Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 76

Tapia was inhaling every word the young woman had to say, oblivious to the older gentleman seated at one of his PCs. To the three women who fussed over a photo album near the copy machines. To the Hispanic man wearing a shirt identical to the one he wore who was operating a printer behind him. He slid his hand across the counter to Jace’s hand. She welcomed it; their fingers curled and twisted into a tight knot—a knot they did not untie even when they saw me approaching.

My first thought—something had shifted in their relationship. They weren’t hiding anymore.

My second was more paternal. Why wasn’t Jace in school?

“Why aren’t you in school?” I asked.

“Seniors get to leave campus if they want, and I had a free period.”

“And you’re spending it here?”

“I wanted to visit my boyfriend.”

Neither Jace nor Tapia looked to see if anyone heard, but I did.

“What am I missing?”

“Nothing, we just decided not to keep our love a secret any longer,” Jace said.

“Well,” said Tapia.

“Well,” Jace repeated.

“Well,” I said. It was my turn.

“Well, it wasn’t just our decision,” Jace said. “My dad said—This morning he told me if I liked R.T. I should date him. Openly. Just don’t sneak around. ‘No one likes a sneak,’ he said.”

As hard as I tried, and with as much reason as I had, it was difficult to dislike the man.

“ ’Course, he still wants me to go to college.”

“So do I,” Tapia said.

“And leave you?”

“It is important to get a good education if you are to become wealthy and keep me in the style to which I want to become accustomed.”

“You love me for my money?” asked Jace.

“Why else?” said Tapia before he kissed her.

“Don’t mind me, kids,” I said. “I’m just standing here.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?” asked Tapia.

“Se?or Tapia,” I said.

“Sí.”

“Last Friday night, during your anniversary celebration, did you happen to keep a guest book?”

“Sí.”

“That you encouraged people to sign?”

“Of course.”

“May I see it?”

“Do you think the person who sent the e-mail is in the book?”

“The e-mail was sent at 6:57 P.M. You said that you closed down at about five so you could throw a party for your regular customers. That means one of those people sent the e-mail. I’m just hoping that they signed the guest register.”

“Would you know who just by looking at the name?”

“Probably not.”

“I’ll get the book.”

“Gracias.”

“So you’re still looking for that person who sent the e-mail, the one R.T. told me about,” Jace said while Tapia slipped into his office.

“I take it you two tell each other everything.”

“We have no secrets, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Should we have secrets?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

I didn’t blame her.

Tapia returned, carrying a leather-bound book with a spiral binding. “I want to thank you for breaking Brian Reif’s hand,” he said as he gave me the book.

“It was my pleasure.”

I began flipping pages slowly. I was looking for a name, any name that I might recognize.

“Breaking his hand isn’t going to make him any less of a racist,” Jace told me.

“I didn’t break it because he was a racist. I broke it because he was a stupid racist. It was the stupid part that got him hurt.”

“There are a lot of stupid racists here,” Jace said.

“Sometimes it feels that way,” Tapia said. “But I’m not so sure. That group of Reif’s, the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction he calls it—it has only a dozen members. There are many more people like Mr. Axelrod than Reif.”

“It’s a good town,” Jace said.

“Yes, it is a good town,” Tapia agreed.

I found Tapia’s eyes. He was looking at Jace so I looked at her, too. For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt, Shakespeare wrote. Reif didn’t live in the same world as these two kids. When all was said and done, I suppose I didn’t, either. What a pity.

I went back to the book, studying each signature. Many were illegible, but then my handwriting wasn’t so hot, either. Tapia took care of his customers while I studied the book, first the women, then the older man. His employee dropped a carton on top of the counter.

“Want me to take these across the street?” he asked.

Tapia told him he’d take care of it.

“These are nice,” Jace said. The box was sealed, but a single printed sheet was taped to the top—the zodiac place mats meant for the Rainbow Cafe.

I went through the entire book, then started again. It was a long shot—worse than a long shot. It was impossible. Still, I kept at it until I discovered a name that I recognized, one that I had missed before.

“Troy Donovan.” I’ll be a sonuvabitch! “Troy Donovan was here?”

“Mr. Donovan?” said Tapia. “Yes, he was. Do you know him?”

“We spoke last Monday. How do you know him? Why was he here?”

“We’re partners.”

“Partners?”

“Yes. We have been for over a year.”