The Company She Kept by Archer Mayor Page B

suggested Lester leadingly.
    â€œHe work?” Joe asked Cila.
    She looked surprised. “Yes, believe it or not. For a pallet- and box-making company, off exit twenty-eight, between here and Derby, in the middle of a whole miracle mile/industrial park thing.”
    â€œYou think he’s there now?”
    â€œCould be. When I drove by his place, I noticed his truck was missing, and he only has the one vehicle registered to his name. If nothing else, we could check out the factory’s parking lot and see what we see.”
    â€œYou bring the local PD up to speed about what we’re up to?” Joe wanted to know.
    â€œYup. They’re ready if we need backup.”
    He pondered that a moment. “What the hell? Have ’em join us—more the merrier.”
    She left her car at the post office after making those arrangements and rode with them, Lester heading northeast out of Newport along Route 105. Followed by two police cruisers, they were aimed inland, however, and quickly lost the mesmerizing lake behind them, exchanging it for the flat, bland, snow-covered terrain suggestive of the Stanstead Plain across the border in Quebec.
    Approaching the interstate and Derby beyond, they came upon the area Cila Lewis had described: the standard and ubiquitous American offering of mall stores, gas stations, car dealerships, and—set back from the road—small industrial operations such as the one employing Nathan Fellows. Lewis directed them down a service road between a fastfood restaurant and a gas station, toward a long, featureless, metal-sided building, its flat roof covered with a couple of feet of snow.
    A low mountain range of snow had been scraped from the parking lot and shoved to the edges, where it took on the look of a row of colorless icy hedgerows.
    Spinney slowed, prowled along the rows of serried cars until Cila said, “There. That’s it.”
    Joe glanced at the two of them. “We good, then? Direct approach?”
    â€œWorks for me,” Lester answered, heading for an open spot.
    Aside from the usual row of loading-dock doors, there was only one entrance to the building facing them, and from its battered, half-boarded-over appearance, this company was clearly not out to impress retail customers.
    Leaving the local cops outside, they found two women inside a comparatively small room, sitting at cluttered desks, and surrounded by the requisite office paraphernalia of printers, computers, copiers, cabinets, and the rest. All of it was illuminated by parallel strips of overhead fluorescent tubing, and all of it was dusty, dingy, and—to Joe’s eyes at least—depressing.
    But not, apparently, to the one woman who looked up as they entered. She gave them a bright smile and an upbeat, “Hello. How may we help you?”
    Joe almost hated showing her his badge and watching her expression melt as she listened to him say, “Hi. We’re from the police. Wondering if we might have a quick chat with one of your employees.”
    That caught the attention of the other woman, who had been staring at her computer screen. “Who?” she asked.
    â€œNathan Fellows. He working today?”
    The second woman gave a sour expression, muttered, “Shoulda known,” and returned to her screen.
    The cheerful one answered. “Nate? Sure.” She reached for her phone, adding, “I’ll call the floor.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Joe stopped her. “We’d actually prefer to just go out there and find him ourselves, if that’s all right.”
    â€œI bet,” the sour one said, as if to herself.
    Her companion’s smile became a little stiff. “Well, I guess. I mean, I don’t know. We’re not supposed to let people back there. You know: insurance.”
    â€œJesus, Betty,” the surly one burst out. “They’re cops. They’re not gonna sue us. Let ’em take the jerk out.”
    Lester