One of the other guys guffawed and said, “Probably thought Bron would pay him not to tell his old lady. I’d be a hell of a lot more scared of Sandra Czernin than Pat Grobian.”
“Me, too.” I grinned, although I was thinking about Freddy, the chavo who hung around jobsites looking for what he could finagle. Blackmail, that fit Freddy’s unattractive profile. It made a certain kind of sense. But would Freddy have attacked Bron and Marcena? Maybe Romeo—Bron, I really should call him by his name—maybe Bron threatened to have him arrested for blackmail and Freddy lost his head?
“Can’t see Bron paying blackmail to anyone,” a third trucker drawled.
“So maybe the punk squealed,” the mustache said. “Because Grobian and Czernin were sure going at it Monday afternoon.”
“Fighting?” My eyebrows shot up.
“Arguing,” he amplified. “I was waiting on my clearance, and Bron was in there, they were shouting at each other a good fifteen minutes.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know—Bron wanted help with his daughter’s hospital bills.”
“From Grobian?” Nolan in the Harley jacket snorted. “Billy is probably the only person in the world who could believe Grobian would give a rat’s ass about someone’s girl. Not that it wasn’t a hell of a blow what happened to Czernin’s kid, but sitting good with the Bysen family, that’s what Grobian thinks about first, last, and foremost. And helping pay some guy’s hospital bills, he knows the Bysens would never sit still for that—even though Czernin had twenty-plus years with the company!”
“They may have been fighting when Czernin went in, but they must’ve kissed and made up because Czernin was crowing like a rooster when he got into his rig,” the third driver said.
“He didn’t say anything?” I asked.
“Just that he might have a winning ticket.”
“Winning ticket?” I repeated. “Lottery ticket, is that what he meant?”
“Oh, he was carrying on like a fool,” the handlebar said. “I asked him the same thing, and he said, ‘Yeah, the lottery of life.’”
“Lottery of death is what it turned out to be,” Nolan said somberly.
Everyone was quiet for a moment, remembering that Bron had died. I waited for the silent tension in the men to ease before asking if they knew where Billy the Kid was.
“Not here. Ain’t seen him all week, come to think of it. Maybe he went back to Rolling Meadows.”
“No,” I said. “He’s disappeared. The family has a big detective agency out looking for him.”
The trio looked at each other wide-eyed. This was clearly news to them, and welcome as a fresh source of gossip, although the Harley jacket said the Kid had just been there.
“Today?” I said.
“Nope. Last time I was in—that’d be Monday afternoon. Something was eating him, but I didn’t know he’d have the guts to walk out on the family.”
None of the three had any ideas, about what was eating Billy, or where he might have run to. In the middle of a lively discussion about the merits of Vegas over Miami if you were running away from home, Grobian’s door opened. To my surprise, it was young Mr. William who emerged, with Aunt Jacqui at his elbow, businesslike today in a taupe military-style jacket, with a bias-cut silk skirt in the same shade twirling around her knees.
“Our lucky week,” the Harley jacket muttered. “Grobian must be on the hot seat for that prick to come down here twice in a row.”
None of the men spoke directly to William. Some of them might have known Mr. William when he was Billy’s age, but he’d probably never inspired the kind of lively banter the men treated his son to.
“You men waiting on your dispatch clearances? You can go on in,” William said curtly.
He passed by without noticing me—I guess my hard hat and torn pants made me look like one of the men—but Aunt Jacqui wasn’t so oblivious. “Are you hoping to get Patrick to take you on as a driver? We’re down a man, with Bron Czernin dead.”
The trio of truckers paused outside Grobian’s open door. The mustache frowned at her remark, but none of them risked a comment.
“You are the queen of tact, aren’t you?” I said. “While we’re all having a good time, you’re down more than a driver. Aren’t you short a supplier, too?”
William squinted at me, trying to place me. “Oh. The Polish detective. What are you doing here?”
“Detecting. What are you doing about your flag sheets and towels that Fly the Flag was producing for you?”
“What do you know about those?” William demanded.
“That he signed a contract and then realized he couldn’t meet the price and came back to renegotiate.”