American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (12 page)

For a while after Abbey and the cop left, Dylan walked around the apartment. He unpacked one of his bags and thought about some changes he might make to the small space if he were allowed to stay. He thought about calling Eliza and letting her know it was safe to come home, but decided that he should wait for a full day of quiet before assuming anything.

By eleven-thirty he had done enough thinking and was growing hungry. He scraped his pile of change off the counter and placed it in his front pocket. He deserved a decent meal and decided to go downtown. There was enough change to cover a parking meter for a couple of hours, so he could actually sit down and be served a meal.

It was a cool enough fall day for Montana to sleep in the truck while he ate, and the dog loved going for rides.

“Come on Montana, let’s go,” he called.

Grabbing a rawhide strip from the bag by the door, Dylan spun his keys on a finger and held the door open. Montana walked casually to the truck and hopped in when he opened the door. He was getting old and the hop only took him to the foot well. It took a second bounce to clamber into the truck. Dylan could remember when Montana could hop directly onto the tailgate or from the ground to the bench seat. They were both getting older.

The downtown area of the small city was busy at lunchtime. It took two passes down the main drag before he found an open spot that his truck would fit in. He made sure the windows were cracked and poured half a bottle of water into a bowl he pulled from under the seat. Montana would be set for a while.

There were eleven minutes left on the parking meter. Better than zero, but not enough for a sit-down meal. Dylan fished into his pocket and pulled out the change. He looked for quarters first and put one into the slot;
thirty-five minutes
flashed on the screen. Feeling generous, he decided to put another quarter in. It would be far more time than he needed and would leave something useful for the next guy.

This quarter didn’t fit. It was too big, but just barely.

He inspected the coin quickly to see if it was a dollar coin or a fifty-cent piece. It was hard to remember the last time he had been given change, but none of the places he frequented seemed like they would give him anything but the regular coinage.

The coin in his hand was not American currency. On one face was an image of a leaf with the date “1775” underneath. The other face had text that read: “Sons of Liberty” in the center. Around the outer rim of the piece was written: “Protect and Preserve Our Freedom.”

It was definitely old, but something about the way it felt told him that 1775 was not the date that it had been minted. It wasn’t worn or dirty enough to be over two hundred years old, but it was not crisp and clean enough to be modern.

Dylan put the piece into his right pocket with his keys and fished another quarter out of the pile in his hand. The extra change went into his left pocket and he decided that after lunch he would call Abbey and ask if he could come see her. If anyone had an explanation for what this thing was, she would either be the one or would know who to ask.

Lunch was delicious but distracted. He ate most of the meal with one hand while the other rubbed the coin. He also spent several minutes inspecting it so closely that he completely tuned out the sights and sounds in the restaurant.

It was hard to tell if he wanted this to be a clue or a cool but unrelated piece of history. Figuring out where it had come from was in the back of his mind, but he knew he hadn’t specifically picked it up. When was the last time he had found a quarter on the street?

When he joined Montana in the truck there were still nineteen minutes left on the meter. He smiled at his generosity and headed home, finally looking forward to an afternoon off. If everything went well, tomorrow he would be at Abbey’s farm working, earning a living.

His optimism drained quickly when he arrived home. A State Police cruiser and a local black-and-white were parked out front and the officers stood by the door to his apartment.

After parking, he held the door open for Montana, who climbed out and headed over to the men. The dog sniffed their legs and wagged his tail; he loved new people and new smells. Dylan wished he could approach them as open-mindedly as his dog.

“Afternoon, officers,” Dylan said while still several feet away.

“Are you Dylan Cold?” the state trooper asked.

“Yes sir. Is everything okay?” Dylan responded and stopped at the first step.

“Early this morning a man with a gunshot wound to the right hip was brought into a small quick clinic in upstate New York. Claimed it was a hunting injury, but the bullet was nine millimeter,” the trooper explained.

Dylan nodded. “I bet Officer Farley carried a nine millimeter,” he said.

The local cop anxiously stepped in. “We’re hoping to get the bullet back but it’ll take some time to test and see if ballistics match the service weapon. Is there anything you can give us on the guy so we have more information for probable cause?”

Dylan thought about that morning where things had gone so far off the rails. The shooter had been so generic it was comical.
Was there anything that stood out?

“I remember thinking he talked funny? Not like a lisp or anything, and he didn’t say too much so it was hard to tell, but I remember thinking he wasn’t from around here,” Dylan answered.

“If you had to guess?” the trooper prodded.

“Europe? Honestly, I have no idea,” Dylan said and paused. “Actually, he used the word ‘bizzie’ when he talked about the cop. I assumed it was like busybody or something, but maybe it was slang from where he’s from?”

The trooper wrote a note in his little book.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” the local cop challenged.

“I didn’t think it was much help in finding the guy and, no offense, but you guys weren’t too interested in listening to what I had to say.”

The local cop pursed his lips. Dylan was right on both counts.

“The man at the clinic is a British national. They have him sedated for the pain now and we hope to have a New York trooper arrest him when he wakes up. Would you be willing to do a line up in the next twenty-four hours?” the trooper asked.

“Of course. Like I said, he was really forgettable, though. I want to find him more than anyone, but this is not a slam dunk by any means.” Dylan wanted to set their expectations so that they were not suspicious of him if he failed to identify the man.

“Understood. When we’re building a case, the more pieces we have, the better. If you finger him, it just adds to what we have. We’ll be in touch.” The trooper nodded and turned for his vehicle.

Dylan and the local cop watched in silence as the trooper left. It made him feel good that the state trooper had no bias and was treating him like a victim and not a criminal.

“I know Abbey gave you her number yesterday.” The officer surprised Dylan with the change of topic. “A few us want to make it clear to you that she is off limits.”

“I don’t think it was social,” Dylan said. “I used to work for Mark, and she said he told her I was reliable. Hopefully it’ll just be a few small things and then Mark will be comfortable hiring me again.” Dylan thought Abbey was cute but had no intentions of pursuing anything more than work.

“No shit it wasn’t social. Off-limits means off-limits. Don’t call her, don’t text her, and get your vegetables from the grocery store. If you want to work for Mark again, call Mark. Stay clear of Abbey,” the cop finished with a finger in Dylan’s’ chest.

Dylan was starting to see some of the negatives of small-town life. Everyone knows everyone and even as they approached thirty years old, high school crushes remained.

The medallion in his pocket was interesting, but antiques weren’t really his thing. If the cops had the guy who killed Officer Farley and his name was close to being cleared, he was happy to drop the whole American Lease subject. He wasn’t intimidated by the fierce loyalty of Abbey’s friends, but decided that pushing their buttons by calling her wasn’t the best way to keep out of trouble. Staying in town was starting to feel like a strong possibility and it wouldn’t hurt to have more friends than enemies.

Knowing the police had a strong lead on the cop killer gave Dylan more positive energy. Instead of shuffling through the woods with Montana and wondering how he was going to survive, he set to work on a project for Eliza.

The stone walkway leading up to her apartment was uneven and getting worse. More than once he had heard her trip while carrying groceries up to her kitchen. He called the local landscape company and ordered a couple of yards of stone dust before setting to work at digging up the old walk.

Shoveling, prying and lifting helped him to build a solid sweat and feel like he was doing something productive again. Montana lay off to the side in the sun, one eye open but resting. He had worked hard to keep his owner sane and sober and deserved to relax.

A noise from his phone surprised Dylan. He knew the police would eventually call, but had never expected it so soon.
Maybe they were going to do a video lineup or some other new way of seeing if he recognized his kidnapper.

“Hello?” he answered cautiously.

“Dylan, it’s Abbey Holt. Do you have a second?” She sounded excited.

“Sure, what’s up?” He hadn’t called her and assumed “stay away” didn’t mean he was supposed to be rude.

She spoke quickly. “I’m on my way to spray the orchard near you. Would you meet me there? I have a couple questions, and was hoping we could talk.”

“Ummm, can we do it over the phone?” he asked.

“We could, but I have a lot to do and it’s tough to talk on the phone and drive the tractor. I thought that in person would just be easier.”

“Is your chaperone going to be there?” Dylan didn’t want them to come across him and Abbey and be surprised that they were together.

“My chaperone? Oh, you mean Kevin? Probably not, the chief told him to give me some space.”

Dylan paused. She had called him. He hadn’t given her his number, so that meant she had to do a little work to get it. What if she wanted to tell him not to listen to her friends and that she was the opposite of off-limits?

“Sure, I can meet you in the orchard.” He was an adult and could meet and talk with anyone he wanted. Plus it would be a good chance to ask her about the medallion.

After he hung up, he straightened up his work site and made a note of the next steps. He liked leaving things in order and preferred to start working right away when he returned to a job site.

Dylan and Montana went into the apartment. He washed up and put on a clean t-shirt. He checked his hair and brushed his teeth. Even though he didn’t think it would be a social visit, seeing Abbey was the first time in years that he was going to be meeting a girl alone.

He thought about bringing Montana but decided against it. The old dog had gotten plenty of exercise lately and would probably be happier on the couch.

The walk from his apartment to the orchard was quick the sun was sinking in the sky the temperature was starting to drop. It would be a great night for sleeping, and he was glad that he was earning the rest.

There was no tractor in the orchard yet, so he picked a perfectly ripe apple and walked the rows munching and thinking about not much at all. When Abbey finally arrived, he was completely relaxed.

“Do you wanna hop in? We can talk while I spray,” she called from the cab of the large tractor.

Dylan climbed up and squeezed himself into a space opposite the door.

“I used to sit there when my dad was spraying. It’s a little awkward at first but it’ll be comfortable soon.” She smiled warmly.

Dylan doubted that it would ever feel comfortable. “Were you six-two and two hundred pounds when you sat here?”

The tractor started rolling slowly. Abbey threw a switch and turned a knob. A loud roar, like a jet engine, rose behind them. It was muffled in the cab, but now he understood why the phone would have been difficult.

“Did the kidnapper have a thick stack of papers or was it a thin file folder?” Abbey asked.

“A thick stack
and
a file folder. You probably could have found that out from the police. How does the size of the stack make a difference?” Dylan was suddenly a little suspicious.

“Maybe, but I wanted the information direct from the source. There used to be a saying that a prize this big wouldn’t be found with a handful of clues, it would take an armful. My grandfather always said the armful existed if people knew where to look. If all the papers were about the Lease, he may have found the hidden cache.” Abbey was trying to explain and not be too excited.

“So your grandfather believed in the lease?” Dylan probed.

Abbey did not answer immediately.

“There’s never been any doubt that the lease existed. The doubt is around finding it, or any of the clues leading to it, intact,” she said in forced, measured tone.

“Did your grandfather ever say anything about a medallion?”

The tractor stopped abruptly and Dylan slammed forward into the windshield.

“Owww!” he called out.

“What about a medallion?” Abbey commanded.

Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin-shaped object. Without a word, he handed it to Abbey and watched her face for some sign of acknowledgement.

After studying the silver piece carefully, she looked at him. “Where did you get this?”

“It was actually in a bunch of change I had. I tried to put it in a meter downtown.” He smiled.

“And before that, where was it?”

“I’m not sure but I think I figured it out. After I was kidnapped, I stopped at a gas station to call 9-1-1. Since I didn’t bring my wallet or my phone to walk the dog, and I hadn’t eaten anything in hours, I picked up some loose change from around the car. The guy wouldn’t let me buy anything, though; he closed the shop as soon as I hung up the phone. When they released me from jail, they gave me the change back as personal effects.” Dylan explained.

“So the guy who killed Steven had the medallion and a thick stack of papers,” Abbey repeated. Her gaze drifted off.

“They’re close, aren’t they?” Dylan could feel the excitement building.

“If we could get a look at that stack of papers,
we
would be close.” Abbey smiled widely and put the tractor back in drive.

“The police should have the stack as evidence. I don’t know if they would keep that locally or at the state level, but maybe you could ask one of your friends on the force?”

“I have to get this orchard sprayed, but as soon as I get back to the barn, I’ll call Kevin and see if he can help us out.” She squeezed the medallion tightly.

They rolled down the aisle of the orchard in silence. Dylan didn’t really want to get out of the tractor, but wondered if she would stop at the center road. She turned the wheel and started the next row, humming softly, and Dylan wasn’t sure she even remembered he was there.

“So is Jim your boyfriend or something?” he asked and regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Something.” She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“Your friends aren’t exactly big fans of mine. We may not want to ride around for too long if we don’t have to.”

“They’re more bark than bite. Plus I’m all grown up, I can hang out with whoever I want,” she sniped back with more attitude than Dylan was expecting.

She set her jaw and turned left down the center aisle of the orchard. The tractor continued straight to the main road, where it turned left again. They rolled past Dylan’s apartment and kept going.

The tractor wasn’t fast but it was faster than felt safe to jump from.
Plus
, Dylan thought,
why jump?
There was no real danger.

“Not to be picky or anything, but where are we going?” he finally asked as they neared the center of town.

“The police station. If they have the stack of papers and we have the medallion, I can’t be riding around in a tractor. This is the break I spent years looking for. Even if it was National Geographic we were racing against, I wouldn’t let them win.”

Dylan smiled at the 'we' comment. She hadn’t given him the medallion back and never asked if it was okay to keep it. Abbey was cool and he liked that she was self-confident and took charge of what she wanted. This was turning out to be a fun ride.