The alderman’s face brightened with pride. “About two hundred thousand dollars. You didn’t think a little place like this was worth that much, did you?”
“It’s a lot of cash,” Bartels admitted.
“What happened, two local banks got bought out. The new owner closed the Buckham County branches, so we’re now a big financial center. It just doesn’t show.”
“Kenny means the money hasn’t rubbed off on the rest of us,” Roy said.
“It’s rubbed off on somebody,” said his wife.
“Hate to think one of our own kidnapped poor Joey Robbins and shot Henry,” said Fogel.
“You assume the two events are connected?” Bartels said.
“Guess we all do. Something hinky’s going on in town. Henry and Joey were brothers. Big coincidence if the two crimes aren’t related.” Fogel gulped his coffee. “I ought to be helping Lou and Howard make a list of suspects. You planning to start spending big, Roy?”
“I might buy me a new pair of jeans come spring.”
“What about a Caribbean cruise?”
“We come back tan, Lou can arrest me.”
After Bartels paid for dinner, they stood in the parking lot, Bartels and the Hanigans, snow landing on them with a little wind behind it.
“Where’s the bank?” Bartels asked.
“Quarter mile that way,” Roy said. “You wanna see it?”
It was a fairly modern cinderblock building, lit inside by a nightlight, front door covered with a big sign advertising rates.
“What happened,” Jeanie said, “this fellow in a mask comes in right at four o’clock, shoots a hole in the ceiling and scares Missy, the teller, poopless. He orders Joey to collect the cash from the vault, smacks his face with the gun to speed him up. Two minutes, the robber’s out the door with the money and Joey. Missy’s on the floor counting to a thousand so she doesn’t see the car they go in.”
“And she didn’t recognize the robber?”
Jeanie shook her head.
“Here’s the part I don’t get,” Roy said. “Someone robs the bank, gets two hundred thousand, kidnaps Joey. Okay, first, why’d they do that? Whatta they need him for? Hostage? Okay. But then they get rid of Joey, that’s what we’re all thinking. So why’s Joey’s brother get himself shot? That’s the part don’t compute.”
Bartels made a show of disinterest, stifling a yawn. “I think I’ll go find that motel,” he said.
As soon as he checked into the Starlight Motel, getting a room that looked down on the spotty nighttime traffic along the interstate, Bartels phoned Mary Anne and told her he wasn’t going to make it for a couple more days. She called him a name, then he told her how much money might be loose in Whist. After that he was her honey again.
He went down to the bar. The only drinkers were from the interstate, and the basketball game on the TV would have put a bookie to sleep. Bartels wasn’t too surprised when Roy Hanigan came in and sat next to him.
“I bet you’ve got some ideas,” Roy said. Looking sideways, he said, “I got a few.”
“About souls that need saving?”
“I’d say someone’s soul is too far gone. Darlin’, could you bring me a draft and put it on this guy’s tab? My idea is that two hundred big ones are up for grabs.”
Bartels didn’t answer.
“You noticed I said ‘big ones.’”
“I haven’t heard that kind of talk from a churchman.”
“Jeanie’s the one that got ordained, not me. But I been in the sin business a long time. Sometimes one side, sometimes the other. Thing that interests me here is if the money’s still in Whist, it ain’t got a lot of legal protection. Figure you been thinking the same. We could be competitors, or we could help each other.”
Bartels pretended to consider. He noticed that the scars under Roy’s beard might have been made by a knife carving X’s. So Roy might have gotten on the wrong side of a prison gang — not a sign he was smart.
“I think you’ve got me wrong, Mr. Hanigan.”
“I seen how you stayed polite to Deputy Howard. The deputies jacked you up, but you never got angry. Where’d you do your time?”
Bartels shook his head. “I’m an antiques dealer. Tomorrow morning I’m driving on. Bank robbery is none of my concern.”
Roy’s mouth dropped its friendly curl. “Bull. I’ve been around enough to know what I’m lookin’ at. You’re gonna go for the money. Your problem is, you don’t know where to begin. I do.”
Bartels smiled and lifted the glass that contained his cordial. “Then I wish you luck, Mr. Hanigan.”
The big man swung off the chair and left the bar, and Bartels laid a twenty beside his glass and followed. He got to the parking lot in time to see the big-finned convertible slide onto the highway and, not ten seconds later, a beige van detach itself from the darkness and follow.
Bartels took his time pulling a jacket from the trunk of his car. The trunk was cluttered with the kind of magazines and packaging material an antiques dealer would carry, and he had to grope under the stuff to pull the Beretta .380 from its holster. He checked the magazine, slipped the gun into his jacket. Well, like he tried to tell Mary Anne, you had to keep looking to find stuff.
He drove into Whist, wipers snicking, and looked for tail fins.
The mini-mart was deserted except for crime scene tape, but someone had decided to keep the Wig-Wam restaurant open long past seven. Two sheriff’s cars were pulled off the road beside the restaurant. He drove past, turned around a mile down the road, and came back. His biggest problem was not knowing where Jeanie and Roy Hanigan lived. That and not knowing who was in the beige van following Hanigan — though he had a guess on that one. He stopped at the Wig-Wam and went inside.
Deputy Howard Cross had returned to a table. Alderman Fogel was there, along with a man and a woman Bartels didn’t recognize. The woman was big and gray blonde and mean eyed, not hard to figure who she was unless there were two Imogenes in town. The man, who looked to be in his seventies with a shrunken lower jaw, wore a cook’s apron.
“Couldn’t stay away, Mr. Bartels?” Fogel said. “Whist has that effect on people.”
“One of your neighbors paid me a visit,” Bartels said. “He suggested we team up to find the bank’s money.”
“That would be real civic minded if you meant to give it back,” Fogel said. “But I guess if Roy Hanigan paid the visit, he hasn’t got that in mind. Have you met Imogene Cross and her daddy?”
The woman was a bigger version of the gal who had tried to get her claws into him at the mini-mart. Bartels wasn’t a small man, but he thought if someone like that came at you, all you could do was run or shoot her. Both of her big hands had skinned knuckles. Bartels glanced at Howard Cross but didn’t see any bruises. Maybe she worked her father over.
“Imogene owns this establishment, and her daddy cooks,” Fogel explained.
The old man had been waiting tables earlier. He held out a bony hand toward Bartels. “Bob Everly. So you buy antiques. See any besides me?”
“The Shaker hutch looks well cared for.”
“It was my grandma’s,” Everly said.
The younger deputy, Lou, came out of the back while they were talking. He carried his hat on one finger. His black crewcut was cut so close it looked like sprinkled coal dust.
“Look who came back,” he said.
“Roy Hanigan tried to enlist Mr. Bartels in a treasure hunt,” Alderman Fogel said. He glanced at Bartels. “It was Roy, wasn’t it? You don’t need to say. We know our neighbors around here. Lou, are you goin’ back on duty?”
“Thought I would, in case someone wants to jump out and surrender. You wanna come, Howard?”
The older deputy got up reluctantly, set his hat on his head, told Imogene, “See ya later, honey.”