MAX AND I HIT SPEEDY COURIER at eight the next morning. I’ve been operating on autopilot since I left Jordyn’s last night. Toss. Turn. Get up. Dojo. Shower. Dress. Go to work. Focus on the job. Don’t feel.
Feeling equals pain. Feeling equals guilt.
I can still taste her, still smell her, still hear the ache in her voice, and feel the hot wetness of her tears against my chest.
I push it away. Bury it. I can’t let it in. I have to cope.
Protecting her equals coping.
The video Tyler sent over yesterday had given us more information, but nothing conclusive. All we were able to glean from the somewhat less grainy quality was that the person in question was five ten to six feet tall, with a slim build. Either could describe Bates or Hunt. The loose, dark clothes and dark cap resembled what Bates had been wearing that morning but weren’t distinctive enough to be considered proof.
Speedy is located inside a gas station/convenience store. We walk up to the older man working behind the desk.
“What can I help you with today?”
Max holds out his PI badge for the man to inspect. “We’re looking for information on the customer that would have had this envelope sent out in the last couple of days.” Max slides it across to him.
“What do you want with him?”
“Just have a few questions.”
“I can’t give out private information.”
“Not asking you to. We’re just looking to identify someone. Did you process this order?”
He squints at the time stamp. “Nope. That would be Rashanda. She was working orders in the morning while I did inventory.”
“Is Rashanda working today?”
“Yep, she’ll be in at four.”
I take a chance and show him the pictures of Bates and Hunt. “Have you seen either of these men in here?”
He studies the images on the counter. “Can’t say I remember either of those fellows.”
I swallow my exasperation. “Take a closer look.”
“I’m looking, and I’m telling you, they don’t stand out in my memory.”
“Do you have a security camera?”
“No, but even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. I know you need a warrant for that. Don’t bother asking for credit card receipts, either. You can come back later and ask Rashanda. That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you,” Max says politely, playing the role of good cop. “We’ll be back.”
On our way out, we talk to the gas station attendant. We’d observed the two cameras overhead—one angled toward the front and the other toward the back where the courier counter was located.
“You’d have to get permission to see the tape from the owner. He doesn’t have set hours. But I can call and give him your number.”
I leave a card, not holding out much hope that the message will get passed on or that, if it does, the manager will call me back.
I return to the office in a thunderous mood that threatens to rain hell over anyone or anything in my path. Max gives me a wide berth for the first hour. Then he approaches, taking his chances.
“Got a minute?”
“Only if you have a break in the case.”
“Not yet.” He drops into the chair. “Wanna talk about it?”
