Skating Over the Line

  There was only one clue from the two incidents that jumped out at me. Pop hadn’t recognized the guys.

  That wouldn’t have mattered if this were Chicago. There, you could be mugged by someone who lived in the same building without ever having known he lived there. But this was Indian Falls, and Pop had lived here almost all his life. He knew everyone in Indian Falls and the three surrounding counties. The fact that he didn’t know his attackers or hadn’t heard about their existence from the local gossips pointed to one thing: Those two men weren’t from around here.

  Based on that flimsy deduction, I got in my car and steered it toward the edge of town. If these two weren’t locals and they were here for more than a day, they had to be bunking somewhere. Indian Falls had only two motels that were actually in town. One was located just north of the diner. Any pertinent details about strangers staying there were humming through the local grapevine within hours. No one was talking about mysterious strangers, which left me pulling my Honda Civic into the Presidential Motel’s parking lot on the southernmost edge of the city limits.

  Faded pictures of Abraham Lincoln and Ronald Reagan greeted me as I walked into the motel. I guess the owners thought people would flock to a place Ronald Reagan might have stayed in. Reagan had been born in a nearby town, which gave businesses a license to scam. In this case, the scammers hadn’t cashed in. In fact, from the condition of this motel, I would have said there was a better chance that Abe and Mary had given one of the rooms a whirl.

  The gray linoleum-tile floor was peeling, giving the cement underneath a chance to see the light of day. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling fan. A love seat meant for waiting guests had two large tears in the dusty black fabric, and the counter was missing large chunks of Formica. The only thing that looked new was the computer. With a nineteen-inch flat-screen monitor, a spotless keyboard, a printer, a scanner, and a shiny processor, the thing looked like it belonged in a NASA lab instead of this run-down lobby.

  And no one was there to operate it.

  I took a step toward a door at the back of the room.

  “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”

  A scrawny, short, pasty kid with large glasses and a T-shirt that read BYTE ME appeared in the doorway.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He hurried behind the counter and smiled. “My name’s Alan. Would you like a room?”

  Yikes. The kid looked all of twelve years old. I wondered if maybe dad was around somewhere.

  “Hi, Alan. I’m actually here to ask about some of your guests. Is there any chance I could talk to the manager?”

  The kid pushed back an oily lock of black hair. “You are.”

  “You’re the manager?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “No offense, but aren’t you a little young?”

  “I’m seventeen.” The kid shrugged. “My parents own the motel. Last year, they decided to take the RV around the country and left me in charge. Last I heard, they were in Seattle. Now, what can I help you with?”

  I blinked at the businesslike tone in the Harry Potter look-alike’s voice. He tapped his sneaker, waiting for me to answer. So I did. “I’m looking for a couple of guys who might be staying here. They’re tall, dark-skinned, and speak Spanish.”

  The description sounded lame even to me, but it was all I had.

  “That could describe a lot of people. You got anything else?” The kid crossed his arms over his geeky shirt.

  I gave myself a mental thwack on the head. “They could have been wearing matching bowling shirts.”

  “Oh, them.”

  My heart skipped. “They’re here?” Was I brilliant or what?

  “Nah.” The kid shook his head, obliterating my elation. “They came by a couple of days ago, looking for a place to stay. After seeing the rooms, they decided to go elsewhere.” Alan shrugged. “My parents ran this place into the ground. Now that they’re gone, I figure I can start fixing it up. Make it into a real business.”

  I hated to ruin the kid’s entrepreneurial speech, but I had to ask if he remembered anything else. “By any chance did those guys say where they were going?”

  “No.” My face must have shown big-time disappointment, because the kid’s face turned bright red. “But,” he added, “I did give them a list of other hotels in the area. I mean, Mom and Dad would yell at me for helping the competition, but I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to stay. And it was late. They needed a place to sleep. You know? They weren’t like the group of college kids that came by a few days ago. The college guys had camping gear.”

  “Do you remember where you sent them?”

  The kid scratched his greasy head, sending another lock of hair careening over his eyes. “I told them about the Indian Falls Motel downtown and about the three near the highway. Why? Did these guys rob a bank or something?”

  For a second, I was tempted to say yes. Alan’s eyes were wide behind his dorky glasses. This was probably the most excitement he’d had since hooking up that new computer. I hated to disappoint the kid.

  “No, but they might have stolen two cars.”

  “Cool.” Alan grabbed the computer’s mouse and started clicking. “This is going to make a great entry for my blog.”

  Backing out of the office, I gave the blogging Alan a quick wave and, smiling, went back to my car. I had another lead. It was time to scope out the motels near the highway.

  A half hour later, I pulled into the Holiday Inn Express. The very efficient clerk at the desk listened to my description of the men. He then told me not only that he didn’t remember the guys but that he couldn’t tell me if he did. Hotel policy.

  Country Inn and Suites and the Red Roof Inn had the same party line. Guest information was confidential, and each motel had at least five different clerks who might have waited on the guys, depending on when they’d come in. I was out of luck. Worse yet, I was out of ideas.

  Dejected, I steered my car back to Indian Falls. Returning to the rink was pointless. George had everything under control, and watching kids skate in circles wasn’t going to help me keep my grandfather safe. I needed a plan.

  I stopped at the sheriff’s office, hoping Roxy would have some information. She did, but it was about a new stylist who had just opened a shop one town over. I left the station knowing where to get my hair highlighted but with no new leads. At least Roxy had promised to give Sean the message to call me. I wanted to pass along my motel lead. Maybe law enforcement would succeed where I had failed. Sean would love that.

  Funny. I would, too.

  Since I was in the neighborhood, I went next door to the bakery for a fresh-baked cookie. Brain food. Only my brain wasn’t cooperating.

  Now what?

  I was about to head back to my car, when a pair of flailing arms caught my attention.

  “Rebecca!” Danielle stood on the sidewalk in front of St. Mark’s, looking like she was trying to land an airplane. “I have something to tell you.”

  A Jeep Cherokee passed between the two of us. Once the street was cleared, I trotted over to the Lutheran side. I was Catholic, which meant Mom and I had attended St. Charles, directly across the street from St. Mark’s.

  While growing up, I’d been intensely curious about the church across the street, mainly because our catechism instructor told us not to go in it. Two months ago, I had finally walked through the forbidden double doors and was vastly disappointed. St. Charles and St. Mark’s might teach different doctrines, but the same architect must have designed both buildings. Now I was a frequent visitor to the Lutheran side. Danielle worked there, and at the moment she was bursting with excitement.

  “Rebecca!” Danielle ran toward me in four-inch zebra-striped heels. “You’ll never believe what I learned.”

  “There’s an Internet sale on animal-print shoes?” And maybe another on leather skirts. The combination of the two was going to send the gossips into overdrive.

  Danielle looked down at her footwear with a small frown. ??
?Rich still hasn’t made a move. I’m getting desperate. If the shoes and skirt don’t work, I’m going to have to break out the big guns.”

  “Don’t do anything drastic,” I warned. “You don’t want to give the man a stroke.”

  “True.” Danielle bit her lip. “Too bad there isn’t a sexy parishioner around to hit on me. That might do the trick.”

  “I’m sure my father would hit on you given half the chance, but he’s not your type.”

  Danielle’s eyes narrowed with concern. “How are things going with your father? I haven’t had a chance to ask.”

  I shrugged. “Could be worse. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean, the guy disappears from your life for a decade. You’d think he’d want to make up for lost time. Why else would he have come to town?”

  “Good question. I really don’t know why he’s in town,” I admitted.

  “Have you asked?”

  I clasped my hands and shrugged. Danielle gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze, causing my throat to burn and tears to well up behind my eyes. Sympathy did strange things to me.

  Blinking back the flood of unhappy emotions, I asked, “So, what did you need to tell me? Is it about Rich?”

  The worry in Danielle’s face vanished, replaced by an anticipatory smile. “Are you still looking for the mystery guy from the diner?” I nodded, and Danielle’s smile broadened. “Good, because I know who he is.”

  Thirteen

  Clayton Zimmerman. Not only did it sound impressive, it was my mystery man’s name. It turned out that Danielle had been admiring his backside while standing in line at the drugstore checkout an hour earlier. It wasn’t until he hit the sidewalk that her gaze shifted to his face. Good luck for me. Better yet, my man Clayton used a credit card to purchase his bottle of aspirin, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, and a pack of ribbed condoms.

  Ick.

  Danielle had only to ask the clerk, who, conveniently, attended St. Mark’s, and the name of the mystery guy was hers. And now mine. The question was what to do with it.

  I thanked Danielle for her help, jumped in my car, and debated my next move. Who was Clayton Zimmerman? I needed to know, and for that I needed a computer.

  Cranking my yellow Honda to life, I cruised down the street and into the rink’s parking lot. As inconspicuously as possible, I dodged two kids on Rollerblades, sneaked into my office, and closed the door behind me.

  Sitting at my mother’s desk, I turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. I cracked my knuckles and smiled.

  I Googled sexy butt’s name and waited for the search engine to spit out an answer. All 367 of them, as it turned out. Hmm. The first six entries documented the athletic prowess of a minor-league baseball player. The next entries brought up a kid’s Web page from somewhere near Los Angeles, two sites for German restaurants, and a collection of impressionist art by an artist who painted with his toes. Interesting, but none of them was my guy.

  I clicked to the next page of entries. That’s when I saw it.

  Clayton Miguel Zimmerman, Chicago lawyer. My “Spidey sense” started tingling. I clicked on the Google entry and waited for the page to load. A picture of a way-too-tan-to-be-real Clayton Zimmerman appeared on the Web site of Phillips, Parra and Powell, LLP. According to his bio, Clayton was a tax and contracts man, an associate who specialized in wills and prenups. Just reading about the job made me want to yawn. Well, while the guy’s work didn’t seem all that interesting, the fact that his picture matched Danielle’s description was. A phone call seemed in order.

  After punching in the law firm’s number, I gnawed on the side of my thumbnail and waited. A perky female voice came on the line and asked how I wanted my call directed.

  “I’d like to speak to Clayton Zimmerman,” I said, feeling a bubble of anticipation rise in my chest.

  “Sorry, Mr. Zimmerman no longer works here.” The perky voice had popped my bubble. I rested my head against my hand in defeat. “But I would be happy to direct you to the associate who has taken over his cases.”

  “That would be great,” I said, and a synthesized orchestra come on the line, playing a normally enjoyable Billy Joel tune. I drummed my fingers on the desk, waiting for the musical torture to end.

  “Good afternoon. My name’s Patrick Grimes. I hope that I can be of service.”

  “Can you sue the company that makes hold music? I think I’ve been emotionally scarred.”

  A fake laugh boomed through the receiver. “Right. Now, the receptionist said you were looking for Clayton. Unfortunately, Clayton is no longer with the firm.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I gushed in a voice that sounded like it came right out of one of Pop’s daytime dramas. I should know. Pop DVR’d shows on three different channels and watched them religiously. He said it helped give him and his dates something in common. “When did Clayton leave the firm?”

  “Two weeks ago. All of his current cases have been assigned to me.”

  I smiled, glad the lawyer couldn’t see me. Patrick sounded so proud about inheriting Clayton’s boring cases. How sad was that?

  “Do you know where he went? I really need to get hold of him.” Especially if he was the suspect I was looking for.

  “He moved out of the city to start his own practice in some little town.” I sat up straight. “Said he wanted to try his hand at small-town life. But I would be more than happy to do any legal work you might need.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it,” I said. I dropped the receiver back in its cradle. Clayton was definitely my guy.

  Armed with a printout of Clayton’s law-firm photo, I locked the office and headed for the door. If Clayton Zimmerman was living in or around town, he must have talked to a Realtor. Indian Falls didn’t do a brisk real estate business. There were only so many Realtors around. Being the competitive sort, Doreen would know each and every one.

  “Rebecca, honey,” a voice boomed over the loud eighties music, “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

  I turned toward the voice. A lead brick dropped into my stomach as I forced a smile. “Hi, Stan.”

  My father’s wide grin shrank. “Call me ‘Dad.’ You used to, you know.”

  I also used to eat dirt. Goes to show some people can learn from their mistakes.

  “Why were you looking for me?” I yelled over the rink noise, choosing to ignore the parental-title discussion.

  The narrowing of my father’s eyes told me my omission hadn’t been as subtle as I thought. “I wanted to have a heart-to-heart. You know, get to know my grown-up daughter. Is there somewhere we could go to talk, or are you too busy for your old man?”

  Guilt was a powerful motivator even when it wasn’t warranted. I looked down at my shoes, wishing the ground would suck me under. When that didn’t happen, I looked up and nodded. “We can talk in the office.”

  Once again, I found myself seated behind Mom’s old desk, but now I was less happy than I had been only minutes ago. I was going to have to talk—really talk—to my father. My stomach churned. I was sure I was going to throw up.

  My father sat on the wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. Crossing his right leg, he asked, “So, pumpkin, how are things going?”

  “Fine,” I replied cautiously.

  “I hear you’ve been dating the local vet.” His eyebrows danced. “Does that mean I’ll be walking you down the aisle soon?”

  “Nope. No ring. No aisle walking. We’re not that serious.” And even if we had been, Pop would be the one bopping with me to “Here Comes the Bride.”

  My father nodded. “I hope you’ll let me know when you get serious. Weddings are wonderful things.” Stan cased the office with his eyes. I could see him taking in the pictures, the computer, and the large events calendar hanging on the wall. The rink was booked solid. “Besides running this place, what else have you been doing with your time?”

  “I’ve been tryi
ng to track down the person who stole your car.” Duh.

  Stan gave me a sage nod. “I appreciate your looking into it, but it’s probably too late. The car is long gone by now. Even if the cops find it, it’ll be stripped, or worse.”

  I rolled a pencil through my fingertips, not sure what to say. Failure left a metallic taste in my mouth.

  “Anyway”—Stan leaned back in his chair with a smile—“the car situation is what I wanted to talk to you about.” He cleared his throat. “My work depends on having reliable transportation. Can’t meet clients if I can’t get to them, you know?”

  You also can’t skip town without saying good-bye, I thought.

  Stan uncrossed his legs, and his eyes met mine with great sincerity. “Honey, your father needs a loan. I have a couple of big deals ready to come through, but I don’t have a car or the cash to see them to fruition. All I need is a couple of thousand and I’ll be flush.”

  My heart did a free fall all the way to my toes.

  Money.

  Stan’s father/daughter bonding moment was about money. I should have seen it coming, but something inside me had dared to hope he was going to explain his absence. That he was going to tell me why he’d abandoned me in the first place. That he was going to say he was sorry.

  How stupid could I get?

  “Honey,” my father crooned, “I know this is a lot to ask. I wouldn’t if I had any other choice, but Doreen hinted at how much the rink is going to sell for. You’ll have a lot of extra cash floating around. Surely you could float some my way, seeing as how I’m family.”

  Family? I considered Elwood the camel a more immediate family member than my father. Elwood had taken a bullet for me, and he’d never hit me up for money.

  I looked at my father’s warm smile. A white-hot rage traveled through my bloodstream, making me tremble with emotion. Tears built behind my eyes while an invisible fist closed around my heart and started to squeeze. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.