He quieted like a lost child who’d just found his mom. “I didn’t lose it?”
“No, sugar. We’ll buy another one tomorrow. But look here.” She picked up the piece of paper with the number on it and held it up in front of Ronny’s face. “This is a—” A glance at me. “What’d you call it?”
“A crossing ID. For a grade-level train crossing.”
“What she said, Ronny. You recognize this number?”
“Nah, I don’t remember numbers,” he said to me. Or actually to my breasts. “Ask Bull.”
Ronny sank back to his beer. I retrieved my paper.
“Sorry, hon,” Delia said.
But Ronny had given me an idea. Anyone other than a railroad cop wasn’t likely to remember a crossing number, but at least it was another avenue to try if Mags Ackerman or Lapton didn’t come through. “Any other railroad folk here?”
“Not today. And not usually. Don’t get ’em like we used to.” She folded the bar rag. “All I done now is make you feel bad. How about I pour you something?”
The longing that hit with her words blindsided me. The bad case of nerves that had been with me since the flashbacks and then the bomb would be quieted with a drink or six. My eyes darted to the bottles behind her. Delia gave a sad, knowing smile. She’d seen my kind before. She reached for a glass, but I shook my head.
I put my business card on the bar, turned it over and wrote the crossing ID on the back, then handed it to Delia. “If Bull comes in, have him call me. Tell him it’s about the number and that it’s urgent. Tell him it’s literally a matter of life and death.”
“That serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
She tucked the card in her pants pocket. “Well, if I hear from him, I’ll let him know. But don’t hold your breath. If he lied about his daughter, then my guess is he’s gone off somewhere with a fishing pole and a case of Old Thompson. And no, I don’t know where.”
“Has anyone else been in, asking about him?”
“Like maybe the Queen of England?” She laughed. “You’re the first person to come in and ask about Bull since I’ve known him. Going on fifteen years.”
“Thanks for your help,” I told her. I backed away from the bar and Clyde and I headed toward the door.
Overhead, the baseball game switched over to a news announcement. Two of the drinkers jeered, but the bartender shushed them. She and I watched as a man appeared behind a podium.
“Who the hell is that?” the bartender asked me.
“Hiram Davenport.”
“Who? Wait, ain’t Davenport the name of that family that was killed?”
“Yeah. Turn it up.”
She pulled out a remote and cranked up the volume.
Hiram Davenport stood confidently at the podium, his large hands gripping the edge as he leaned forward, his face all smiles. I was horrified until a news ticker rolled across the bottom of the screen. The press conference was from the day before. Hours before most of his family would be slaughtered.
I’d seen plenty of photographs of Hiram in company bulletins, looking jovial and kind, a man you’d enjoy having over for dinner. But this was the first time I’d seen him in motion, despite the fact that he was my employer.
Judging by the men and women standing behind him, he wasn’t tall, although his erect posture and air of confidence gave that impression. He was fit and trim, with a solid build and a tanned, handsome face that made him look every inch the professional businessman. But his most striking feature was his eyes, a pale blue the shade of arctic ice, so light as to be almost translucent.
On the screen, he beamed at the gathering, waiting to speak until the applause died down.
“This is just the beginning, folks,” he said when only a spattering of claps remained. “A bullet train from Denver to Albuquerque and north to Cheyenne. And that’s just the start. From there, well, the sky’s the limit. Actually, two hundred miles an hour is the limit. You folks will be able to skip the security lines at the airport and leave the gas in the gas pump. My train will allow you and your family to zip from one city to another in comfort and even luxury, and for far less than the cost of a single airline ticket. Read, watch television, surf the Internet—hell, we’ll have private cabins for whatever you’re surfing.” He gave a big wink and got a few laughs from the crowd. “It’s the future, and the Denver Pacific Continental railroad and my corporation, Transco United, are going to bring it to you. Now, how about some questions?”
One of the journalists in the crowd raised a hand, and Hiram pointed.
“What about Lancing Tate?” the journalist asked. “He’s also in the running for the federal funding. Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”
Hiram’s smile broadened. “Mr. Tate is a tough businessman, and he’s putting up a good fight. I relish that. It’s a clash of the titans, folks, a clash of the titans. But mark my words. Transco United and specifically Denver Pacific Continental are going to win this battle. We’ll be the ones laying the new track. We’ll be the ones building the cars and locomotives. We’ll be the ones creating an infrastructure that will provide thousands of jobs to the people of Colorado. We will be the ones to make the West great again.”
Hiram and the press conference disappeared, replaced by a news anchor who announced that they were about to get a live update from one of their reporters. The picture cut to an attractive woman standing outside police headquarters, and the background changed to a picture of Lucy in braids and a blue dress.
“While her father fights for his life in a local hospital, there are still no leads on little Lucy Davenport’s whereabouts,” the reporter said. “The police are holding a press conference here this afternoon. There is some speculation that by then we’ll have an update on Lucy’s father, Ben Davenport. He’s been in surgery all morning. We’re hoping for some good news.”
“Thank you, Lisa,” said the anchor. “We’re all praying for Ben and for Lucy’s safe return.”
The baseball game came back on, and the men at the bar cheered. Delia gave me a shrug. I nodded my good-bye and pushed open the door, walking out into the sunshine. When my phone rang, I was standing with Clyde in the parking lot, inhaling the stink of heat-sticky tar and car exhaust and listening to someone’s dog bark with weary monotony.
“How much do you like your job?” Cohen asked when I answered.
“Not a lot, at the moment.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
I unlocked the truck and let Clyde into the passenger seat. “Go on.”
“Ben’s office. DPC’s lawyers are refusing us access. Not that going through them was my first choice. Bastards’d likely yell coercion later if we found something they didn’t like. But it’s worse than that. The judge is a pal of Hiram’s and he’s dragging his feet over the warrant.”
“Ben’s father doesn’t want his office searched? Why would that be?”
“Now that,” Cohen said, “is the question of the hour.”