“Yeah, they have peepholes.”
“Good. I need an envelope. And a pen.”
Skip produced a manila envelope and a magic marker, which he put on the counter. Lancaster wrote his brother’s name in big, bold letters in the center of the envelope. Below his brother’s name he wrote Jayhawk Motel, and below that, the motel’s address. In the upper left-hand corner he wrote the name of his brother’s parole officer, Ricky Dixon, also in big, bold letters. Finished, he handed the envelope to Skip.
“Here’s the plan. We’re going to pay a visit to Logan’s room, and you’re going to knock on the door, and then you’re going to identify yourself,” he said. “When Logan comes to the door, hold the envelope up to the peephole, and tell him a courier delivered it to your office. Can you remember that?”
“I’ll remember. What happens then?”
“When Logan opens the door, I’ll take over.”
“This sounds tricky.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. Let’s go.”
The parking lot was unlit, and their muffled footsteps were drowned out by the traffic on Nebraska. Logan’s room was at the end of the row, and the curtain was drawn across the window. Skip stood in front of the door and spent a moment getting his courage up. Lancaster stood with his back to the wall by the door, out of the peephole’s range. He drew his gun, then motioned with his other hand for Skip to knock.
Skip rapped on the door. “Hey, Logan, it’s Skip. A guy came by with a delivery, asked me to give it to you.”
The door cracked open. Lancaster pressed his back to the wall.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” his brother asked.
Skip played it cool, and held the envelope up. “It’s for you.”
“Fuck. It’s from my parole officer. What does that stupid bitch want?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Did a cop deliver it?”
“Some kid on a motorbike,” he said.
“Fuck. All right, give it to me. You got any more doobie?”
“Yeah, back in the office.”
“Can I buy another joint off you? It’s the only way I can sleep.”
“Sure. No problem.”
The door opened wide, and Logan stuck his hand out. Lancaster peeled himself off the wall and stepped between the two men, aiming the gun at Logan’s forehead as he did. Logan’s eyes went wide, and he raised his arms without having to be told.
“Back up,” Lancaster said.
He followed Logan into the room and shut the door with his heel. Logan wore nothing but a pair of Jockeys, his body hairless. From the waist up, he was built like a gladiator, with bulging biceps and monster shoulders. Below the waist, he looked like a poster boy for a rare disease, his legs thin and underdeveloped. Guys in prison who lifted weights rarely exercised their leg muscles, focusing instead on what they saw in the mirror, and he thought back to Black Bart, who had a similar physique.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“No. Should I?” Logan replied.
Something inside of him snapped. Their parents had died on the same night, in the same hospital, victims of a head-on crash. He’d been with both of them as they’d passed. Each had expressed sorrow for what had happened to their oldest son, as if blaming themselves for the litany of bad things he’d done. They’d both died worrying about Logan, and that worry had been passed on to him. Whenever he thought of his brother, be it his brother’s birthday, or on Christmas, or some other important date, the thought was filled with pain, and left him feeling depressed. He often wondered if his brother had thought about him on those dates. Probably not.
“It’s Jon,” he said. “Your brother.”
The words sparked a flicker of recognition. Logan lowered his arms and grinned. The marijuana he’d been smoking took over, and he let out a cruel laugh.
“Well, look at you. The little fat boy, all grown up.”
They’d been together five minutes, and his brother was already insulting him. Some things never changed. He tossed the GLOCK into his left hand and made a fist.
“Take your best shot,” his brother said with a sneer.
Moments later, he lay motionless on the floor.
Chapter 9
Lancaster checked the room. He would have bet good money that Logan had a gun, but he didn’t find one. But he did find something strange instead. On the night table was a glossy brochure for a brand-new real estate development in Sarasota. His brother had circled one of the model houses with a pen — the house had a $300,000 price tag.
Logan lay on his back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. His eyes were swimming in his head, and he rubbed his jaw. He acted more surprised than hurt.
“Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?”
“In the navy.”
“Man, you should have warned me.”
“Shut up.”
His brother’s cell phone lay on the unmade bed. A call was in progress, and he realized that Logan had been talking to someone when Skip had knocked.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
Silence. He looked at the number on the screen. It had an 813 area code, which was for the Tampa Bay area.
“Hello?” he said again.
The person on the other end hung up. He slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced down at his brother. There was blood in Logan’s mouth, the sight of which made him wince. He grabbed the room’s only chair and sat in it.
“You and I need to talk,” he said.
Logan pulled himself off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. They spent an uncomfortable moment appraising each other.
“Did you start lifting weights or something?” his brother asked.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because you were always a wimp. We fought when we were growing up, and you never won.” Logan laughed at the memory. “When you came to the prison and said you were joining the navy, I figured you’d wash out for sure. Did you?”
“I became a SEAL. It toughened me up.”
“You were a SEAL. Fuck. I’m impressed. How long were you in?”
“Five years. When I got out, I became a cop. That lasted fifteen years. I got sick of the bullshit, and retired. Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Can’t say it surprises me. Pop thought you might get into law enforcement after what happened to you at the mall. That was a close one, wasn’t it?”
“It was. You saved the day.”
Logan grinned. It made his face hurt, but he did it anyway. “We probably never would have seen you again. I think about that day a lot. Best thing I ever did.”
“You were a hero.”
“Just looking out for my baby brother.” Logan paused. The stroll down memory lane had ended, and his eyes grew unfriendly. “So what the hell do you want? Or do you just like sneaking around, punching people in the face?”
“I want to talk to you about a teenage girl named Skye.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Her grandmother was murdered on her farm in Keystone, and Skye was abducted. I want you to tell me where the girl is.”
“Like I said, I’ve never heard of her.”
“About an hour before she was murdered, the grandmother went to the mall to do some shopping. There’s a videotape of her inside a health and nutrition store, buying supplements. While she was at the register, a guy wearing a black cowboy hat showed up, and started tailing her. The cops are calling him Black Bart.
“Black Bart followed the grandmother for a while. When the grandmother went to the parking lot to get her car, Black Bart followed her. He stayed by the mall entrance. A black sedan pulled up, and the driver got out to let Black Bart take the wheel. It was just long enough for the driver’s face to get caught by the mall’s security camera.”