Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) Jack Lively (important of reading books TXT) 📖

airport. The Suburban was big, shiny, and new, gleaming in the evening light. Like a secret service vehicle, or the personal car of an FBI official. The Chevy eased to a halt right in front of the cafe. The rear door opened and a tall woman came down off the cream leather seat. She was wearing dark aviator sunglasses and I had never seen her before.

This woman was in her fifties and looked rich. The Chevy’s windows were tinted so it was impossible to see the driver. The Suburban rolled slowly away, and the woman disappeared from view as she entered next door. She came into the cafe about twenty seconds after that.

The woman stood briefly in the doorway and took in the situation. Me at the counter looking back at her. Nobody else. Behind me, a coffee pot steamed. She was dressed like an important person on a Sunday. Jogging tights, fleece jersey, jogging shoes. But with the earrings and the hair management of a corporate executive.

She strode toward me. “Where is everyone? I need some of that coffee. Now.”

I said, “Everyone is using the ladies room.”

She said, “There isn’t a ladies room. There’s only one toilet, so that makes it an everyone’s room.”

“Gender neutral. They should paint a fancy sign.”

“Could bring the tourists up from California.”

“And then where would we go for coffee?”

She said, “Good point. Did she go to the ladies room a long time ago?”

“About three and a half minutes.”

“So she’ll be out soon, unless there are issues, in which case she might not be out soon. I think I’ll pour myself a cup.”

The woman walked around the counter. She found a cup and poured coffee into it. She set it on the counter and came back around. She straddled a stool next to mine and extended her hand. “Jane Abrams.” Her hand was cool and the fingers were long and well cared-for. I liked her.

I said, “Tom Keeler. But you already knew that.”

Jane Abrams ignored that. She examined me. I knew what she was seeing. Worn Carhartt work pants, folding knife clipped to a side pocket, black ball cap with a Purse Seiner Association logo, the beard.

She said, “Yes, but I haven’t seen you for myself yet. In person, I mean. Just the photograph of you looking surprised and heroic.”

I said, “I saw your vehicle earlier. Who was the blonde girl last night in the bar?”

She said, “What you did last night took courage.”

I said, “Not really. You see a smaller person attacked by a much larger person, you do something about it.”

“From what I heard it was you who did something, and not anybody else.”

“And then what? On that basis you decided I could be useful?”

“Yes. On that basis I asked my team to find you so that I could have a conversation with you. It looks like they found you, but you didn’t enjoy being found.”

I said nothing.

She moved her eyes lazily to look at me again. “Listen, Mister Keeler. You’re here, right now. Right place, right time. Let me pay you three hundred dollars for a private conversation. I’ll explain what I want, and you get paid regardless of the outcome. Then you take the plane and go on down to Seattle if you like.”

I said, “Not interested in money.”

She said, “Money is the only universal truth.”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t mean I want yours.”

She said, “What do you want then?”

“Nothing.” I looked at her and drained the coffee cup.

Abrams shook her head. She was beginning to get pissed off, which was a tell right there. A woman who was used to getting her way. But then I saw her relax and control herself. It was like watching the conflict of one personality over another, with the most sensible winning out. I liked that. A couple of early passengers came into the cafe. Abrams looked out the window. The fancy private jet had taken off. The runway was lonely.

For a while we looked at the view. Abrams started to speak, but her voice was drowned out by an approaching aircraft. The sound hit us suddenly and we turned around to watch. The new plane was a small commuter, a Cessna or a Bombardier. The engine roar washed through the window glass, and speaking was impossible until the pilot shut the engine down fifty yards from the terminal. A minute later a guy from the airport walked over and pulled down the stairs. The paint was chipped on the door. The aircraft looked like it had been working hard these last couple of decades. Passengers started to come down off the plane.

Abrams said, “My son is missing and I’m here to find him and bring him back.” Abrams pulled a photograph from a zip pocket. It was a picture of a guy in his twenties. Smiling, blond, with a Harvard sweatshirt.

I thought, Harvard, East Coast.

Abrams said, “My son’s name is George. Will you help me find him?”

“You already have a quite a team. Did you hire some kind of private detective agency?”

She said, “No of course not. These are friends who have known George and who care about him. I asked them to help me.” Abrams looked at the glare coming through the window, like she was struggling to contain tears. “And now you saw, we’re being intimidated. If I can’t find anyone to help us protect ourselves I think we’ll have to leave. I’m afraid of what might happen. But it’s my son, Keeler. It’s George. I can’t just walk away.”

I looked at Jane Abrams. She was not even aware that her team had been followed by Deckart and Willets. There had been other intimidations. She was completely clueless, in way over her head. Her eyes were wet. Good acting, or real. No way of knowing.

She summoned her courage. “Please, Mister Keeler, let me tell you about George. He is a scientist. He came here on a research project, part of his doctorate. But it’s been a month since I heard from