style="font-size:15px;"> These were singular circumstances. There wasn’t time to braid the usual strands of trust. Finding Felicia had to come before pride.
Turkey, she decided as she started the car, a thick turkey sandwich. By the time Ace finished lunch he’d be sleepy with turkey-induced tryptophan and possibly a tad more malleable.
HERE COMES TROUBLE, Ace thought as he watched Rory approach the shop, pushing Hannah in her stroller. With her dark-red jacket and no-nonsense stride, she reminded him again of a stick of dynamite. Even with her hair tied back into a severe bun, the escaping frizz gave enough hint of the potential energy stored in the compact package to cause a mess he didn’t need.
Operation Hog offered a potentially large return for a small investment of his time. But not if his loyalties ended up split.
She stuck her head through the door, looked around and wrinkled her nose at the smell of gasoline, oil and stale coffee that permeated the area despite the open doors. He tried to see the place through her eyes. The shop was small—about the size of a three-car garage. The walls hadn’t seen white in at least a decade. Classic rock blared from a boom box duct-taped to the wall. Three chassis were up on hydraulic lifts. Tools were spread out over every available surface. Everything appeared messy, and he was sure she was used to neat and organized. She fitted into this arena about as well as a racehorse at a demolition derby.
What ever happened to her I’ll-pretend-you-don’t-exist promise?
Ace wiped his oily hands on a clean rag, then threw it in the open rolling toolbox at this side. She’d probably managed to tick someone off already and needed bailing out. Might as well get this over with.
“Hi, there, Hannah-banana.” Hannah cooed and gurgled a reply. Nine months was a nice age—post complete helplessness, pre talkback. Everything about the world was still enchanting. Ace took hold of the stroller handles and redirected Rory outside. This business was legitimate. Mike didn’t hire gang members to work for him. But that didn’t mean the walls didn’t have ears.
“What’s up?” He fed quarters into the vending machine by the front door outside the office. A bottle of water tumbled out. Then he led her to a picnic table that butted against the brick wall at the back of the ice-cream parlor.
“I, uh, brought you lunch.” She dug into the tapestry tote bag hanging from her shoulder and brought out a thick sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. Who used waxed paper anymore?
“Thanks.” He peeked inside and saw the whole-wheat roll, the half-pound of turkey, lettuce and tomatoes. When was the last time he’d had anything homemade? She wanted something. He wasn’t sure what—only that he wouldn’t like it. “To what do I owe this peace offering?”
“No reason.” She shrugged, and he chuckled at the guilty blush flaming her cheeks. “I thought you might be hungry, that’s all.”
“Have I told you you’re transparent?”
She tucked a stray strand of frizz behind her ear. Not that it did any good. The curl sprang back free, framing her face with copper question marks. “I do believe you’ve mentioned it.”
“So?” He hiked a foot to the picnic table’s bench, then peeled back the wax paper and bit into the sandwich.
Bent over the stroller, she fiddled with Hannah’s purple fleece jacket. “You may be right.”
He cupped a hand to his ear. “I don’t think I heard you. What did you say?”
She righted her spine until it was broom-handle stiff. Her face was set with the cool disapproving lines he imagined she used on too-loud patrons at the library. “I said I think you may be right.”
“No luck, huh?”
Lips compressed into a thin line, she swiveled her head toward the center of town, barely visible between the ice-cream parlor and antique store. “Everyone I’ve talked to is playing mute. The one thing they’re willing to say is that Felicia loves Hannah and that it’s odd she would leave her behind.”
“Unless it was to protect her.”
“Maybe.” She peered at him, and the sad look in her eyes tugged a string he thought he’d cut long ago. He attacked the sandwich with gusto, waiting for her to get to the point.
“I saw pictures of Felicia in an album in her apartment.” Rory toyed with the leather handle of her tapestry tote. “She’s on a motorcycle.”
“Yeah, she rides a Vulcan. Metallic red with flames painted on the gas tank.” And a damn fine job he’d done keeping the thing in tune, considering the girl rode the hell out of the machine.
“She didn’t take Hannah on it, did she?”
Ah, propriety. “No, Mike gave her a big old Chrysler to cart Hannah around.”
Rory’s frown deepened until it formed waves on her forehead. “Where is it?”
Where was she going with this? “Haven’t seen it since she left.”
“What about her motorcycle?”
She handed him a napkin, and he wiped a run of tomato and mayonnaise that was dripping down his wrist. “Her bike’s been up on blocks all winter.”
“Where?”
“In the warehouse.” With his chin he pointed at the beige metal building behind the shop.
“Are you sure?”
“I can check.” He popped the last of the sandwich into his mouth.
“Please.”
He scrunched the wax paper and napkin and lobbed them into the trash can by the ice-cream parlor’s back door. “Rory?”
Looking away, she shrugged. “She loves Hannah. If she was running, she’d take the motorcycle and leave the car for Hannah. Penny doesn’t have a car.”
“Listen.” He angled her toward him and wished to hell he could shake off the odd feeling that was crawling through him like a ghost. “It doesn’t mean anything. I hadn’t gotten around to doing the spring service on her bike yet. With Hannah around, there wasn’t any hurry.”
Rory nodded, but her eyes reflected a gut-wrenching stew of fear and sorrow. A silent oath scraped the back of his throat. He didn’t need this. Reality was that finding Felicia alive wasn’t too likely. Reality was that finding Felicia dead would seal his case—especially if he could tie Mike to her death. But Rory wasn’t ready to hear the possibility of her sister’s demise. Not yet. Not that he blamed her. If it was his sister, he’d hold on to hope. So he gave her a lifeline. “Mike’s hanging by a thread right now. And Felicia’s holding the scissors. If she’s smart, she’s just lying low until they can arrest Mike.”
“What if he hurt her?”
The amber of her eyes swirled with the stress she was working so hard to cap.
“There’s no evidence of foul play.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and let his fingers juggle the loose change. “She didn’t strike me as stupid, just confused.”
