In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor
the office. Threats. But nothing that ever amounted to anything.”
She glanced down the street, met Simon’s gaze, and focused on the phone between her hands. “I doubt this had anything to do with my job.”
“Probably not.”
She looked back at him. Was he serious? With Simon it was hard to tell. “You really don’t think so?”
The shake of his head was decisive. “I’d guess it’s a neighborhood thing.”
She took a slightly easier breath. He was probably right. It made sense. Except that she couldn’t think of anyone nearby who might be mad at her, let alone angry enough to vandalize her house.
“Did you see anything?” She should’ve asked before. Simon was always around. Aware. How else could he know when she was at her mailbox most nights?
“Nope.”
“You sound as if you think you should have,” Jan said. There was something different about him tonight. Something deeper; more serious. Or maybe she was just coloring everything with the uneasiness she’d begun to feel. “You certainly aren’t responsible for what goes on at my house,” she told him.
“Five days out of five, my life consists of sitting at my computer staring out at an empty street. There’s a school bus that comes and goes with boring regularity, and that’s about it. Today, I’m not watching, and I might actually have seen something that could’ve been useful.” He sounded disgusted with himself.
Interesting. The man was a self-supporting published author—something a lot of people aspired to but few ever managed. He was his own boss, set his own hours, dressed however he wanted, worked from home—a dream job. His work educated thousands of people. And he thought he was useless? Who’d have figured?
Route 66 was a lot like Flagstaff itself—an innocuous two-lane road without a high-class establishment in sight, and famous anyway. And the Museum Club, with its low-grade gravel parking lot and attention-getting giant guitar sign out front, followed suit. A comfortable laid-back hangout for locals, the bar was also on many tourist lists as a famous historical site, and according to the signs Simon read as he pulled open the door, the roadhouse hosted live country-and-western bands and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights.
He neither liked country music nor dancing.
Tuesday night was karaoke night.
Simon loathed karaoke.
Slouching on a hard wooden chair at a table as far away from the microphone as he could get, Simon glanced around the half-filled room. Not a bad Tuesday-night turnout—mostly middle-aged folks in jeans, a family in one corner, a couple dressed in matching country-and-western attire doing fancy steps on the dance floor to off-key music. And a lone woman at the bar, holding her glass as if it were her only friend. She’d had a face-lift—the line behind her jaw told him that. And she dyed her own hair; she’d missed a spot on the back of her head with the platinum solution. He’d bet his computer there was no wedding ring on her finger, but that if he looked, he’d find an oversize turquoise there.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Amanda, according to the name tag of the young woman standing at the edge of his table. Sometimes a man just got lucky.
“What’s on tap?” He gave her the slow, covertly appreciative grin that had closed more than one investigation.
With her tray balanced on a hip, Amanda listed both foreign and domestic beers. Her perfectly painted red lips moved easily, as she told him about the night’s specials. “So what’ll you have?” she ended, with a smile that would’ve locked many men’s knees—including his, nine or ten years ago.
Domestic. Simon named his brand, or rather the brand he used to prefer on tap, back when he used to go out. And watched Amanda’s butt in the tight, faded blue denim, as she made her way toward the friendly-looking blond woman behind the bar.
Nice ass.
Nice girl. He hoped. Ex-boyfriend with possible terrorist connections notwithstanding.
Pushing his glasses up, Simon pretended to look around with interest, while keeping Amanda in sight at all times. Not a hard job, as things went. Though at twenty-five she was a bit young for his taste, the woman’s slim figure and rounded breasts were visually pleasing. She was a good waitress, too—quick. She walked up to tables with a full tray and delivered everything without pausing to question who got what; friendly, but not really flirty.
“So, what’s the most famous thing about this place?” he asked, when she brought his beer.
“Hmm.” She paused as if she had all night, frowned and peered around. “I’d say the fireplace.” The silver butterfly clip that secured her long amber-streaked hair, glinted as she turned back to him. “Some of those stones were dug up hundreds of years ago. And there’s lava formations and petrified wood there, too.”
More than he’d ever wanted to know. “No kidding.” Simon gave the structure a good, long look. “You been here long?”
“Four years,” she told him. “Since I was an undergrad at NAU.”
“You dropped out?”
She shook her head. “I graduated. With a degree in English. I’m working on a master’s now.”
Bright girl. And determined enough to work while she studied.
“Got a boyfriend?”
He’d asked Jan the same question earlier that evening, when he’d insisted they look through her home while the cop was there—although he’d asked her for entirely different reasons. With Jan, even though he’d agreed with the beat cop’s assessment of a neighborhood gang-related dare, he’d been hoping to find out that she had some extra protection. She didn’t.
“Yeah, I got one,” Amanda said. And Simon took a sip of beer, batting zero for zero.
“Been together long?”
“Three years.” She grinned as she said it, letting him know that she was flattered by his interest—but not interested. Scott needed a better information source. This wasn’t a disgruntled ex.
“Too bad,” he told her with a warm glance. So much for getting her to spill her guts after work.
“Enjoy your beer,” she said, swinging around toward the bar.
“You know anywhere a guy can get some good physical training around here?” he called after her.
Simon always had plans B, C and D, as backup.
She stopped. “What kind of training?”
“I’m getting ready for level-three alpine certification from the Professional Ski Instructors of America.” He could have been. If he’d had any desire to spend his days in the cold and snow doing something he used to enjoy. Which he didn’t.
He patted his belly beneath the loosely hanging wrinkled shirt, making it clear that his garment was not hiding surplus flesh. “I’ve got great abs,” he said sheepishly, “and I can bench press twice my weight. I work out at the gym every morning.” If you could call the equipment in his spare bedroom a gym. “But I need more. Something that’ll put me above the rest.”
An asshole at a table by the dance floor whistled, and Amanda looked over her shoulder. “I might know of someone who could help,” she said, as she walked away. “Give me a couple of days.”
With that, she was gone. And so was Simon. He’d gotten what he’d come for.
4
The Zeidel file did not turn up. That could be an omen. Perhaps Jan should have done what Andrew advised and cut her losses. Not only her reputation, but the state’s and the county attorney’s hung in the balance. It was an election year.