Rocky’s Mercedes was nowhere to be seen and there were no other cars in the drive or on the street. Layne looked at the clock on his dash to see it wasn’t yet eleven. She said what she had to do wouldn’t take long but it had to take longer than an hour unless she went early.
He pulled out of The Heritage and went to his offices, opening them up, he fired up his computer and looked up Chip Judd’s address. He wrote it down, shut down his computer, locked down the offices and scanned the street when he went outside. Then he hit Mimi’s for a coffee and to check if Rocky was in there.
She wasn’t.
He swung by Josie Judd’s and saw no Mercedes, not on the street or in the drive. Layne then rolled by Colt’s, just in case she went to Feb or Violet.
No Mercedes.
His next stop was Dave’s. No Mercedes. Next was Merry’s. No Mercedes, not in the lot in front of Merry’s place and, gliding through the complex, not anywhere.
Layne swung into a spot in front of Merry’s unit and looked up at it. It wasn’t really even a condo, the doors opened to the elements. It was an apartment complex, maybe nicer than some, not others. They called them condos because you could purchase the units even though most were rented out by their owners.
Layne sat there thinking that, apparently, during the getting to know you again part of the operation, Layne had not gotten to know Rocky very well. He was out of leads.
Layne leaned forward and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to the second number down from his recent calls file and hit go.
He put the phone to his ear and practiced deep breathing as it rang.
“You’ve reached Rocky’s voicemail… leave me a message.”
“You get this, Roc, you call me,” Layne growled, flipped the phone shut, tossed it on the dash and headed home.
*
Layne lounged on his couch, his cell on the armrest, his finger tapping it.
Surrounding his feet on the coffee table was the detritus of a Sunday at home watching football with his boys. Empty chip bags. A bowl of drying out, spiced, once-melted yellow cheese. Microwave popcorn packets. Empty pop cans and beer bottles. Mostly empty boxes of cookies.
Tripp was upstairs at Layne’s computer doing homework.
Jasper was in the armchair at the left of the couch marathon texting Keira, his buds and half the population of Indiana.
It was after six o’clock, night had fallen and Rocky hadn’t phoned.
Layne made a decision.
Actually, he made three.
“Jas,” Layne called and Jasper’s head came up. “Got things to do. Tomorrow morning, I’ll give you money and you and Tripp need to swing by the grocery store after practice.”
“For what?” Jasper asked and Layne’s eyes swept the coffee table before going back to his son.
“For everything,” he answered and Jas grinned. “Pick this shit up before goin’ to bed tonight, yeah?” Layne indicated what shit he meant by dipping his head toward the coffee table.
Jasper sighed then nodded.
“Got another job for you,” Layne went on.
“What?” Jasper asked, not belligerent, asshole teenaged kid, just resigned, teenaged kid. He thought he’d scored more chores but he wasn’t shoveling attitude.
Progress.
Layne took his feet off the coffee table, put them on the floor and leaned his elbows into his knees, his eyes never leaving his son. “I need you to get me your Mom’s work schedule.”
Jasper straightened in his chair. “Why?”
Layne told him straight out. “’Cause I got two options with this showdown with Stew. I hit him at work, I got witnesses. I don’t give a fuck about that but that shit could get back to your Mom. I hit him at home, when your Mom is at work, I got no witnesses and it’s up to Stew whether he wants to share. I reckon he won’t want to share. I’m pickin’ option two, I don’t know when I’ll do it but it’ll help me out knowin’ when your Mom’ll be outta the house.”
Jasper stared at him awhile before nodding.
Layne nabbed his phone and pushed up from the couch, muttering, “Sooner the better, Bud.”
“Right,” Jasper replied.
On his feet, Layne looked down at his son. “Be smart about it, yeah? I don’t want her cottoning on.”
“I’ll be smart,” Jasper assured and Layne knew he would.
“I gotta go out. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll have my cell, you need anything.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Layne turned toward the kitchen saying, “Later, Bud.”
“Later, Dad.”
Layne walked to the kitchen shouting up the stairs, “Goin’ out, Tripp!”
“Okay Dad!” Tripp shouted back.
“You help your brother clean up the mess in the living room, got me?”
“Got you!”
Layne grabbed his keys, went to his truck and drove to Rocky’s.
The Merc was parked in a spot.
He swung the Suburban in beside it and took his time switching off the ignition, jumping down from the truck and walking up to her apartment. He did this in an effort to control his temper. Last night had not been good and Rocky had left in a highly emotional state which was worsened by the fact that she felt humiliated after taking that fall. Even though it was absolutely not cool she disappeared, there were reasons and Layne knew he needed to handle this situation with care.
He hit her buzzer and waited. It took awhile but the door opened two inches. Layne could see Rocky, hair back in a ponytail, through the shiny silver latch that secured the door.
Layne’s control on his temper slipped.
“Open the latch, Rocky,” he ordered.
“Layne, now’s not a good time. I’ve got papers to grade.”
His control slipped further.
“Open the latch,” he repeated.
“Really, Layne, I’m being serious. This is going to take all night.”
His control slipped even further.
“Open the fuckin’ latch, Roc.”
“I don’t think –”
He lost his hold on his temper.
“Okay, then step back,” he demanded.
Through the small space, he saw her eyes widen. “Why?”
“’Cause I don’t want you to get hurt when I kick open the goddamned door,” he gritted out.