The glances weren’t unfriendly, just openly curious. But he couldn’t get anybody to talk to him. Tried three times, with two men and a woman, and either got the cold shoulder or a quick brush-off. He took his beer over near an antiquated shuffleboard game for a better look at the rest of the patrons. He’d been there less than thirty seconds when one of them slid out of a booth and came sidling over to him.
The man was about forty, rangy and hollow-cheeked, dressed in Levi’s and a sport shirt. He nodded and offered a “How’s it going?” greeting. Then, “Aren’t you one of the guys been asking about the woman went missing a few days ago?”
“That’s right. Runyon’s my name.”
“Ernie Stivic.”
“Sorry, but I don’t remember talking to you.”
“You didn’t. Saw you with Frank Ramsey this afternoon.”
“The mailman?”
“Yep. He’s a friend of mine, he told me about it after you left. Any luck finding the woman?”
“Not so far.”
“Frank said her husband’s pretty shook up. I would be, too, if I was married.” Stivic took a swig from the bottle of Bud he was holding. “You and him really private detectives down in ’Frisco?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t do much in a thing like this, can you? Woman wanders off into the woods and you don’t know the area?”
“Is that what you think happened? She just wandered off and got lost?”
“What else? Happens all the time up here. Well, not all the time, but often enough in the summer.”
“You wouldn’t happen to’ve been in the vicinity of Skyview Drive on Monday afternoon, would you, Mr. Stivic?”
“Not me. I was at work.”
“Know anybody who might’ve been?”
Stivic shook his head. “Sorry. Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How come you’re here? In the Buckhorn, I mean. You looking for somebody or just taking a break?”
It was curiosity, nothing more, that had brought Stivic over. But he was friendly and talkative enough, the type open to being probed. You wouldn’t be able to get much from a man like this about one of his friends, but you could pry out some information if the subject was somebody he didn’t like.
Runyon said, “I thought the mayor might be here. Is he?”
“Fred Donaldson? Why’d you think he’d be here? He don’t drink.”
“I meant the man they call the mayor. Pete something.”
“Oh, hell, him,” Stivic said, and his mouth bent into a lopsided grin. “The mayor. Yeah, and it fits him like a glove, too. You know why we call him that?”
“I’ve been told. Is he here?”
“Not tonight. How come you’re looking for him?”
“Just trying to cover all the bases. What’s his last name?”
“Balfour. Pete Balfour.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Construction. Balfour Construction.”
“Big outfit?”
“Nah. Just him and a couple of helpers. Works out of his house.”
“Any idea where I can find him tonight?”
“Miners Club, over on Third. That’s where he usually hangs out.”
“I was just there and he wasn’t.”
“Probably out at his place then.”
“Where would that be?”
“Up-valley, five, six miles.”
“Wife, kids?”
“Not Pete. He don’t have any friends, neither.”
“Sounds like you don’t much like the man.”
“Ain’t much to like. He didn’t get that mayor name for nothing.”
“I understand Ned Verriker hung it on him.”
“That’s right. Poor Ned. You heard about what happened to his wife?”
“I heard. Verriker and Balfour don’t get along, I take it?”
“You take it right.” Stivic sucked on his beer again. A dark frown had replaced the crooked grin. “Balfour come in here Monday night, pretended to be tore up over Alice dying horrible like that, but he don’t really care. Not about her or any woman.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Beat up on his wife until she walked out on him a few years ago. No other woman around here’s had anything to do with him since.”
“Did Balfour ever threaten the Verrikers?”
“Threaten? Why’d you ask that?”
“No particular reason. Just wondering.”
“Well, not that I know of. Ned would’ve kicked the crap out of him if he had.” Stivic seemed to have realized he was being a little too frank with a stranger. He said, “Listen, you talk to Balfour, don’t tell him what I said about him, all right? He don’t scare me none, but I don’t want him hassling me.”
“I won’t mention you at all, Mr. Stivic. Thanks for your help.”
“Okay. Good luck finding your friend’s wife.”
Stivic moved across to the booth he’d vacated. Runyon carried his unfinished beer to the bar, left it there, and went down a corridor near the front entrance where the restrooms were. The Buckhorn was old-fashioned enough to still have a public wall telephone with a battered local directory hanging underneath. There was a small ad for Balfour Construction in the Yellow Pages, with an address on Crooked Creek Road, Six Pines. He memorized the name and number. On his way out of the tavern, he glanced up at an illuminated beer company clock on the wall between two racks of antlers. Almost nine-thirty.
In the car, he sat mulling for a couple of minutes. Judging from what he’d learned so far, Pete Balfour was a definite maybe: didn’t get along with the Verrikers, history of violence at least against one woman, loner with a nasty temper. The best lead they’d had so far, but still tenuous without more information. No reason yet to get Bill’s hopes up with a phone call. How to handle it then? Talk to Balfour tonight or wait until morning? Almost full dark now, late to be bracing somebody. But not too late, not with the time factor working against them.
Runyon programmed the Crooked Creek Road address into the Ford’s GPS. Five point eight miles north of Six Pines, zero point four off the main valley road. Shouldn’t take him more than ten minutes to get there.
Crooked Creek Road lived up to its name: a narrow, twisty lane that followed the watercourse up into the hills. In the purple dusk, the Ford’s headlights picked out two unpaved driveways before a third loomed ahead on his left and the GPS unit told him he’d reached his destination. He put the side window down, slowing, as he neared the drive. It angled in across a short wooden bridge, on the other side of which was a closed gate in a chain-link fence that stretched out into the trees along both sides of the creek. A half moon was coming up, and in its pale light he could make out a house and two or three outbuildings on a flattish section of ground inside. From out here, all of the structures appeared dark-no lights anywhere.
He drove uphill until he came to another property, turned around in the driveway there, rolled back down to Balfour’s, and turned in so that the headlights illuminated the gate and some of the property beyond. Leaving the engine running, he stepped out into a night breeze that now held a mountain chill.
The two gate halves were padlocked together. No intercom device that would allow you to announce yourself from out here. Runyon peered through the opening between the two upright bars. The house was small, plain, well maintained. The largest and closest outbuilding, set at an angle to the left, was almost as large and probably housed Balfour’s workshop. The other, smaller buildings were shadow shapes outlined against the pine woods that walled off the rear of the property. There was a stake-bed truck slanted in near the workshop, but the open-ended carport along one side of the house was empty.
Somewhere out back, a dog had begun yammering, deep-throated barks that had an echoing effect in the light-splashed darkness. Tied up, because between yaps, even at this distance, he could hear the dog lunging at the end of the chain or rope or whatever was holding it back there. If Balfour was in the house, the animal racket and the bright headlight beams should have alerted him by now. But the front door stayed shut, the windows and porch light stayed dark.