High Risk by G.K. Parks (thriller book recommendations txt) 📗

Twenty-four

Aside from the neon sign out front, the liquor store looked dark, just like most other businesses in the area. Was it possible they weren’t open twenty-four hours a day? I got out of the car and surveyed my surroundings. Something didn’t feel right.

A dark SUV idled near the end of the block. I eyed it, watching a puff of exhaust bloom from the tailpipe. I slid my jacket to the side and rested my hand on the butt of my gun as I made my way down the sidewalk. It could be anything. But it wasn’t normal for someone to be sitting around at this time of night.

I cleared two car lengths before the SUV turned on its lights and slowly pulled away from the spot. It drove a few feet to the stop sign, waited five seconds, and then proceeded on its path. I watched it disappear into the darkness, mentally repeating the license plate number a few times.

Just to be on the safe side, I ran the plates. When nothing came back on them, I asked if a patrol unit could drive by when they got a chance. Then I locked my car and walked across the street to the liquor store.

The bell above the door chimed, and the owner looked up at me from where he’d been setting up a display of Kahlua bottles. “You again?” His tone didn’t sound friendly.

“So you remember me?”

“How could I forget?” He reached for another bottle and glanced around the side of the aisle. Two women in their mid-twenties whispered and giggled as they perused the racks of pre-mixed drinks. A couple were arguing next to the refrigerators about the difference between beer and lager. And a man at the back corner of the store carefully examined the various bottles of scotch. “I don’t have what you want. You should try back another day.” He met my eyes and flicked his gaze pointedly toward the door. “As you can see, I’m pretty busy. Maybe you should come back when you have your friends with you.”

“What?” I gave him an odd look. “Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else, I’m—”

He cut me off. “I know who you are.” The girls went to the counter with their arms full of margarita, mudslide, and pina colada mixes. “You should go. I’ll give you a call when I have time to look for what you wanted. I might have it in the back.” He placed the final bottle of Kahlua on the top of the display and slipped behind the counter to work the register. He handed them the bags, made a point to card them, and wished them a good night. He scribbled something on the receipt and tried to hand it to the woman, but she said she didn’t need it.

The owner stuffed the receipt into his pocket and went back to the display, ripping open another box. “Are you hard of hearing? I said you should come back another day.”

“Sir, I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

He picked up the empty cardboard box. “Fine. Follow me. I’ll show you what we have in the back.”

“Sir,” I tried again, but he didn’t wait for my protest. Instead, he grabbed the empty box and went down the aisle.

“You guys almost ready to check out?” he asked the couple.

“Yeah,” the guy said.

“Oh, what about a shandy?” the woman asked her boyfriend.

The clerk didn’t even slow. “Just take it to the register. I’ll be right there.” He paused briefly in the opposite corner of the store and called to the man examining the scotch, “I’ll be out in one sec. I just gotta help this lady find something first.”

“Make it quick,” the guy grunted, his back to us.

The owner entered the storage room and waited for me in the doorway. I eyed the gruff customer, but he didn’t appear to have any interest in anything other than the scotch bottles in front of him. Cautiously, I stepped into the dimly lit storeroom, unsure why the owner was acting so strangely.

“Sir,” I said, watching as he broke down the box and added it to a large stack of cardboard, “I’m Detective DeMarco.”

“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips and edged toward the open door. “That’s the guy. The one who came in here the other morning and bought the bottle of Jack.”

“You’re positive?”

The owner nodded. “He has a gun. I saw it beneath his jacket.”

“How long has he been here?”

“For almost an hour. He came in when the store was empty. He told me he was waiting for something and if I cooperated, there wouldn’t be any trouble. He also said his friend is out front, and if I make a run for it, he’d kill me.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

“I figured he wanted to rob the place, but that’s not it. He’s waiting for something. Every time the door chimes, he looks up at the mirror along the back, and he keeps checking his watch.”

“Okay.”

“He told me to carry on like nothing was wrong, and if I didn’t...” The store owner swallowed and drew a finger horizontally across his neck. “So that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I thought you’d get the point. Are you seriously that dense?”

“How many other people have stopped by since he’s been here?” I took half a step back and peered in his direction, but I couldn’t see him.

“Fifteen or twenty. They came in, got what they wanted, and left. I keep trying to get word out.” He showed me the receipt where he’d written, ‘Call 9-1-1, I’m being robbed.’ But no one would take his note. “I don’t know what he’s waiting for. I thought he