Buckley placed three hundred dollars on the bar.
“I like your style,” she said as the money went into a fanny pack on her belt. “I’m a bartender, we have to be observant, read body language and expressions, see if people are three sheets to the wind, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, she was staring at the woman on the screen and looking scared as shit. She even spilt her beer. And when she got up to leave, I watched her go. She’d only had the one drink, but it was like she couldn’t walk straight. Whoever the lady on the screen was, that gal knew her somehow, I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER
28
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA, WAS HOME to the Biltmore Estate. At nearly 180,000 square feet it was the largest private residence ever constructed in America, and it was still owned by the descendants of the Vanderbilt heir who built it. It was now open to the public for tours and other events, and it brought a great many people to Asheville every year. The town also possessed a thriving arts and wine and food community. The western part of the Tarheel State was picturesque, with the Blue Ridge Mountains providing a brilliant backdrop to the town.
As Pine and Blum rode into Asheville, neither one was thinking about any of that.
They had in their sights one person and one person only.
As the FBI had finally told Blum after some delay—probably because it wasn’t connected to an official case—the phone number that Pine had seen Wanda Atkins input to her phone was attached to a specific address in Asheville. The Bureau had now provided that information, and Pine meant to make good use of it.
Dusk was coming quickly, and the streets they passed were filled with people sitting in outdoor restaurants with gas-fueled heaters providing warmth; art galleries were ablaze with light and activity, and cars and pedestrians were making their way to a flurry of destinations. People of means seemed to be having a good time trying to figure out where to plunk down their hard-earned cash.
“I’ve never been here,” said Blum. “It looks quite lovely.”
“Only we’re looking for the dark side right now, not the lovely,” replied Pine. Following the navigation instructions, she turned right and then left and slowed the Porsche. “And that’s it, up on the right with the white siding.”
“How appropriate,” said Blum, eyeing the sign out front as they passed by. “Desiree Atkins runs an occult shop. I didn’t think she’d be baking cupcakes.”
“She goes by the name Dolores Venuti now,” said Pine. “At least the phone is registered in that person’s name. But it’s Desiree, I’m almost sure of that.”
They had previously gotten Desiree’s file photo from the Georgia DMV. The picture showed a stern-faced woman with protuberant eyes that Blum had proclaimed were “downright creepy.”
“But that photo is really old,” Pine had pointed out after seeing it for the first time.
“I doubt she would have changed that much,” said Blum. “People like her never do. Except to get even creepier.”
The occult shop was in a small bungalow that one reached by going up a set of warped wooden steps. The large sign out front read in exaggerated calligraphy: THE DARK MOON RISING OCCULT SHOP: PSYCHIC READINGS, CLASSIC WITCHCRAFT PRODUCTS, POWER CRYSTALS AND CANDLES, PROTECTION SCARVES, LARGE APOTHECARY SELECTION, AND MUCH MORE.
“Protection scarves?” muttered Pine. “People really buy that crap?”
“More than you think. There’s a large occult business in Arizona, in fact.”
“How do you know that?”