Page 105 of Blood Moon

“Actually, Frank, no I don’t know. There’s precious little I know because a troop of Cub Scouts could track better than your so-called tough guys.”

“Okay, so Bowie gave him the slip. He has to go back to his house sometime. I’ve got a man still posted out there.”

“Is he any sharper than these other two? Please, God.”

“One of my best. I put him there because when Bowie does show up, and an altercation ensues, this guy takes no prisoners. That goes for women, too. He’s merciless. Okay? You can relax on that score.”

Tom heard the familiar wet, smacking noise in his ear and thought of the ogre’s disgusting maw.

“But here’s the juicy part,” the ogre was saying. “Well, it’s the juicy part except for them making out in the car like teenagers. Guess where my man picked them up?”

“I don’t want to guess.”

“The doc-in-a-box where Carla Mellin works.”

Tom dropped the Bic pen he’d been fiddling with. “How did that come about?”

“Because I’m smart, that’s how. I sent him there to engage the charming Ms. Mellin in conversation, tell her he looked forward to seeing her on the TV show about her daughter, or some such bullshit, then to advise her that that should put an end to it once and for all, that she ought to put it behind her and not talk about the investigation, or Billy Oliver, or anything regarding it anymore. By the way, Isabel Sanchez took my advice to heart. They’ve cleared out.”

That was good news, but Sanchez was more biddable than the Mellin woman, who took bitchery to a new level. “How did the charming Ms. Mellin react?”

“He never got a chance to talk to her. He went into the clinic complaining of a phony intestinal issue. Another woman checked him in as a patient, but Mellin was working the desk, too. He was seated in the lobby, waiting for an opportunity to approach her when in walked Bowie with Beth Collins. He couldn’t believe it.”

“Bowie didn’t recognize him?”

“Naw. He’s not employed by the PD. He’s one of the time-and-a-half ‘overtime hours’ you pay me for.”

“So what happened?”

“He told me that Mellin looked none too happy to see them, but the three of them spent ten minutes—he timed it—in the back. Then Bowie and the woman left. He beat it outside and managed to follow them. They picked up fast food and drove to the park.”

“Did they meet anyone there?”

“No. That’s it. You know the rest.”

Tom settled back in his chair and swiveled it in a tight arc. “Why would Bowie go see Carla Mellin?”

“Gee, I can’t think,” the ogre said. “Could it be because the one thing the two of them have in common is the disappearance of her daughter and all that came after? Just a wild guess.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Frank.”

“It was a joke.”

“Not funny.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Tom seriously doubted that, but he let it go. He picked up the pen again and thumbed the clip, making it click. “The car Bowie was driving. What was the home address on the registration?”

“His pre-divorce house. Clever son of a bitch.”

It galled Tom every time the ogre said something even partially complimentary of Bowie. “You’ve been to his place,” he said. “You said it was far out.”

“The other side of nowhere. The boondocks.”

“Has he had time to get back there?”

“Not quite. Anyhow, he isn’t there. I checked in with my man on-site right before calling you.”

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