Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) Read Free Page A

single-level ranch house, he took off his rubber boots and lined them up with others similarly on display, much like he had done in the military.   Then he looked at the redhead’s high heels and she took those off as well.   Once she did, Ben realized that the woman was no more than five four at most.
    He took off his jacket and flipped it onto a hook and waited for the attorney to remove her long coat.   Underneath that the Portland lawyer wore a conservative gray suit—a short jacket and a tight skirt.   She was well proportioned, Ben thought.
    “I’ve gotta get out of these wet jeans,” Ben said.   “You can take a seat in the living room.”
    She nodded.   “Thank you.”
    He started toward his bedroom and stopped.   “Do you drink coffee?”
    “I’m from Oregon.   So, yeah.”
    “Good.   You’ll find a clean pot on the stove.   I ground some Costa Rican this morning.   It’s in the fridge.”
    She went without complaint and Ben went into his bedroom off the living room.   From there he could still see her across the living room and to the kitchen.   He quickly changed his pants, clipping his gun to his web belt.   He went nowhere without his 9mm Glock.
    “How much do you put in the percolator?” she asked.   “I haven’t seen one of these for years.”
    He paused and glanced out at her in the distance.   “You can’t make it too strong,” he said.
    He looked in his mirror and saw that he was starting to look a bit ragged.   He didn’t get many people stopping by his place, so he had no real reason to consider his own appearance.   Having been in the military, one would think he would keep his hair cut short.   But during his AFOSI years, he had often let his hair grow long to fit in to the local communities—from stateside bases to overseas locales.   Now his hair was longer than it had ever been, curled up where it touched his strong shoulders.   His dark hair was now speckled with silver.   He scratched the three-day old beard on his face—a condition of his bachelorhood and his rebellious indifference.
    He left his bedroom, wandered through his living room and into his kitchen.   By now the coffee pot was heating up on the propane stove.
    She glanced at Ben from top to bottom.   “Do you always carry a gun?”
    “Do you always carry a purse?” he asked.
    “Not in my house.”
    Good point, he thought.   “I come and go a lot.   I don’t want to have to look around for it.”   He hesitated and saw that she was still not convinced.   “When someone carries a gun for more than twenty years, it’s hard to break that habit.”
    The coffee pot started shaking now with full percolation, so Ben shut off the stove and moved the pot to a cold burner.   Then he found two mugs and poured them both near the top.   “If you want milk, I have unpasteurized whole milk in the fridge.   If you want sugar, I’ll lose all respect for you.”
    “Black is fine,” she said, taking the cup from Ben.
    The two of them sat at a table in a small alcove off the kitchen.   Instinctively, he waited for her to start talking.   He had always been one of the least demonstrative interrogators—letting the suspects find enough rope to hang themselves.   The only reason he let her into his house was because she had mentioned an old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Walter Keyes.   Ben was intrigued.
    “You must be wondering why I’m here,” she said.
    Ben sipped his coffee, but he kept his eyes on her, discovering her interesting features.   Her nose was small and turned up like a Norwegian ski jump.   Now he wondered if the red hair was real.   Especially with the dark brown eyes.
    She continued.   “Colonel Keyes hired me to find you.”
    Letting out a breath of air as he shook his head, Ben said, “He could have simply asked an old Air Force friend for my official address.”
    “The only thing the Air Force has on you is a bank account linked to a P.O. Box in Junction City,”