As they continued down the main strip and into the heart of the town, the sirens grew louder. Blue and red lights flickered across brick exteriors.
Jack’s heart sank. He exchanged a glance with Carla, who jogged ahead, heels clicking on concrete. He followed at a brisk walk, afraid of what they might find.
The storefront was shattered. Red droplets splattered across the sidewalk. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance.
Inside, bookcases had fallen like dominoes, their volumes spilled across the floor.
“Fuck,” Carla cried. “Fuck!”
They saton Jack’s bed, staring despondently at the TV. Stretched out behind them, burrowed under the blankets like some sort of woodland creature, was a softly snoring Boris.
The police refused to answer any of Carla’s questions and looked at Jack like he was an actual maggot that had crawled free from a gaping wound when he tried to back her up, so they made their way back to the hotel, where they found Boris with his forehead pressed to the counter, dead asleep.
It didn’t take much coaxing to get him up the stairs and into bed. Carla grumbled under her breath, but didn’t insist on kicking him out, which Jack took as a good sign.
The five o’clock news started. The shrill jingle cut the still air like a knife.
“A fifty-seven year-old bookstore owner has gone missing in tiny, picturesque Hidden Cove,” began the newscaster after a tedious segment about a car crash, a bank robbery, and a toilet that flooded so badly an entire apartment building had to be evacuated. “This marks a fifth victim in an overnight crime spree. Officers have stated that there are signs of foul play but have not disclosed anything further.”
Jack chewed his lip. The news segment continued. Hannah and Denise and her husband were missing under the same circumstances. A fifth person, Lisa Costello, had joined the list.
“A thirty-three year-old mother of two has mysteriously vanished. Her husband reported her missing after she never arrived home from work. Police found her vehicle abandoned, the front seat splattered in blood.”
A loud snore cracked the silence. Jack deliberately avoided looking at Carla.
“Five people,” said Jack when the segment ended. “In three days.”
“Yeah,” said Carla gravely. “It’s ramping up.”
“We gotta investigate Enzo,” said Jack. The words tore free of him with great reluctance. Each felt like it was ripped kicking and screaming from his lungs.
“We’re gonna need more guns,” sighed Carla, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“And salt,” mumbled Boris, rolling onto his side. “You’re gonna need some fucking salt.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I’m gonnacozy up to Ronnie,” said Carla hours later, when they were sitting in the lobby downing greasy slices of pizza from the shop down the street. “See if he can tell me what’s up with Enzo.”
“When?” asked Boris, twisting the straw in his paper cup.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“That means somebody else is gonna die.”
Carla huffed out a breath and set her crust onto a paper plate. “Yeah, well, that’s outside of my control.”
“You can’t cozy up to him tonight?”
“He’s working,” Carla snapped, arms crossed, eyebrows downturned in disapproval.
“Working on what? What the hell do these mafia guys do all day?”
“I don’t fucking know! I’m‘not supposed’to know,” Carla grumbled.
“Shady business dealings,” suggested Jack, just this side of playful. Then he remembered her warning from yesterday and abruptly lost his appetite.
