Golden Trail
Page 45

“Hello?”
“It’s Layne.”
“Well, hey there, son,” Dave greeted.
“Listen Dave, Roc and I were supposed to go pick up some shit from her old house. We got our wires crossed. I thought she was meeting me at my place but she didn’t show. She’s not at her place either. I figure she went over there already and Astley’s over there with his girl. Do you have the address?”
There was silence, then, “He’s over there?”
Layne bleeped the doors on his truck. “Yeah.”
“He was supposed to take off so she could do what she had to do,” Dave informed him.
“We ran into him at dinner last night and he decided he didn’t want to be so cooperative,” Layne explained.
There was more silence, then, quietly, “That guy’s a piece of work.”
“Yeah, Dave. Do you have the address?” Layne asked as he swung into the driver’s seat.
“One three three Greenbriar. The Heritage.”
“Got it, thanks,” Layne said and flipped his phone closed, started up the truck, backed out of his space and headed to The Heritage.
He’d never been to Rocky’s place but he’d been to The Heritage. He had a couple of clients who lived there. The development was exclusive, the lots large, the houses huge, the estates spread-out. The space of The Hermitage was vast but there weren’t a lot of homes in it. One couldn’t say that the ‘burg didn’t have its elite but there weren’t that many of them and even fewer who could afford a place on The Heritage. Most of the occupants of The Heritage worked and socialized in Indy, some of them even commuted to Chicago.
Layne didn’t have trouble finding one three three Greenbriar. He stopped across the street and looked at Rocky’s house. Like Merry said, it was on the manmade lake and it was a monster. He couldn’t visualize a Rocky, drinking beer, eating pizza, jumping up and down like a crazy woman when Tripp made his touchdown and telling her students rock stars were storytellers living in that behemoth. He could, however, visualize the Rocky of last night with that dress and those shoes living there.
One of the three garage doors was open and a shiny, silver Aston Martin was in the bay. Outside in the drive was a yellow Corvette, Marissa’s new toy that Layne’s searches had shown that Astley had bought for her just over four weeks ago.
Rocky’s Mercedes was nowhere to be seen and there were no other cars in the drive or on the street. Layne looked at the clock on his dash to see it wasn’t yet eleven. She said what she had to do wouldn’t take long but it had to take longer than an hour unless she went early.
He pulled out of The Heritage and went to his offices, opening them up, he fired up his computer and looked up Chip Judd’s address. He wrote it down, shut down his computer, locked down the offices and scanned the street when he went outside. Then he hit Mimi’s for a coffee and to check if Rocky was in there.
She wasn’t.
He swung by Josie Judd’s and saw no Mercedes, not on the street or in the drive. Layne then rolled by Colt’s, just in case she went to Feb or Violet.
No Mercedes.
His next stop was Dave’s. No Mercedes. Next was Merry’s. No Mercedes, not in the lot in front of Merry’s place and, gliding through the complex, not anywhere.
Layne swung into a spot in front of Merry’s unit and looked up at it. It wasn’t really even a condo, the doors opened to the elements. It was an apartment complex, maybe nicer than some, not others. They called them condos because you could purchase the units even though most were rented out by their owners.
Layne sat there thinking that, apparently, during the getting to know you again part of the operation, Layne had not gotten to know Rocky very well. He was out of leads.
Layne leaned forward and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to the second number down from his recent calls file and hit go.
He put the phone to his ear and practiced deep breathing as it rang.
“You’ve reached Rocky’s voicemail… leave me a message.”
“You get this, Roc, you call me,” Layne growled, flipped the phone shut, tossed it on the dash and headed home.
* * * * *
Layne lounged on his couch, his cell on the armrest, his finger tapping it.
Surrounding his feet on the coffee table was the detritus of a Sunday at home watching football with his boys. Empty chip bags. A bowl of drying out, spiced, once-melted yellow cheese. Microwave popcorn packets. Empty pop cans and beer bottles. Mostly empty boxes of cookies.
Tripp was upstairs at Layne’s computer doing homework.
Jasper was in the armchair at the left of the couch marathon texting Keira, his buds and half the population of Indiana.
It was after six o’clock, night had fallen and Rocky hadn’t phoned.
Layne made a decision.
Actually, he made three.
“Jas,” Layne called and Jasper’s head came up. “Got things to do. Tomorrow morning, I’ll give you money and you and Tripp need to swing by the grocery store after practice.”
“For what?” Jasper asked and Layne’s eyes swept the coffee table before going back to his son.
“For everything,” he answered and Jas grinned. “Pick this shit up before goin’ to bed tonight, yeah?” Layne indicated what shit he meant by dipping his head toward the coffee table.
Jasper sighed then nodded.
“Got another job for you,” Layne went on.
“What?” Jasper asked, not belligerent, ass**le teenaged kid, just resigned, teenaged kid. He thought he’d scored more chores but he wasn’t shoveling attitude.
Progress.
Layne took his feet off the coffee table, put them on the floor and leaned his elbows into his knees, his eyes never leaving his son. “I need you to get me your Mom’s work schedule.”
Jasper straightened in his chair. “Why?”
Layne told him straight out. “’Cause I got two options with this showdown with Stew. I hit him at work, I got witnesses. I don’t give a f**k about that but that shit could get back to your Mom. I hit him at home, when your Mom is at work, I got no witnesses and it’s up to Stew whether he wants to share. I reckon he won’t want to share. I’m pickin’ option two, I don’t know when I’ll do it but it’ll help me out knowin’ when your Mom’ll be outta the house.”
Jasper stared at him awhile before nodding.
Layne nabbed his phone and pushed up from the couch, muttering, “Sooner the better, Bud.”