Unknown Remains Read Free Page A

with chicken, quesadillas with steak, fajitas with steak.
    â€œNeed some help?”
    Ruben gave him a dirty look. The waitress brought their drinks, and they ordered food. Cobb studied the young girls and wished he was alone. He thought he could deal some of this young ass, but not with the over-the-hill ex-fighter next to him.
    Their meals came. Ruben had ordered the sizzling skillet fajitas. Cobb grinned. “Makes you think you’re back in the barrio, huh?”
    Ruben ignored him, getting right to it, shoveling sizzling meat and peppers into his mouth, eating like he was being timed.
    â€œMakes me think I’m in a second-rate restaurant.” Cobb had ordered Bourbon Street chicken and shrimp that had about as much to do with New Orleans as macaroni and cheese.
    They ate and drove back to the house. There were lights on, but the cars that had been lining both sides of the street were gone. “I’m gonna go, check it out,” Cobb said.
    â€œHow long you gonna be?”
    â€œI don’t know. Why, you got something more important to do?”
    Ruben looked at him and said, “Already tired of sitting here.”
    Cobb got out of the car, crossed the street, and walked up the driveway along the side of the house, looking in windows, no one in any of the rooms.
    He stood next to the three-car detached garage. The rear of the house was all lit up. McCann’s wife, a nice-looking blonde, was standing at the kitchen sink, washing glasses, lining them on the sideboard to drain. She turned off the faucet and brought her hands to her face. She was crying, letting go. Cobb studied her for a while with detached indifference.
    Was it possible Jack McCann was alive and hiding in one of the dark upstairs bedrooms, and the crying wife and people coming by were all for show?
    That was just Duane’s amped-up imagination running free. He could hear a phone ringing in the house. The woman took her hands away from her face, turned her head and looked across the room. Cobb crossed the driveway and moved next to the house and saw the woman holding the phone up to her ear. He listened for a few minutes then walked down the driveway to the side door and turned the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it and went in. The woman was talking, crying, having an emotional conversation. Cobb moved along a hallway to the front of the house and went up the stairs. He stood on the landing, listening, didn’t hear anything. Were there kids up there asleep? He had no idea.
    The second floor was dark, the wood floor made noise, so he stopped and took off his shoes. He checked the three rooms. One looked like a guest bedroom; the second had a TV, a couch and chairs, and bookshelves full of books.
    Cobb was in the master bedroom when he heard her come up the stairs. He dropped to his knees on the far side of a king-size bed and then went to the floor as she came in the room and turned on a bedside lamp. Looking under the bed, he could see her shoes with short heels. She sat on the bed and took them off, got up, crossed the room, went into the walk-in closet and came out a couple minutes later in her underthings, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door. That she was good-looking with a great body made the situation more fun. Give it a little time, Cobb thought he might be able to take advantage of the grieving widow.
    He heard water running and the sound of an electric toothbrush. He walked out of the room and down the stairs, carrying his shoes. All the lights were off. He slipped out the side door, walked down the driveway, and crossed the street. Ruben was staring at him when he got in the car. “The fuck you been?”
    â€œSeeing if he was in the house.”
    â€œWas he?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI could’ve told you that.”
    â€œAn hour ago, you thought he was in there hiding. Now you say he isn’t. You’ve got all the answers, huh? Tell me where he’s