Raine watched as he checked it efficiently, then tucked it into a shoulder holster beneath his denim Levi’s jacket.
“Do you expect trouble?”
He glanced at her and she felt that electric shiver of wary awareness once more. “I always expect trouble.” He got out.
Raine unlatched her seat belt and followed him, determined not to be left behind.
“Stay, Killer. Watch.” The murmured words reached Raine clearly before Chase stepped up on the curb. He waited for Raine to join him then led the way to the bar’s entryway, where he stopped her with a hand on her forearm.
“You can go inside with me on two conditions.”
“What are they?”
“I do all the talking. You’re an observer, nothing more.”
Her first response was to refuse. She wanted to ask questions—someone inside might have seen Trey. If they were going to find a clue that would lead them to him, this might be their best, maybe their only, chance. But Chase was the expert in this search and she didn’t want to hamper any progress he might make. She nodded reluctantly. “Agreed. What’s the second condition?”
“You stick to me like glue. While we’re in there—” he pointed to the Bull ’n’ Bash “—you pretend you belong to me. I’ve been here before—this isn’t the local Saloon in Wolf Creek where everyone knows you and they’re all your friends.”
“I’m not completely naive. I’ve been in a few rough bars before.”
“Then you know what could happen if the men think you’re available. I don’t want to waste time cracking some cowboy’s skull because he takes a fancy to you and won’t let go.”
Raine stepped over the threshold. She hadn’t lied to Chase. She’d been inside rough places with Trey when he’d considered expanding the family bar ownership to outlying towns. The Bull ’n’ Bash was seedier than others she’d seen, but the landscape was familiar.
The jukebox on her left was playing Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line” and the crack of cue sticks against pool balls in the back of the low ceilinged room was barely audible over the heavy bass in the music. Cheap hanging lanterns gave off low-wattage light, dimly illuminating the big room with its round tables and battered wooden chairs. Several booths lined one wall and a long bar boasted worn red vinyl stools, nearly all of them occupied by cowboys of various ages and sizes.
“Let’s find a booth.”
