Paying The Piper - 5. Chapter 5

The ride back to Cale's house was quiet. Cale appeared withdrawn and Quent wasn't feeling charitable enough to ask what was bothering him. He'd considered having Cale accompany him to his next stop, but whatever had upset his friend at Stahl's house had made him moody as well, and Quent was happy to drop him off at home and continue on alone.

Cale climbed out of the car with a tired goodbye and Quent drove away before he'd even made it up the front steps. A sullen and moody Cale bored him. Sometimes the boy still acted like he was five years old.

His short drive to The Tin Man barely gave him time to call in and inquire about the Mullen girl's autopsy, and he marveled again at how so much trouble could brew in such a tiny town. The lackey at the Me's office told him Cynthia's autopsy was scheduled for that afternoon and Quent could call anytime after three o'clock and talk to the Medical Examiner. In the meantime, however, he had other business to attend to.

He pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and let the engine idle while he considered how to approach the situation with the bar's owner, Braden White. He discarded plan after plan – nothing was inspiring him today – before settling on his usual. It'd been a bad night, after all. He had every right to act like an asshole. White deserved it anyway.

Quent trudged around to the back of the bar and banged on the steel door that guarded its rear entrance. It swung open almost immediately, despite the fact that the man standing on the threshold had clearly been asleep.

"White," Quent said. He was quite pleased with himself that he managed to make the other man's name sound dirty.

"Oh, for the love of…what the fuck do you want, Quent?"

Braden White squinted at him with bloodshot eyes, and Quent let his disgust show plainly on his face. The man was a disgrace. He'd owned and run The Tin Man for nearly twenty years – if one didn't count the several years he'd been in prison during that same time span. During his incarceration, the job of running the bar had fallen to a string of inept managers (each hired by Stahl – and why anyone would place their life savings in that man's hands always had always eluded Quent) all of whom had nearly run the place into the ground. Eventually, White had emerged from his tidy little cell at the state prison to reclaim his precious establishment. Quent knew why White had trusted Stahl with it; the two had been fast friends in school (idiots flocked together, it seemed), but frankly Stahl's strength lay in numbers and figures, not in barroom brawling.

"Open up. We have business to discuss."

"We sure as hell don't! Not at eight o'clock in the morning. Fuck off!"

He tried to slam the door but Quent slid his foot inside. "You'll make time for me now. Cynthia Mullen was killed sometime early this morning. Would you like to guess where she was last seen?"

White stopped struggling with the door and went still. Quent sneered at him. "Do I have your attention?"

White hesitated only a second before swinging the door fully open. "You do." He turned and led the way through the maze of back rooms and into the main area of the bar. He gestured to a table and Quent sat down. White gave a forlorn look toward the bar. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asked.

"No," Quent answered without looking up. He retrieved his notepad from his pocket. When White didn't sit right away, he gave the man his best glare. White sighed and dropped into the chair, throwing one last look over his shoulder at the beckoning bottles.

"So," White began, "what do you want to know?"

Quent glanced over the top of his notebook at the other man. He was dirty and disheveled. He reeked of whiskey and his hands were shaking. "Rough night?" Quent queried dryly.

White's head jerked up. "You could say that. Nothing out of the ordinary, though." His eyes darted to Quent's notebook, and he cringed. "Well, maybe one thing."

Quent nodded. "Indeed." He sat back, tilting the chair onto its rear legs. "You don't seem overly upset about Cynthia."

White stared past Quent. "You live that kind of life - you pay the price," he said calmly.

Quent made a notation of "prick" in his notebook. "Did you see Cynthia in here last night?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"About…ten-thirty until…I think she left around one."

Quent looked up. White was staring at the far wall, wringing his hands in his lap. "She left alone?" he asked.

"I…think so."

Quent paused and made a show of turning a page in his notebook. Another blank page was revealed and he smirked as White's eyes grew even wider. Feeling evil, Quent pretended to read scores of notes. "What about this new kid?"

White perked up. "You mean Drew? Oh, you're barking up the wrong tree there. He's a good kid."

Quent scowled. In his book, the fact that White liked the Marcus kid was another strike against him. "Now how do you know that? He's only been in town a few days."

White opened his mouth twice to speak before he pushed the words out the third time. "I was in a bit of trouble the other night, and he helped me out." At Quent's raised eyebrow, he relented. "I was out of gas and out of cash. He found me stranded out on Powder Mill Road. Gave me a lift. Gave me a few bucks for gas. Even drove me back to my car. Like I said, good kid."

"And making friends all over, it seems," Quent mumbled. White shrugged and darted another glance at the bar.

"Did Cynthia come in alone?"

White shifted in his chair. "No. With her brother, Steve."

Quent nodded. Everything matched so far. "And who did she talk to?"

White rolled his eyes. "You mean who didn't she talk to? You know Cynthia. She worked the place pretty hard." Quent closed his notebook with a loud snap, and it was the straw that broke the camel's back. White jumped from the table and hurried over behind the bar. As he poured his drink, Quent reflected on his old childhood nemesis.

Braden White had always been a troublemaker, and he and Jim Stahl had taken pleasure in playing practical jokes on Quent whenever the mood struck them. Braden's disregard for authority had carried through to adulthood. He'd been thrown in prison for assault, but the general consensus was that he'd been falsely accused and was, in fact, innocent. Actually, that had been the general consensus of all of White's friends. Quent believed the worst. Regardless, White had done his time, and though he technically wasn't on probation of any kind, Quent's presence was clearly unnerving him.

White returned to the table with his drink. Quent gave him a pointed look, which he promptly ignored. Quent sighed and resolved to get through the rest of his questions quickly. Being around White gave him indigestion. "So she didn't speak with anyone unusual?"

It was a standard question. Quent didn't expect an affirmative answer. So he was doubly surprised when he received one. "Well…" White began, "she did stop and talk with Elizabeth and Marci for a time. I thought that was kind of strange. I mean, I know her and Marci had been friendly in school, but I didn't realize they still spoke. And Elizabeth…she hated both of them."

Quent thought he covered his surprise well. Still, the tone of his voice held some incredulity. "Elizabeth…McCoy?"

White looked at him funny. "Do you know another Elizabeth?"

Do we know another Cynthia? Quent sat back as Cale's comment from that morning came back to him. What had Cale's wife been doing with the dead hooker, Cynthia? At The Tin Man, no less – a place Quent was sure Elizabeth considered far beneath her.

"Elizabeth McCoy was here with Marci Patterson and Cynthia Mullen last night?"

Now White looked annoyed. "That's what I said, Quent. Maybe you should get that pencil sharpened."

"I prefer it dull. It matches your wit," Quent rejoined.

White's face grew red and splotchy. "All right, you bastard, that's enough. I'm not up to rehashing old schoolboy rivalries this morning. I feel like shit and I'm tired and now…this. So if there's nothing else, I'd like to get the fuck back to bed." White stood abruptly, knocking over his chair.

Quent tensed with anger, but opted to soften his tone. He knew when it was prudent to back down. "There is something else."

White looked ready to tell him to piss off, so Quent pressed ahead. "Steve Mullen said Cynthia took money from this Marcus kid and then they left one right after the other. Do you know anything about that?"

To Quent's surprise, White's face turned nearly purple with rage. "No, I don't," he ground out through clenched teeth. "I didn't see her leave. Is that all?"

No, not really, Quent thought. He now had more questions than answers. Why had Elizabeth been here? What was the Marcus kid doing out along Powder Mill Road, a deserted stretch of highway that hadn't been used in years? For that matter, what had White been doing there? And why would Cynthia describe her brother as a 'nutcase' to a complete stranger? Simply another ploy for money? And why had White just lied to him? Because, clearly, it'd been a lie. White had seen Cynthia leave with Drew Marcus and was very upset about it. He stood up from the table.

"That's all for now. But I may be back."

White rolled his eyes. "I can hardly wait."

**********

Cale pushed the last folder away and dropped his head into his hands. The pressing matters for the day were complete, but there were always others. He was hungry but dreaded leaving the relative safety of his office for the kitchen. It was a cowardly thought, but Cale didn't care. He found it difficult to care about much at all these days.

There was a timid knock on the door and he gritted his teeth. "Come in," he said calmly.

Elizabeth peeked around the edge of the door. When she saw Cale at the desk, she smiled hopefully. Cale found himself returning the sentiment with a watery smile of his own. With a small cry, Elizabeth flew across the room and into Cale's lap.

"I'm so sorry, baby," she crooned. She rained kisses down on his face. "I've been such a bitch lately. How do you put up with me, I swear?" She sighed and snuggled into Cale's embrace.

To his horror, Cale found he just barely resisted the urge to throw his wife off his lap. To compensate for his traitorous thoughts, he tightened his hold on her and pressed a kiss to her hair. She sighed in contentment. After only a moment, though, the cloying smell of her perfume threatened to make him sick. The weight of her body, while not considerable at all, felt…wrong. Cale stood suddenly, dislodging Elizabeth.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said honestly at the outraged look in her eyes. "I just haven't been feeling well since this morning. You know…Cynthia. All that blood. I'm not myself."

Elizabeth straightened and smoothed her dress where it had wrinkled. "No, Cale," she said with a hint of both disgust and sadness, "I'd say you're exactly yourself." She turned and, head high, left his office.

Cale collapsed back into his chair and went back to resting his head in his hands. He was still sitting there five minutes later when the phone rang.