Flicking up the hood of his rain jacket against the drizzle, he walked toward the coffee house. He kept an eye out for the man in the baseball cap. No sign of him.
The guy could be behind him.
If so, Zander didn’t want him to know he was aware he’d been followed. So, after two blocks, Zander pretended to answer his phone. This was likely insane, but the pretense gave him a reason to stop. He set his shoulders against the exterior brick wall of the flower shop and turned his focus back in the direction he’d come, hoping that he gave off the impression of staring at nothing while listening hard to the nonexistent person on the other end of the line.
Plenty of people made their way up and down the street. Even so, Zander spotted the man in the black baseball cap almost at once.
The man stood approximately twenty yards away, studying a display window. He wore gray track pants and an exercise sweat shirt. Perhaps in his early thirties, he gave off the impression of fitness and toughness. Maybe a military vet? If not, he could pass for a UFC fighter.
Suspicion ran thick through Zander’s veins.
If Frank had robbed the Pascal Museum, then anyone who knew what had happened that night could be following him in hopes that he’d lead them to the money they believed Frank had hidden away. Or they might want the Renoir. Or they might worry that Frank had left behind evidence that could incriminate them.
Alternatively, Frank could have gotten himself involved in something illegal in recent years. If that was the case, then military guy might be keeping an eye on him for any number of reasons.
What should he do?
He spoke nonsense into the phone as he swiveled to peer down the street toward the coffee house. A short distance beyond it hung The Griddle’s sign.
Zander checked the time. 11:37. On a Thursday. He’d takenhis aunt out to lunch enough times over the years to know that Merryweather’s police chief had a standing lunch date with his adult daughter at The Griddle on Thursdays. They ate early, and with any luck, would already be inside.
Zander finished his imaginary call and made his way to The Griddle. Sure enough, the police chief and his daughter sat at their usual table near the front window.
He hesitated, pushing the hood from his head. He might be overreacting. In fact, the chances of that were strong.
Zander wasn’t concerned for his safety in an immediate sense. If military guy knew he was staying at the inn, then he could have jumped Zander in the woods when he’d gone running this morning.
This wasn’t about his current well-being. This was about the ominous storm he’d sensed on the horizon ever since he’d learned that his uncle had taken Frank Pierce’s identity. A growing number of unknowns continued to feed the storm, giving it power, making him worry about a threat he couldn’t name. He had an opportunity to address one of those unknowns, and he’d rather be proactive than sorry. He’d rather make a fool of himself than do nothing.
He crossed to the chief’s table. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”
The police chief’s daughter startled slightly. The chief regarded him with friendly inquiry. He had a neatly trimmed white beard and dark, intelligent eyes.
“I’m Zander Ford, Frank and Carolyn Pierce’s nephew.”
“Yes, son,” the chief replied, “I know who you are.”
“Again, I apologize. But I think there’s a man outside who’s following me.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then the chief glanced fondly at his daughter. “Will you excuse me for a minute, honey?”
“Of course.”
“Be right back.” The older man followed Zander to the restaurant’s foyer. He’d dressed in a black police uniform with stars embroidered into the collar, a badge over his heart, and his last name—Warner—written across a gold pin. Zander relayed all that he’d observed since leaving the inn.
“Let’s go introduce ourselves to this person and see if we can’t determine what’s going on,” Chief Warner said.
Military guy was now positioned three storefronts down from The Griddle in a protected spot under an awning. Since Zander had last seen him, he’d continued to move in the direction Zander had taken. He held his phone, his concentration fixed on it as he tapped its screen.
“Excuse me,” Chief Warner said to him as they neared. Everyone in the area, including the man in the baseball cap, looked to him. “A word with you, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Military guy responded to the chief’s words with an expression of mild surprise, nothing more. “I don’t mind.”
“Silas Warner, police chief.” The chief extended a hand.
“Nick Dunlap.”
They shook. “This gentleman here thinks you’ve been following him,” the chief said. “That true?”
