Page 101 of Jack
“Fine. Six three, six four. Burly. All black clothes, and he wore a mask.”
“Like a Halloween mask?” She refrained from the Zorro description.
“No. Like a . . . special ops kind of mask. With a thermal eyepiece, mouth guard, hoodie. Like he might be military.”
“Thermal eyepiece.”
“Night vision, maybe, because he had good aim. I still have a bump.”
“No idea who he might have been?”
“I wish it were Holden Walsh, but he alibied out both times, according to Penelope.”
That jibed with what Penelope had said on the podcast.
“Any other ideas? Kyle Brunley?”
He almost laughed. “That guy? No. Let’s just say he’s built for running, not fighting.” He got up and walked around the counter. “Naw.” He opened a drawer and pulled out something. Dropped it on the counter. “And there’s this.”
He held up a matchbox with a logo on it, a blue-and-black swirl. “Turbo. What’s that?”
“It’s a nightclub. Downtown.”
“Where’d you find this?”
“On the floor of Sarah’s apartment, after the guy got away. I’d gotten ahold of his pants pocket as he was running away, and it ripped.”
“And you didn’t give this to the police?”
He cocked his head at her. “And have them look at me? C’mon—I already have a rap sheet. Burglary, back when I was eighteen. Did two years in Saint Cloud. I’ve been clean since then—head down, got my bartender’s license. I don’t want any trouble.” He held out his hand for the matchbox. “I did take a trip down to Turbo, though, had a look around. The building is under Swindle and Walsh—S & W Management.”
She handed the matches back to him. “Really.”
“Yeah.” He met her eyes.
Something had shifted in his, and she frowned. Swallowed. “Okay, well, thank you.” She held out her hand.
His hand closed around hers. His eyes narrowed just around the edges. He didn’t let go.
“Um. I need to go?—”
“Sorry, honey. You’re not going anywhere.”
ELEVEN
“Help me understandwhy we’re tracking down your old hockey coach?”
They had driven out of Duck Lake, twenty miles east to the town of Chester, taking the county road south and then back west toward the Marshall Fields Winery.
“Because there was a sticker for North Star Arena on the bumper of the car in the video.”
“The ice arena?”
“Where all the county hockey teams practice, and Garrett Marshall still runs the arena, I think. Or he might know who does now.” Jack turned onto the long, snowy road that led to the river valley winery. The red barn rose from the snowy white fields, the immense farmhouse seated beside it, having been added on to over the years. A pavilion, probably for weddings and tastings, sat snow-covered, huddled in the yard. The fields lay barren and snow-cast, row upon row of frigid, gnarled vine.
He pulled in, then got out and went to the door under the covered porch. Knocked.
It opened, and a man stood in the doorway, salt-and-pepper hair, muscular upper body, wearing a black pullover with a Vikings emblem.