Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

up and sniffed. It smelled faintly of coffee. Mike must have spilled an entire cup. Maybe even an entire pot.

The notebook couldn’t have weighed more than ten ounces, but it felt heavy in my hand. Weighted by what was scribbled in the pages, which I was quite confident were all the notes Mike took over the course of his investigation into the Save-More murders.

My heart rate tripled as I flipped it open to the first page.

The page was filled with entries. Neat, block lettering. The first page was dated March 3rd, 2012. The top entry read:

Josh / Pacers / -3 ½ / $50.

There was a small “L” scribbled next to it that had been highlighted in blue.

If I were looking in a mirror, I would have seen my jaw hanging to the side, looking detached.

The notebook didn’t belong to Mike Zernan.

It belonged to a bookie.

I skimmed through the thousands of entries: names, dates, teams, odds, wagers, wins, and losses. Most of the losses were highlighted in blue, which I guessed meant the debt had been paid.

What was Mike telling me? Why had he sent me a bookie’s notebook? Was one of the victims a bookie? Who did the notebook belong to? Did Mike think someone other than the manager of the Save-More was the target? Was Mike even the one who had sent the package?

I was brimming with questions. If Mike had sent the package, had gone through all the trouble to send me the notebook, why not add a little sticky note? Why not give me some direction?

Then again, Mike was paranoid about doing anything that might trip someone’s alarm. Paranoid about doing anything that might get him killed. But Mike had done something that got him killed.

Was the notebook in my hand the reason he was dead?

If so, then there must be some evidence inside.

I picked up my phone and dialed Randall’s number.

He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, buddy.”

“I got us a great deal on a used tractor, $13,500. And he said he’d give us $500 for the old one. Whaddaya think?”

“Let’s do it.”

He updated me on a few more farm purchases, then I said, “Actually, I’m calling about something else.”

“What’s up?”

“There’s a game tonight, and I was hoping to get some action.”

He laughed. “I knew I liked you.”

“Is there anybody around here who runs a book?”

“There is.”

“Can you put me in touch with them?”

“Could take me a couple minutes. I’ll text you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Another weird question, just something I heard. Did one of the guys killed in those murders a few years ago, did one of them run a book?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Which one?”

“Will,” he said. “Will Dennel.”

I thanked him and hung up.

A couple minutes later, I received a text with a name and a phone number, though to be honest, I wasn’t interested in who the current bookie was. At least not yet. I was interested in the former bookie, Will Dennel, who I was nearly positive had been the owner of the Moleskine notebook in my possession.

I flipped to the back of the book. There was a list of names, then amounts. Most had a line through them, which I guessed meant that the debt had been paid. However, there were five people with names and amounts that had not been crossed off.

Josh owed $440.

Ben owed $33.

Nelson owed $125.

Uncle Robbie owed $246.

And one more.

Fuzz.

Fuzz owed $83,000.

In all my years, I’d only heard Fuzz referring to one type of person.

A cop.

Which meant that someone from the Tarrin Police Department was into Will Dennel deep.

Maybe even deep enough to have him killed.

“This is our latest and greatest,” the young man at the cellular kiosk inside the Mexico Walmart said. “Samsung Galaxy S7 Edge.”

He spent the next couple minutes telling me about all the cool stuff it could do.

“I don’t think I need anything quite that fancy.”

Although the virtual reality headset sounded pretty cool.

Hello, Kate.

“All I need is to be able to get on the internet.” I almost added, “And I don’t want the pesky cops three towns over to know what I’m searching.”

He pointed to an aisle with a bunch of different phones and purchase cards—TracFone, NET10 Wireless, Virgin Mobile—and said, “Pretty much any of these phones are good for that.”

He helped me pick out a phone—a low-end Samsung smartphone—then set it up.

I picked up a bunch of necessities while I was there, plus some fruits and veggies for blending. I also purchased some dumbbells. Then I spent the next twenty minutes at a copy center in the same complex.

Back in the car, the first search I did on my phone was for Thai food.

The second was for Will Dennel.

I could see why Jerry and friends periodically drove the twenty-five minutes to Mexico. The Thai was some of the best I’d ever had, albeit a bit spicier than I expected. My eyes watered after each bite, but I couldn’t stop shoveling the noodles and chicken into my mouth.

There were over twenty thousand hits for Will Dennel—which wasn’t surprising as it was a common name—and I searched “Will Dennel Save-More.”

I clicked my way through a dozen results before discovering what I was looking for.

Will Dennel had a sister.

Bree.

There were several Bree Dennels on Facebook, but only one who lived in Missouri. Her profile picture was of a purple-haired girl holding a large cat. Her job was listed as graphic designer, and there was a link to a website. I clicked around her site, scrolling through her portfolio. Her stuff was above average, but not groundbreaking. Still, she appeared to be successful.

Her email and phone number were listed under the Contacts tab, and I punched her number into my phone.

She answered on the second ring.

I didn’t beat around the bush. “I need to talk to you,” I said, “about your brother.”

She said she would come to me. She said she had to pick up some things in town anyhow. We agreed to meet at a small coffee shop in the same complex as