LYING COP Page 2

  Bunny snickered. “Now Frank, there’s a lot of good guards in our prison system, you can’t blame them all.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  “Colt, what has that got to do with you?” Bunny asked. “You’re miles away.”

  “The dogs haven’t been able to pick up a scent in the fields and they speculate that he called someone from a smuggled cell phone and was picked up.” Colt folded his arms. “The escapee has only one family member on his visitor approval list, his sister, Alaska Roper. She owns the Cliff Café not too far from here. All I’m supposed to do is go there as a customer, hang around, have breakfast, and observe her actions, if she’s there. Maybe I can pick up on some clue or obtain information as to whether or not she aided and abetted the escapee, and where he might be.”

  Frank stood. “Well let’s go.” He headed to the bedroom.

  Bunny sighed. “That’s a nice little restaurant. We’ve had lunch there a few times.” She turned her gaze away from Colt. “And they do have some pretty waitresses…maybe—”

  Frank charged back in, carrying a rifle in one hand and a briefcase in the other. “We’re going to catch a convict, you and me son.”

  Bunny looked aghast. “Frank, he can’t go in there with that!”

  “We can with one of these.” He set the rifle down, placed the briefcase on the table and opened it. Two retired police revolvers appeared. One was a Smith and Wesson with a nickel finish and walnut grip. The other had a deep blue finish and a Colt medallion. “Go ahead Colt, pick one out.”

  Colt’s gut shifted at the thought of his semi-automatic in the hands of a dangerous criminal. “I don’t think so Dad.” He turned and strolled toward the door.

  His parent’s voices prattled behind him. He didn’t bother to decipher their words. He crossed the threshold, hurried to his black Cadillac, and sped off, spewing pebbled mud up on the fenders.

  As he drove, a memory surfaced about a childhood trunk filled with little cop uniforms and gadgets. The games he and his two older brothers played with their dad were comical. But when the teenage years hit, his dad’s training of law enforcement became intense.

  His dad’s own two brothers had fallen by the wayside and became thieves. Both landed in a Texas prison, and after getting paroled, they simply vanished.

  Frank Mallett made sure his sons’ occupations stayed on the right side of the law. And all three became police officers.

  *****

  Alaska and Blade discovered the cave two days after her fourteenth birthday. The slim horizontal opening cut into the side of a hill next to a rock overhang and they had to slither through on their stomachs to get in inside. A passageway in the back snaked further than either one of them dared to go. It remained cool inside even if it was a hundred degrees outside, and the floor was always moist.

  They dug up arrowheads, tin cups, and a Federal Eagle coat button. They believed men who robbed banks, trains, and stagecoaches had once occupied it. The remote and rugged Ozark Mountains provided perfect hideouts for them. Legends told of notorious outlaws being captured and hung, their loot never to be recovered, still stashed somewhere in a cavern or buried beneath a boulder.

  Even though caving was a popular activity, they never breathed a word about this particular one to anybody. And they went there often, searching for much sought after treasure.

  The primitive road leading to the cave’s hill boasted a zillion potholes, some of them mammoth. There were roller coaster dips, above ground tree roots, and a flood of rocks, from pebbles to massive boulders. The Ford’s headlights bounced and mud slung up on the hood and windshield. Blade blurted out, “Yee-Haw!”

  Alaska braked at the base of the hill. The sky lightened to a dim and the rain left a springtime aroma in its wake. She breathed easy dropping her brother off to hike the mile to the cave.

  Blade slid out of the truck, clutching the convenience store bags. “If it takes you a few days to get away from the café for a while, that’s okay.”

  “I won’t have any problem. I’ll tell everybody that I’m going looking for you in Louisiana, the opposite direction of Missouri. And I’ll get to the cave as soon as I can. The sooner we find Whip, the better. And we are going to get him.”

  “Sounds good, but remember, don’t bring your cell, they’ll try to get me through you.”

  She angled her head to get a better view of him. “Well that’ll be like getting directions from a goat.”

  Blade snatched his backpack from underneath the tarp in the bed of the truck, slipped the straps over his shoulders, grabbed his sleeping bag, and tucked it underneath his arm. He strolled away with the white plastic bags in hand and disappeared into a line of fog that draped over the slope like a veil.

  *****

  Stormy whipped her Celebrity into the far end of the Cliff Café’s lot, expecting to park by her boss’s Ford pick-up. But instead, she pulled up by a white car.

  Where’s Alaska’s truck?

  Her gaze pierced through the dawn and rested on the cook’s motorcycle in its usual spot by the Azaleas. Maybe it broke down and she hopped a ride with Jack.

  With black apron in hand, she strolled across the gravel and noticed a woman standing on the other side of the log rail guarding the treacherous drop-off into the canyon. And she was staring at her. “We’ll be open in about ten minutes,” Stormy called out.

  When the woman didn’t respond, Stormy thought nothing of it, a lot of people stopped at the overlook without going into the café.

  She yanked open the screen door and sashayed into the back of the kitchen. Classic rock played from a CD player, and Jack stood by the grill, flipping bacon.

  She used the palm of her hand to push open one of the double swinging doors that led into the dining room. One side was to enter and the other to exit, to prohibit collisions.

  No lights. No coffee. No music. No Alaska.

  Stormy made a u-turn.

  “Where’s Alaska?”

  “I dunno,” Jack mumbled.

  “Well she’s not here and her truck’s not here?”

  He put down the long spatula and wiped his hands on his white apron. “I’ve never known her to be late. She’s always around here somewhere.” He nudged past her and went into the dining room, came right back out, and headed toward the back door. Stormy followed.

  “When I didn’t see her truck I thought you gave her a ride.”

  “I didn’t give her a ride,” he said, stepping outside.

  Holding the screen door open, she watched him stroll past the dumpster, place his hands on his hips, and turn his head back and forth.

  “Well did she call?” Stormy yelled.

  He turned and headed back toward her. “I didn’t hear that phone. Maybe she overslept.” He whizzed past her. “Go call her house. I’ve got to get the bacon and pull those biscuits out of the oven.”

  Back in the dining room, Stormy flipped on the lights, tossed her purse beneath the register, plopped her apron on the counter, and dialed Alaska’s house.

  She gazed toward the scenic windows in the back. The reddish-orange sun peeked over the horizon, casting a pink glow over the tables. Normally, she’d be putting the creamers out. It was so odd Alaska not being there. Something was wrong.

  After fifteen rings she hung up and dialed her cell. It went to voice mail. “Where are you?” Stormy just about shouted, and then hung up.

  After tying her apron on and starting the coffee, she went in the back to get the box of creamers out of the walk-in and inform Jack there was no answer. When she returned, a rattling noise sounded by the front.

  It wasn’t Alaska, but Pearl, the oldest waitress on the planet, peering through the little see-through window in the door.

  Stormy plopped the box down on a table, strutted over and unlocked the door.

  “Why did you lock me out?” Pearl complained.

  “I didn’t.” Stormy turned the sign around to open. “Alaska’s not here. Do you know where she might
be?”

  “She’s not here?” Pearl glanced around. “Maybe she went to the store or the bank.”

  “Not this early. And besides, she never goes anywhere unless we’re all here.”

  “Well I sure wouldn’t know where she’d be.”

  Stormy called her cell again. Then Nikki, the other waitress, came in followed by two regulars.

  Pearl and Nikki bickered over who got what station. Stormy flipped a coin. They didn’t seem too concerned about Alaska. But as each minute ticked by, and more customers came in, she worried. Something was definitely wrong.

  Stormy fished for money in her purse to use for change when David, the dishwasher, appeared in her side vision. He stood in front of the waitress stand, pouring himself a cup of coffee. She went over to him and placed herself shoulder to shoulder. “You’ve got to go look for Alaska.”

  “Why?” He scanned the dining room as if he was going to find her.

  “Because she’s not here.”

  “Maybe she’s in the back.”

  “Did you see her back there?”

  “No.”

  Stormy sighed. “She hasn’t showed up yet. Maybe she has a flat or something. I’d go look but we’re getting busy.”

  “All right,” David said, setting his mug down. He went out the front way but made a u-turn with his thumb pointed over his shoulder like he was hitchhiking. “She just pulled up.”

  The boss entered and made a beeline to the register. “Is everything okay?”

  Stormy tilted her head. “Pearl and Nikki got into a fight and smashed all the plates, and then a masked man came in and threw us all in the walk-in.”

  “Sorry, I overslept,” Alaska said, pulling a bank pouch out her purse. She slipped a few bills into the drawer and then started dumping change in.

  Stormy eyeballed her. Alaska wore no eye-shadow, no mascara, and no lipstick. Strands of straight hair swept every which way. Apparently, her truck didn’t break down or she would have said so. And as far as Stormy knew, Alaska hadn’t dated anyone since dumping Earl after she found out he was married. But it appeared as if she was with someone last night. And he must have been one helluva date or a date from hell. Stormy leaned over the counter. “Soooo…who was he?”

  “What do you mean?” Alaska grimaced as if she had been shocked by the toaster.

  “You know, you were with someone last night. Spill it.”

  “There’s nothing to spill.” Alaska broke eye contact. “My alarm didn’t go off, that’s all.”

  “I called your house.”

  “I heard it. I was in the bathroom getting ready.”

  “You don’t look ready and I called twenty minutes ago.” Knowing Alaska only lived a few minutes away, she was lying.

  Alaska glared at her. “Don’t you have something to do?”

  Stormy shrugged, and then the miniature cow bell chimed and people began filing in. She grabbed a handful of menus and led them to a table for six. Twisting her neck, she spied Alaska sprinting to the ladies room with her purse.

  Something happened to her. And she was damn well going to find out.

  *****

  Colt loved his Cadillac, despite the fact it once belonged to a drug smuggler who lost his life in the car. The seat of course had been changed. He enjoyed driving the hairpin turns going up the mountain. The next ten days were going to be great. He was away from the city and the wail of his siren that would sometimes resound in his mind during his quite time at home. And he couldn’t have planned his vacation at a better time. He had to shake that awkward obtrusive feeling of someone lurking behind him in his personal space, the one he developed after getting hit on the head.

  The road leveled out and he flipped glances through the open spaces in the tree line. The edge of the drop off into the deep canyon was a mere few feet from the left hand lane. And the sun was a full fiery ball, hovering over misty hilltops. He spotted a lopsided bill-board informing him he was almost there.

  He recalled the escapee’s description. Blade Roper, age twenty-six at six feet-two inches, brown hair, hazel eyes, a dimpled chin, and a five inch burn scar along his right forearm. He was probably in another state by now, Mississippi or Texas. It’d be pretty dim-witted for him to go home. Everybody would be looking for him.

  And Alaska Roper, age twenty-four at five feet-eleven inches, brown hair and green eyes, sounded interesting but she was the escapee’s sister. She was totally off limits, might not even be there and that would be okay. A big breakfast would hit the spot, move that dang log, and then hunt down a sexy female to hang out with and go floating down the Buffalo.

  Colt pulled into the Café’s gravel lot, facing the majestic view of the Arkansas Canyon, and parked next to four Harleys. He got out of his car and scanned the area for anything or anybody unusual. One vehicle looked suspicious and he strolled around it as if he was in uniform.

  Somebody been out mudding. The pick-up looked as if it had been dipped. A tarp lay in the bed of the truck. He reached for his cell and text his captain the license plate number.

  He continued on, checking around the building. The rugged and creative piece of architecture sported a back deck with iron railings. It stuck out over a steep slope in the mountain and was supported underneath by pillars and many flats crisscrossing each other. Thick bushes of pink Azaleas flourished on the side of the café. People gazed out over the overlook, but nobody seemed suspicious. He strolled to the front of the restaurant.

  A wooden ‘Welcome’ plaque of a long bearded man toting a muzzleloader and smoking a pipe hung next to a ‘No Smoking’ sign at the entrance. He went inside. Foot stomping fiddle and banjo tunes and the quite rumble of conversations greeted him. No one stood or sat behind the register. The aroma of bacon teased his appetite.

  He stepped into the dining room and lingered by the edge. About twenty people seated throughout. He observed a table of bikers, lots of denim and black leather, and two waitresses, one old and the other short. The café’s overlook impressed him and he wanted to go out the back door that led to the deck and breathe in the spectacular view, but he had business to tend to and her name was Alaska.

  Female voices coming from the kitchen snared his attention but he couldn’t make out the words. He sidled up to the double doors and leaned his ear toward one. Pangs of vulnerability overwhelmed his backside like a growing fire and he repeatedly flicked glances over his shoulder. No one in the dining room paid him any mind.

  A raspy voice pleaded, “I know something happened to you last night, you can’t fool me.”

  A sultry, southern accent responded, “Well it’s none of your business, and besides nothing happened.”

  “Alaska, you’re like a sister to me. I want to know, in case you need my help or you just need someone to talk to—or something.”

  “I know I can talk to you Stormy, you’re my best friend but you don’t understand.”

  “Well something’s wrong. I know it.”

  A moment of silence made Colt believe some vital information was about to be revealed. He leaned closer, sticking his neck out. And then the door burst open and smacked him on the forehead.

  Chapter 3

  The kitchen door hit something or someone. Alaska came to an abrupt halt, jolting the grits balancing on her wrist into her plate of biscuits and sausage gravy. She grabbed the bowl with her other hand. What the hell?

  She tapped the door open with her foot and on the other side stood a man. Her gaze started at his rounded bicep and then slid over to his gray T-shirt. The material stretched across a broad chest before tapering down, slipping inside indigo jeans that fit him well. A massive dose of invisible testosterone slapped her girl sense awake as if she had been given smelling salts.

  He spoke and she looked up. He couldn’t have been past the age of thirty and his hand rested on his forehead. That must have been where the door hit him. His black hair had been trimmed to a fine layer, and his brown eyes appeared friendly.

  She didn’t
comprehend his words. “What?”

  “I guess I came too close.” His deep voice complemented his body like cologne on a man’s skin.

  “Are you drunk?”

  He chuckled. “No, I was just…um, walking by and stopped to smell the bacon.”

  “Hot behind,” Stormy called out.

  Alaska knew she was coming at her like a chicken with an armload of plates. “We better move it, or my ass is going to be bacon.”

  They both stepped aside and she whizzed by.

  He looked her up and down. “Where’s your station?”

  “Oh, I’m not a waitress, at least not today.”

  “Well, you’re feeding somebody.” He glanced down at her biscuits and sausage gravy topped with grits.

  “It’s mine. Owners get hungry too.”

  “In that case, why don’t you join me?”

  The invitation did appeal to Alaska. She needed something to take her mind off Blade, so that when the law called or came by the café to tell her of his escape, she could exhibit innocent behavior. And maybe it would get Miss Nosy off her back.

  “Are you by yourself? she asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just me.”

  “Over here.” She directed him to a deuce by the register, set her plates down, and handed him a menu. Thank God they were in Pearl’s station.

  *****

  It was a table for two and Colt had a view of the front door, but his back didn’t face the wall. Other than that, he couldn’t believe his luck. Alaska had a familiar flare about her as if he already knew her. And she had long sensual legs. If she wasn’t guilty, or already hooked up with someone, maybe he’ll invite her to the cabins. But if she did commit the crime of aiding and abetting, he couldn’t have anything to do with her. Concentrating on the menu—not possible, so he ordered what she had, plus bacon and over-easy eggs.

  He observed her, as per requested by his captain. Her eyes glistened like a slice of lime, and a dimple pressed into the end of her nose. Her forehead was low, and a thick two-inch long scar ran across her left cheek. Was it from an accident or did a person purposefully inflict the injury on her? Her full lips were maroon and he imagined them to be begging for sex. A drop of gravy stalled on the lower one and it was all he could do to keep himself from leaning over the table and licking it off with the tip of his tongue.