Spectre Black by J. Carson Black

refrigerator. It didn’t cry and it didn’t beg. Just stood there expecting him to open the refrigerator and give it something to eat.
    Another reason he liked cats.
    There was no pretense with them: they were what they were and they wanted what they wanted. They didn’t have to get all polite about it.
    Still gloved up, he opened the refrigerator. He saw no cans of cat food. He looked in the cupboard next to the refrigerator and found some cat treats. He didn’t know how much to feed it. The whole bag? Or just a couple? He settled on a handful, and shook the treats on the Saltillo tile floor. The cat ate each one delicately and looked at Landry for more. As if it hadn’t eaten anything at all and was starving.
    “I met a con man like you once,” Landry said.
    The cat gave him a look, then turned his back and cleaned himself.
    Landry didn’t want to spend too much time here. He searched the house thoroughly but quickly, found nothing associated with Jolie’s job as a sheriff’s deputy, except for a couple of uniforms in her closet.
    If Jolie had been abducted—and when she’d called him, she had escaped from somewhere—then when did she contact the person who fed the dog and cat? Did she call her after her escape?
    She’d called the right person. The water bowls were full. Both the cat and the dog looked fine to him.
    Back in the yard, he stowed the lawn trimmer back in the shed. He said to the Rottweiler, “Some watchdog you are.”
    Next, he went to the donut shop two blocks down from the motel. The donut shop was called Duncan’s Donuts, which not only treaded on a well-known copyright, but also went well with Dina’s Diner. He briefly wondered if they had all gotten together in a town meeting and decided what to name their businesses to present a unifying, alliterative theme. Maybe there was also a Rosa’s Restaurant, or a Ginny’s Gin Mill.
    Landry knew that the FBI would send an agent to investigate a missing cop, no matter what the jurisdiction. They would do this within three days. If he hadn’t wasted time waiting by the Circle K, fruitlessly calling the pay phone number, he might have been able to intercept the agent, find out what he knew, and become his replacement. But Landry had no idea how long Jolie had been missing. He was way too late to intercept the FBI agent now.
    But he could still strike up an acquaintance with the right cop. He could still pump him for information, if he did it skillfully.
    And so he chose the donut shop.
    Landry had dressed like an off-duty cop, which basically meant jeans (the more faded the better), sneakers, and an open-necked polo shirt. The polo shirt was banded at the bottom, a cop trick used to conceal a gun or knife secured to his belt. The shirt puffed out a little above the band, so there was no telltale outline. The banded polo shirt, along with the fact that the jeans had plenty of legroom to fit over boots (or a leg holster) did double duty, making him easily identifiable as law enforcement or former law enforcement. He could be anything, from a retired cop to an off-duty cop to an undercover cop. His hair was short but not too short.
    There were uniformed cops here—three of them at a four top. The table, like his own, was on a single stand and tottered a little under their elbows, just like his did. Landry put a matchbook under the table, to add to the matchbook already there. He had the newspaper open and coffee at his elbow, and he could watch them.
    And then he realized he was being watched himself.
    A good-looking woman stared at him from her table, her gaze open and interested, before returning to her iPad.
    Landry liked that she didn’t attempt to hide her interest. That set her apart right there.
    He looked at her, willing her to look back up, but she didn’t take the bait. She appeared to be concentrating on whatever she was reading.
    Dark hair with blond highlights swept up and back with one of those stick things women put in to keep their