Cooler Than Blood by Robert Lane Page A

past.”
    Upon my request, McGlashan had texted me pictures of Randall and Zach Coleman that he had obtained from Rudolph. He also had shared with me that the Hocking County sheriff had just received a search warrant, and that was why I’d been blindsided by the posse at the Colemans’. I planned to flash the pictures around in hopes that someone would recognize them. McGlashan’s degree of cooperation indicated to me that he had more pressing matters to pursue than chasing down a runaway teenager. If he were actively engaged in finding Jenny, he wouldn’t be outsourcing his responsibilities.
    “I’ll pass,” she replied. She hadn’t even bothered to glance at a picture of a smiling Randall Coleman after he’d been arrested for DUI.
    “You didn’t even try.”
    “Nope.” She shuffled some papers.
    “How about if I give you a million dollars?”
    She glanced up at me. She looked as if she belonged at a photo shoot for an album, back in the day. I wasn’t of buying age when albums had their initial run, but I have a decent—high-triple-digit—vinyl collection. I like fondling my music and am especially desirous of back covers, or inside sleeves, on which a third party has written about the recording session. Such verbiage is referred to as “liner notes.” The rear cover of Sinatra’s September of My Years stirs the graves of English poets— Of the bruising days. Of the roughed lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines . I get rocked before the needle even scratches the record. I also prefer to hear the music the way it was originally heard. I play my swelling collection on a 250-pound 1961 floor-model maple Magnavox— great voice in Latin. The turntable has “Imperial Micromatic”written beside it and “Stereophonic High Fidelity” etched across the inside back. Kicks the living shit out of “iTunes.”
    She said, “Cash up front.”
    “A girl is missing, and I think this guy might be involved. I’d appreciate any help you could give me.” I wondered what she would look like covered in whipped cream.
    “What’s your name?”
    I extended my hand over the counter. “Jake Travis.”
    “Tuesday.” Tuesday had soft hands.
    I flashed her my phone again. “I have reason to believe this man might be involved in the abduction of a young girl, from this island, less than a week ago, and—”
    “Does this have anything to do with Susan Blake’s niece?”
    “Do you know her?”
    “Which one?”
    “Either.”
    “Susan and I go way back. We served on the chamber committee for business owners for years.”
    “You’re the owner?”
    “This sick puppy is mine. Susan hire you?”
    “More like a favor. We met a year ago, had dinner, got along, and now she needs help.”
    Tuesday leaned in across the counter. She smelled like warm vanilla, and my appetite surged. She held that pose for a few seconds then inquired, methodically, in half time, “Are you the guy who invited her to dinner, primed her for information, and then ditched her?”
    “I don’t know about ‘ditched.’ I left her standing—”
    “Jake, right?” She tilted back away from me. What a sad world. “I don’t know you, but I know one thing.” She paused. I had no choice but to go in without armor.
    “Go ahead.”
    “You walked away from Susan Blake. Congratulations. You’re my new dumbest person in the world. And to think your vote counts as much as mine.”
    I wanted in the worst way to counterpunch, but sometimes you have to stand and take it.
    Once the Susan connection was on the table, Tuesday called in the reserves. She allowed me to search the room that had been assigned to Billy Ray. It hadn’t been booked to anyone else and was clean; the housekeeping log showed that it hadn’t been serviced. Tuesday explained that meant the room, even though paid for, was never used. At my insistence, she summoned all her employees to stop by the Matanzas Bar and Grill so I could