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 coffe
e?” 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