He said, “Mixed progress. The smuggling? I got nowhere. My DEA guy quit last week. And my ATF buddy is out sick. Long term. He got shot. But I do have better news about TEDAC. An old supervisor of mine transferred there. He trusts me. He’ll help if he can. I reached out. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet. But he will.”
“Addresses?”
“I turned up a bunch. All with connections to this Dendoncker guy’s business. Most seemed like shells. I think you were right about that. I did find one that seemed legitimate. It’s in the town you mentioned.” He recited a unit number and a street name.
“Where is that in relation to the town center?”
I heard Wallwork’s computer keys rattle. “A mile west. It’s a straight shot. Only one road goes out that way. It looks like Dendoncker’s is the only building on that road.”
“OK. Anything else?”
“Not within five hundred miles. And nothing that isn’t a lawyer’s office or a PO Box.”
“How about Dendoncker personally?”
“That’s where things get stranger. There’s no record of him owning any property anywhere in the state. I checked with the IRS. He does pay taxes. His returns are handled by his accountant. I found the address on his file.”
“Tell me.”
“It won’t do you any good. I looked on Google Earth. It’s a vacant lot. I’m trying to trace the owner, but so far it’s just another bunch of shell corporations.”
“Is Dendoncker married? Is there anything in a wife’s name?”
“There’s no record of a marriage. Nothing about this smells right, Reacher. My advice is to walk away. I know you won’t, so at least be careful.”
“There’s one more place you could check.” I gave him the address of the house I followed the Lincoln to.
Wallwork paused while he jotted the details down. “OK. Will do. I’ll get back to you the moment I learn more.”
Chapter 23
I thanked Wallwork before I hung up the phone but I was just being polite. The truth was his information was no use to me at all. Not in the short term, anyway. I figured his contact within TEDAC could bear fruit, in due course. He might help get an angle on Dendoncker’s bomb plot. But my immediate concern was Fenton. Wallwork had only turned up one solid address for Dendoncker’s business and I could tell from the location that it was one Fenton already knew about. It wasn’t the place I was looking for now. That was obvious. It was too public for Dendoncker. His other employees went there whenever they had a flight to service. Fenton had been there for the same reason. And that was while she was actively searching for her brother. She would surely have found him if he was there. Which meant Dendoncker must have another site he used for his wet work. Maybe more than one. It depended on the scale of his operation. And I had an idea how to tap into that. It wasn’t a sure thing. Far from it, in fact. But it was better than sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.
The Red Roan was busier than it had been when I passed by the day before. The lunchtime rush was still in full swing. There were two couples sitting outside. They were at round tables, perching on spindly metal chairs with brightly colored cushions and off-white parasols. Another pair of tables had been pushed together at the edge of the patio. Nine people were crowded around them. They were all different ages. Smartly dressed. I guessed they were colleagues. Probably worked locally. Probably celebrating something.
Not the people I was looking for. I was sure about that.
A pair of tall double doors was standing open at the center of the bar’s façade. There was a hostess station to the right, just inside. It was unattended so I crossed to a U-shaped booth on the far side and slid around until my back was against the wall. The room was a broad rectangle. The bar and the entrance to the kitchen were at one end. The space between the booths and the windows was filled with square tables. They were scattered around apparently at random. Each had a potted cactus on it. The walls were roughly rendered with some kind of pale sandy material. They were covered with oversized paintings of horses. Some were being ridden by cowboys out on the plains, rounding up longhorns. Some were racing. Some were standing around, looking disdainful. There were ten other people in the place. Two couples. And two groups of three.
Not the people I was looking for. I was fairly sure of that.
Fenton had an advantage when she saw Michael’s friend in there. She recognized her from a photograph. I didn’t know any of Michael’s friends. But I figured I had an advantage of my own. Experience. I was used to spotting soldiers in bars. Particularly when they were up to things they shouldn’t have been.
A waiter approached. He was a skinny kid in his mid-twenties. He had curly red hair tied up in a bun on top of his head. I ordered coffee and a cheeseburger. I wasn’t particularly hungry but the golden rule is to eat when you can. And it gave me something to do aside from flicking through a copy of the same paper I had read at breakfast while I waited for more customers to arrive.
I sat and watched for thirty minutes. Both couples paid their checks and sauntered out. One of the trios followed suit. Another couple arrived. It was the receptionist from the medical center and a guy in baggy linen clothes. He had white hair, neatly combed, and a pair of open leather sandals. They took a square table at the end of the room farthest from the bar. They were followed in by a group of four guys. They were wearing shorts and pale T-shirts. They were thin and wiry and tanned. They had probably worked outside their whole lives. They were probably regular customers. They took the table nearest the bar. The waiter brought them a tray of beers in tall frosted glasses without needing to be asked. He stood and chatted with them for a couple minutes then turned and smiled at the next customers who came in. Two women. One was wearing a yellow sundress. The other had cargo shorts and a Yankees T-shirt. They would both be in their mid-thirties. Both had brown hair down to their shoulders. Both looked fit and strong. They moved with easy confidence. And they had purses large enough to conceal a gun.
Maybe the people I was looking for.
The women took the booth two away from mine. The Yankees fan slid in first. She continued all the way around until her back was against the wall. Like mine. Her head and body were perfectly still but her eyes were constantly moving. Flitting from the entrance to each occupied table to the bar to the kitchen door. Then back to the entrance. Round and round without stopping. The woman in the sundress slid in after her. She glanced at the drinks menu then dropped it back on the table.
“White wine,” she said, when the waiter approached. “Pinot Grigio, I think.”
“That’ll work,” the Yankees fan said. “Bring the bottle. Don’t spare the horses.”
The women waited for their drinks to arrive and I watched them out of the corner of my eye. They leaned in close together. They were talking, but too softly for me to make out what they were saying. No one left the bar. No one else came in. The waiter dropped off their wine. There was a picture of an elephant on the label. The bottle was slick with condensation. He wiped it down with a towel. He tucked the towel into his apron pocket, then poured two glasses. He tried to strike up a conversation. The women ignored him. He soldiered on for another couple of minutes then gave up the attempt and drifted back to the bar. The woman in the sundress sipped her wine. She looked at her friend and started talking again. She was gesticulating with her free hand. The Yankees fan drained her glass in two mouthfuls and poured herself another. She wasn’t saying much but her eyes never stopped moving.
I slid out from my booth and approached theirs. I wound up standing where the waiter had been.