Hank didn’t read my frustration.

“Starting with his PI databases. He can tap into a lot of things. Lee called in a couple hours ago. Asked me to let him know if Coltrane surfaces. He doin’ this favor for you?”

Pause for answer.

I kept my mouth shut.

“What’s goin’ on?” Hank was losing his good-natured, business-like voice and was lapsing into his stern-older-brother voice. “Why are you and Lee looking for the same guy?”

Rule Number One in the India Savage Life Code: When in doubt or possible trouble, lie.

“Don’t know. Listen, Hank, can you call me first if you hear anything about Rosie? And then forget about it for about an hour or two or twenty before calling Lee?”

“Not if you don’t tell me what this is about.”

Like brother, like brother. Stubborn to the last.

“Forget it. See you Saturday at Dad’s barbeque.”

“You comin’ with Lee?’

“No, I’m not coming with Lee. I’m pretty sure we’ll be broken up by then. Later.”

I hung up and opened the phone book on my cell. I scrolled down to Lee, took a big breath and punched the button that would call Lee, a button I’d never punched before in my life.

He answered after one ring. “Yeah?”

“Lee? It’s Indy.”

A customer walked up and asked for a double espresso and I gave him a one minute finger and Jane started banging the portafilter against the sink to loosen the last pot of grounds.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Fortnum’s.”

“I thought I told you to stay at the condo.”

As if I ever did what I was told.

“I have a business and I’m down two employees. I had to come to work.”

“Less than twenty-four hours ago, people were shootin’ at you.”

Hmm, he sounded pissed off.

“Jane can’t handle the store in the morning all alone, she’ll go meltdown.”

Why was I explaining myself to him?

“Listen, you have to stop Kitty Sue, she’s telling everyone we’re together.”

“We are together.”

“We’re not together.”

“Who has she told?”

“Dad, Marianne Meyer, Hank, God knows who else. This is getting out of hand. It has to stop.”

“Mom didn’t tell Hank, I told Hank.”

“Why would you tell Hank?” This was said in a near shout and the customer took a step back.

Lee was silent for a second, thinking thoughts I could not fathom, then he changed the subject. “When do you close?”

“Six.”

“Don’t leave the store. I’ll come by tonight at six to pick you up.”

“Lee…”

“See you at six.”

Then he hung up.

Rat bastard.

* * *

Ally came back to get me with news of no Rosie at Rosie’s house.

I asked if there was any Lee at Rosie’s house and that was a negatory too.

We took off to go see Rosie’s friend, emergency contact numero uno. He had a house in the Highlands area. Great old houses and bungalows, though Rosie’s friend didn’t live in one that had been renovated. For that matter, he didn’t live in a block that had a single house that had been renovated. Or in a block that had a single house with more than a dozen blades of genuine grass growing in their yards or decent curtains in their windows. It was semi-wasteland.

We knocked to no answer.

We sat in my car and called the house number on my cell phone, no answer.

We scanned the neighborhood and Ally pointed to the end of the block.

We got out of the car and walked to the corner Stop & Stab which had surprisingly not been crushed by the overabundance of Denver’s convenience stores. A guy of Arab descent stood behind the counter.

We walked up to him and he smiled.

“You want gum?” he asked.

“No, we’re…” I started to say.

“Cigarettes? They’re bad for you but I have to sell them or I’ll go bust. Everyone in this neighborhood smokes cigarettes.”

I shook my head and then wondered briefly why Lee smelled like tobacco, I hadn’t seen him smoke since he enlisted.

I noticed Ally staring at me like, “Hello?” and I shook out of my Lee Reverie.

“You know Rosie Coltrane?”

“You’re not buying goods?” the counter man asked, looking both disappointed and defeated.

I couldn’t help myself, he immediately made me sad.

“Yes, mints,” I grabbed a pack of mints and put it on the counter.

He stared at the mints.

I stared at the mints.

Ally stared at the mints.

The mints seemed lonely and the purchase of the mints was not going to do anything to help feed this man’s family.

I put another pack of mints on the counter, followed it with two candy bars and then walked over to the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water and two diet pops.

On the way back to the counter, I grabbed a box of cream-filled, prepackaged cupcakes. I hadn’t had a cupcake in ages.

He happily started ringing up my purchases. “Who are you looking for again?”

“Rosie Coltrane. He works for me and didn’t come into work today and I’m worried,” I lied.

I was a good liar, I’d been doing it since Lee, Ally and I were caught behind the garage trying to smoke leaves when Ally and I were eight and Lee was eleven. I came up with the imaginative excuse that we were thinking about roasting marshmallows but didn’t know how. Malcolm bought it, kids, marshmallows, my cute, angelic smile. It all seemed benign and plausible.

After we got off with just a lecture about fire safety and the danger of matches, Lee tousled my hair.

Happy memories.

“I do not know a man named Rosie. What kind of man has a name like Rosie?”

“Rosey Grier?” Ally tried.

“I don’t know a Rosey Grier either,” the counter man said.

“Football player? Helped catch Sirhan Sirhan?” Ally prompted.

“I don’t follow American football. I know no Sirhan Sirhan. Is he a football player too?”

“No, he assassinated Bobby Kennedy,” Ally explained.

“Oh my gracious! I certainly don’t know of him!” the counter man exclaimed, horrified.

I decided to cut into the history lesson. “Our Rosie doesn’t live around here but his friend does, down and across the street about four houses. His name is Tim Shubert.”

“I know Tim, he buys lots of cheese puffs and frozen pizzas.”

If Tim was a stoner the caliber of Rosie, I had no doubt he bought a lot of cheese puffs and pizzas.

“Rosie’s thin, about five foot six, dirty blond hair, looks a bit like Kurt Cobain but his face isn’t as pointy,” Ally put in.

“I know no Kurt Cobain but I have seen a man of this description with Tim. Is his name really Rosie?”

“Nickname,” I said, “his name is Ambrose.”

“Ambrose is a perfectly fine name. Why does he not call himself Ambrose?”

Ally looked at me.

I decided to ignore that one. Any answer would have to span a generation and a culture gap. I didn’t have it in me today, in less than twenty-four hours, I’d been shot at, physically dragged out of bed and kissed by Lee Nightingale three and a half times (yes, I was counting and the half was the kiss he planted on my neck).

I was a woman on a mission and I didn’t have time to explain a dud name like Ambrose.

“Have you seen him lately, like say, today?” I asked as I paid for my purchase.

“No, not today.”

“Tim?” Ally asked.

“Not Tim either.”

He handed me the bag and I took it, at a loss for what to do next.

“Jeez, Indy. Don’t you read detective novels? You own a bookstore for God’s sake,” Ally hissed and then turned to the store owner.

The counter man smiled huge. “You own a bookstore? I love books. What bookstore do you own?”

“Fortnum’s, on the corner of Bayaud and Broadway,” I answered.

“I know that. My wife goes there. Books are cheap there and then you can sell them back and get cash money.”

“Yep, that’s it.” I nodded and smiled, happy to meet a customer-by-proxy.

Ally was busy scribbling my name and numbers on a piece a paper she found in her purse and when she was done, she handed him the paper. “Maybe you could give us a call if you see Rosie or Tim. Would you do that?”

“Of course. I’m an employer, only my wife works for me but I understand how important it is to trust your hired help. I will call you.”

“Thanks.”

We went out and sat in my car and stared at Tim’s house while we thought about what to do next. We both were new at this. Neither of us had tracked down a stoner-on-the-run before. We’d stalked plenty of guys, but we’d known where to find them.

We both ate a cupcake to get the brain juices flowing.

“That was a nice guy,” I said through yellow cake and cream.

“Yep,” Ally replied, her mouth equally full.

Someone tapped on Ally’s window and we both jumped and swiveled our heads to the side.

I nearly spewed better-living-through-chemistry cream on my windshield at what I saw.

It was Grizzly Adams, but the serial killer version. He was enormous, had lots of wild, blond hair, a thick, seriously overlong (we’re talking ZZ Top here) russet beard and was wearing a flannel shirt even though it had to be nearly ninety degrees.

He was also carrying a shotgun and had some kind of freaky-ass goggle apparatus on the top of his head.

“You want somethin’?” he growled.

“We’re looking for Tim Shubert,” Ally replied calmly.

“He’s not here,” Grizzly said, “move along.”

“Yep, yep. Going!” I shouted and started the car, put it into gear and took off.

“Where are we going?” Ally asked.