Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

“Okay,” Jar said. “Done.”

I hit the gas and speed over to the exit. Instead of turning left and heading into town, I go right. Given Chuckie’s sparkling personality, I’m sure if I went in the other direction, he would tailgate us for a while and maybe even try to find out where we were going.

As it is, when I look in the rearview mirror, I can see his Mustang sitting at the parking lot exit, as if he’s debating whether he should follow us or not. In the end, he chooses to let us go, which I think has more to do with wanting to get home before his family returns from church than deciding against teaching us a lesson.

Once he’s out of sight, I make a U-turn and head back toward town. Just before we reach the driving range, I stop long enough for Jar to recall the drone, which, after we drove away, automatically went into hover mode.

We make our way back to the duplex, monitoring the Mustang’s homeward journey to make sure we don’t cross paths.

We pull into our driveway at about the same time Chuckie exits his garage and enters his house, so we stay inside the truck and watch him on Jar’s phone. As I expected, he’s made it back before Kate and the boys. After grabbing a Coke from the fridge, he heads into his office and returns the secret phone to its place in the filing cabinet.

I expect him to do the same with the note, but he sits down at his desk and starts surfing the internet. It’s possible he’s forgotten he has it, but that doesn’t seem likely. I would think the note isn’t something that would slip his mind so easily. Plus, putting the phone back should have been a reminder to do the same with the envelope.

But he just sits there, looking at his spreadsheets.

The only other possibility is that he gave the envelope to someone. That would explain hiding what he was up to from Kate.

The question is, who received it?

“What if he gave it to someone at the range,” I say. “We know he talked to the guy inside the store. And there was the other guy, the one who brought him the balls.”

“And the man when he was leaving,” Jar says. “Perhaps when they shook hands.”

I like that idea a lot. “Just the three possibilities, right?”

“He could have talked to someone else before the drone got there.”

That’s true. It would have had to be a brief conversation, because the amount of time from when he moved out of view of the binoculars and into the view of the drone was short. Of course, he wouldn’t need much time to pass the message along.

“It is also possible he did not give it to anyone at all,” Jar says. “And instead put it someplace for someone to find later.”

Also a good thought.

In fact, if I had to rank the likelihood of what happened, I put that at the top of the list. Second would be handing it off to the guy who arrived when Chuckie was leaving. Chuckie had checked his phone right before turning down the offer of another basket of balls. He could have received a text letting him know the guy was almost there, and then transferred the paper during the handshake.

I think for another few moments. “Why don’t you stay here and check the video. Maybe you can figure out if and when a handoff occurred. I’ll go back to the range and have a look around. If we’re lucky, the note will still be there.”

Jar nods and shrugs on her backpack.

“If Chuckie leaves his house, let me know,” I say.

She nods and climbs out of the truck. “Be careful,” she says before closing the door.

Chapter Fifteen

As I pull into the driving range parking lot, I smile. Not only is the Cadillac CT5—belonging to the man who shook hands with Chuckie—still here, the space next to it is empty.

I park there and get out, casually looking around to make sure I’m alone. No one else is around. I attach our second-to-last tracking bug to the Caddy’s undercarriage. Maybe this guy has nothing to do with the paper in the envelope, but best to be prepared in case he does. I then take a picture of the sedan’s license plate and send it to Jar, with the message:

The guy who shook with Chuckie.

I head over to the store and go inside.

The retail space isn’t particularly large, about thirty square meters (325 square feet, give or take). More than half the floor space is taken up by three circular clothing racks—one filled with golf shirts, one with golf pants, and the last light jackets. In a corner is a display of bags, and along the back wall are the shelves I saw before, on them balls and tees and other golf paraphernalia.

At the west end is the counter, behind which stands the same guy I saw Chuckie talking to. When I look his way, he says, “Good Morning. Welcome.”

“Morning.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Just looking at the moment.”

“Cool. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

I check out the rack of shirts first, and browse through enough of them to confirm that none have pockets where the note could have been placed.

The pants rack is next. While these definitely have pockets, each pair of slacks is hung with the pocket openings pointed at the floor. I doubt Chuckie would risk his paper falling out by accident.

The jackets, on the other hand, are prime suspects. I spend more time there, slowly working my way around them as if I’m seriously considering buying one. The rack turns, allowing me to remain on the side opposite the service counter. There’s no need for me to worry, though. The clerk’s attention is focused on the golf tournament playing on one of the four TVs mounted throughout the room on the