Blood in the Ozarks

14. The Job Don't Stop

When I couldn't sleep that night I said fuck it. Then I got out of bed and slipped on a pair of jeans in order to go back into the world.

I drove around Little Bluff thinking I might have to go to the next town over to find a place still open, but then lo and behold I saw the lights at Jerry's Diner burning brightly.

Making a quick U-turn, I drove back to the parking lot I'd left earlier that morning. We let the scene go after the rain started to strip away our evidence, and what hadn't been washed away was hosed off. A piece of yellow crime scene tape clung to a handicap parking sign tied too tightly to be ripped off. But otherwise the parking lot was returned to the state of a normal business day with only the emotional damage and a knot of tape left behind.

Walking up to the glass door, I was still skeptical about the diner being open. But the door gave when I swung it open and a blast of heat enveloped my body as I entered.

"Look who's back," Yvonne said with a toothy grin. She was sitting on one of the bar stools next to a tub of silverware, rolling each set into a paper napkins.

"What are you doing here?" I questioned.

She kept rolling with deft speed as she spoke. "Your people said there's no longer a crime scene. So mines said open 'er up, the job don't stop just 'cause a young man died in the parking lot."

Jesus take the wheel, I thought. What is wrong with humanity?

And yet, there I was looking for a cup of coffee less than 24 hours after a murder. I supposed I was part of the problem.

"Back for a second round of pancakes," Yvonne assumed, placing a bundle of freshly rolled silverware at a booth for me and forgoing the menu.

I'd actually come in for the coffee and wifi, but how could I turn her down? Those pancakes would be haunting my dreams more than any other creatures I'd dealt with. The thought of their warm fluffy texture combined with the perfect amount of warmed syrup made my mouth water.

"Hey, Ernie, I need an order of pancakes. And don't skimp on the bacon for Miss Agent!" Yvonne winked at me.

Ernie said nothing. But he did pick up a spatula, which seemed promising.

I slid into the booth and set up my laptop as Yvonne brought me a cup of coffee with a bowl of individual creamers.

I started by going over my notes about each victim, double checking any labs we sent off for, and then cursing when no results were available. My research quickly led me down a social media rabbit hole. I went through every profile each victim had ever signed up for and scrolled through all their recent posts and comments. Nothing jumped out as meaningful or out of the ordinary.

As I waited for my order my mind began to wander. And so did my fingers.

Soon I found myself sitting on a Facespace profile for one Cian Harding. The profile photo was one I took a few months ago. He was staring out over a bridge at a park we visited near Baltimore. Blonde hair swooped down hitting right above his eyebrow. Even with such a serious expression on his face, his posture gave the idea that he was kind and inviting. Which Cian always has been.

I sighed to myself. He'd wanted to post our engagement online. And I held him back. I always seemed to hold Cian back.

My fingers sat poised on the keyboard as I studied Cian. They wanted to type in another name, travel down another rabbit hole, but I knew the profile I was looking for didn't exist. Tommy Ortega was not one for social media. But I found myself typing his name anyway.

The site spun for a moment then spit out a million names. Thomas Ortega wasn't exactly a unique identifier. Yet the first result on the page was Ortega Investigations, LLC. I'll be damned.