Zero Day (11 page)

T
HE PLACE WAS
like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use—although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.

Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.

Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the men were lean, almost gaunt. They were mostly dressed in jeans and work shirts, steel-toed boots, hair slicked back probably from a recent shower. Maybe mining employees, Puller thought, just off their shift. Cole had said they didn’t dig here for the coal. They blew it out of the mountain and then hauled it away
over treacherous roads. It was still dangerous, hard work. And these men looked it.

The women were halved between matronly types in wide knee-length skirts and modest blouses and younger wiry females in cutoff shorts and jeans. A few teenage girls wore skintight outfits short enough to reveal glimpses of panties or pale bottoms, probably much to the delight of their rugged-looking boyfriends. There were a couple of men in jackets and slacks, button-down shirts, and scuffed wingtips. Maybe mining executives who didn’t have to get their hands dirty or their backs ruptured for their daily bread. But apparently they all had to eat in the same place.

Now that was democracy for you, thought Puller.

Cole was already there, at a booth near the rear. She waved and he headed over. She had on a jean skort that revealed muscled calves and a white sleeveless blouse that showed off firm, tanned arms. Her sandals revealed the woman’s unpainted toes. Her large shoulder bag was next to her and inside it Puller figured she kept both her Cobra and her badge. Her hair was still damp from the shower. The coconut smell of it cut through the grease as Puller approached. All eyes in the place were on him, a fact he recorded and recognized as perfectly normal under the circumstances. He doubted many strangers found their way to Drake. But then again, Colonel Reynolds was one of them. And now he was dead.

He sat. She handed him a plastic menu. “Fifty-eight minutes. You didn’t disappoint.”

“I scrubbed fast. How’s the coffee?” he asked.

“Probably just as good as the Army’s.”

His lips twitched at her comment as he scanned the menu. He put it down.

“Already made up your mind?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I guess quick decisions are a necessity for someone like you.”

“So long as they’re the right ones. The Crib Room?”

“Coal miner slang. Means the area designated at a mining operation for miners to eat and take a break.”

“Looks like it does a brisk business.”

“Pretty much the only place in town open this late.”

“Cash cow for the owner.”

“That would be Roger Trent.”

“He owns this place too?”

“He owns most of Drake. Got it cheap. Place is so polluted people just want to sell and get out. Those that remain he gets coming and going. Groceries, vehicle repair, plumbing, electrical, this restaurant, that gas station, bakery shop, clothing place. List goes on and on. They ought to rename the place Trentsville.”

“So he profits from creating environmental nightmares.”

“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“How about Annie’s Motel? Does he own that?”

“No. Owner wouldn’t sell. Barely makes ends meet. Doubt Roger was really all that interested in buying it.”

She scanned the other customers. “People here are curious.”

“About what specifically?”

“About you. About what’s happened.”

“Understandable. Word travels fast?”

“It’s like an old-fashioned viral. Mouth to ear.”

“Media inquiries yet?”

“It finally hit. Messages waiting for me on my phone. Newspaper. A radio station. Got an email from a TV station over in Parkersburg. Expect to get one from Charleston too. Something bad happens they all want to jump on it for about fifteen minutes.”

“Executive-lag them all for now.”

“I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but the last word’s not up to me.”

“Your boss?”

“Sheriff Pat Lindemann. Good guy. But he’s not used to media inquiries.”

“I can help with that.”

“You handle lots of press relations, do you?”

“No. But the Army has folks that do. And they’re good at it.”

“I’ll let the sheriff know.”

“I’m assuming everyone has heard about the second house?”

“You probably assume correctly.”

They had found ID in the house. The dead man was Eric Treadwell, forty-three years old. The lady was Molly Bitner, thirty-nine.

“So the imposter used Treadwell’s name when talking to my guy. That was still a big risk. If Lou had asked for ID, or wanted to get in the house. Or what if one of my guys knew Treadwell? Drake is not that big a place.”

“You’re right. It was a big risk. A calculated one. But it worked out in their favor. And guys willing to take those kinds of risks and play them out successfully make for tough opponents.” What Puller was actually thinking was that the imposter had some special training. Maybe military. And that would make things very awkward very fast. He wondered if the Army had had an inkling of that, and whether that was the reason he’d been sent out here solo.

The waitress, a short, crusty type with gray hair, dark eye circles, and a raspy voice, came to take their order.

Puller had decided on breakfast: three eggs over light, bacon, grits, hash browns, toast, and coffee. Cole had a Cobb salad with oil and vinegar dressing and an iced tea. When Puller moved to hand back the menu, his jacket opened and his M11 was revealed. The waitress’s eyes flickered and then she gripped the offered menus and walked off. Puller noted this and doubted it was the first time the lady had seen a gun.

“Breakfast?” asked Cole.

“Didn’t have one yet today. Figured I’d get it in before I go to sleep.”

“So did you check in with your boss?”

“I did.”

“Is he happy with the progress?”

“He didn’t say. And there wasn’t much progress, frankly. Just lots of questions.”

Her iced tea and his coffee came.

Cole took a sip of hers. “Do you really think those people were interrogated before they were killed?”

“It’s somewhere between a guess and a deduction.”

“Meth lab in the basement?”

“I’d like to keep that one under wraps.”

“We’re doing our best. I put a seal on everything with my guys.” She hesitated, looked away.

Puller read her mind. “But this is a small town and sometimes things slip?”

She nodded. “What would they have been interrogating them about?”

“Let’s say the folks who killed Treadwell and Bitner were working with them in the drug business. One or more of the Reynoldses sees some suspicious activity. They’re caught doing that. The druggies want to find out how much they’ve seen, who else they might have told.”

“And put it on a video for someone else to see? Why, if this is local?”

“May not be local or entirely local. Mexican drug cartels have set up shop all over the country. Metro and rural areas. Those guys don’t play around. They want to see everything. And they have first-rate equipment, including communications gear. And it could have been a live feed.”

“But you said it was just a simple meth lab, with not much product coming out.”

“That may have been a sideline for Treadwell and Bitner. They might have been working for a distribution ring in another capacity. You have drug problems here?”

“What town doesn’t?”

“More than most?”

“I guess we have more than our share,” admitted Cole. “But a lot of it is prescription drugs. So go on with your theory. Why kill Bitner and Treadwell?”

“Maybe they drew the line at murder and they had to be killed too, to keep them silent.”

“I don’t know. I guess that works,” Cole said.

“It only works with what we know so far. That can change. There weren’t wedding bands on either of their fingers.”

“From what I was able to find out they were just living together.”

“How long?”

“About three years.”

“Planning on tying the knot?”

“No, according to what I found out, they were just doing it for expenses.”

He looked at her curiously. “What?”

“Makes the paychecks stretch further if you have just one mortgage or rent payment. Common enough practice around here. People have to survive.”

“Okay. What else do you know about them?”

“Did a quick and dirty while you were playing biohazard boy. I didn’t know them personally, but it’s a small town. He went to Virginia Tech. He started up a business in Virginia that failed. Went through a series of jobs pretty quickly. He’d been a machinist here for years, but got laid off a while back. He’s been working at a chemical supply store on the western edge of town for about a year.”

“Chemicals? So he’d know his way around the equipment for a meth lab. And he might also be sticking his hand into the inventory if he is in the drug business. Any scuttlebutt that he was involved with drugs?”

“Not that I could find out. But that basically means he was never charged with any drug-related crimes. He was clean on our books.”

“Which means he might’ve been smart enough to not get caught. Or his meth business was a recent start-up. Like you said, hard times, trying to stretch the paycheck. And Bitner?”

“She worked in an office at the local Trent Mining and Exploration operation.”

Puller studied her. “So our mining mogul pops up again.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Cole said slowly, not meeting his gaze.

“That a problem?” he asked.

She eyed him coolly. “The way you say it you must think there is.”

“This Trent guy obviously has a lot of local pull.”

“No problems there, Puller, trust me.”

“Good. What did she do in the office?”

“Clerical and some related stuff, as far as I know. We’ll check it out more thoroughly.”

“So they both worked and had a meth lab on the side and lived together to save money and they still lived in a ratty house? Didn’t think the cost of living was that high around here.”

“Yeah, well, neither are the wages.”

Their food came and, ravenous, they plunged into their meals. Puller had two more cups of coffee.

“How are you going to be able to sleep?” asked Cole as he lifted the third cup to his mouth.

“My physiology is a little backwards. The more caffeine I consume the better I sleep.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Actually, the Army just teaches you to sleep when you need it. I’ll need it tonight, so I’ll sleep just fine.”

“Well, I know I can use it too. Only got a couple hours sack time.” She eyed him with a mock angry expression. “Thanks to you, Romeo.”

“Won’t happen again.”

“Famous last words.”

“Are the bodies being transported?”

“Already there.”

“You said Deputy Wellman was married?”

She nodded. “Sheriff Lindemann has been to see Larry’s wife. I’ll go tomorrow. I don’t know Angie that well, but she’ll need as much support as possible. I guess she’s a wreck. I would be.”

“She have family in the area?”

“Larry has. Angie moved here from southwest Virginia.”

“Why?”

She scowled. “I know it seems like people would just be moving out of here, not the other way.”

“Didn’t mean that. And you told me that people were trying to get out. I’m just trying to figure out the landscape.”

“Larry went to community college over in Virginia. It’s not that far as the crow flies. That’s where they met. He came back here and she joined him.”

“What about you?”

She set her glass of iced tea back down. “What about me?”

“I know you have a brother here and your dad’s dead. Anybody else in the area?”

He glanced at her hand. No wedding band. But maybe she didn’t wear one on the job. And maybe she was still on the job.

“Not married,” she said, catching this glance. “Both my parents are dead. My sister lives here too. What about you?”

“I have no family in the area.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, smartass.”

“Father and brother.”

“Are they in the military?”

“They were.”

“So they’re civilians now?”

“You could say that.” Puller put some cash down on the table. “What time do you want to meet tomorrow?”

She stared at the money. “How about 0700 again. Juliet.”

“I’ll be there at 0600. Any chance I can get the Reynoldses’ laptop and briefcase tonight?”

“It’s technically evidence.”

“It technically is. But I can tell you that there are folks back in D.C., and not just the ones in uniform, who are very anxious to have those items back.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. As I alluded to before, I don’t want you inadvertently to do something that’ll get you in trouble later. I can tell you that anything not classified and having to do with the investigation will be turned over to you.”

“As determined by who?”

“The appropriate parties.”

“I’d like to determine that for myself.”

“Fine. Do you have Top Secret or SCI clearance?”

She moved a strand of hair from her face and glowered at him. “I don’t even know what SCI means.”

“Sensitive Compartmented Information. It’s a bitch to get. On top of that the DoD has SAPs, or special access program clearances.
Reynolds was fully charged with TS/SCI and SAPs for his compartment and program areas. Consequently, if you try and access the laptop or check the colonel’s briefcase without proper authorization you could be charged with treason. I don’t want that to happen and I know you don’t. I realize all these acronyms probably sound stupid, but people in the government arena take them very seriously. And the consequences of running afoul of these parameters, even by accident, are pretty severe. It’s just a big headache you don’t need, Cole.”