Redemption

Chapter 60

“How’s it going down there?” Alex Jamison asked.

It was the next evening and Decker was in his room at the Residence Inn, on his phone.

“It’s going. How about you?”

“Long road ahead, I’m afraid. Not making much headway. Bogart is missing your horsepower.”

“Did he say that?”

“I can tell.”

“He laid down the law to me when we last spoke. I’m not sure I’ll have a place on the task force when I’m done here.” He said this in part to get it off his chest, but also to get Jamison’s reaction.

“I’m not sure about that either, Decker.”

His spirits plunged. It had occurred to him that he did want to go back to the FBI after this was over. Now that might not be possible.

“I guess I can see that,” he said.

“Look, if it were up to Bogart, I think you’d be okay. But he’s got bosses too. And they know you’re still in Burlington despite orders to the contrary. And they’re not happy about it. Bogart went out on a limb for you, Decker, on a number of occasions. He shielded you from heat from the higher-ups. Now, we all know what you’ve done for the Bureau, and the number of lives you’ve saved in the past. But that will not always save you, I guess is what I’m saying.”

“Thanks for your candor, Alex. I appreciate it.”

“I’d expect the same from you if our positions were reversed.”

“Not to change the subject, but if I send you a list of companies, could you find time to check them out?”

“Decker! Are you kidding me?”

“I know, Alex. I know. But it’s really important.”

“And what I’m currently doing isn’t?”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. Only we don’t have the resources that the FBI does.”

There was such a pregnant pause that he thought she might have hung up on him. Then, finally, “Email them to me and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Alex, I appreciate it.”

He sent her the names of the companies and then lay down on his bed. The wind was picking up outside, which probably meant another storm was coming. Since it was getting colder, they might get some sleet or a dusting of snow with it.

Decker wrapped himself more tightly in his coat because the Residence Inn didn’t have the best heating system in the world. It was like it only had the capacity to push heat a certain distance into the hotel before giving up and letting the majority of the unfortunate guests fend for themselves.

He didn’t miss the Ohio winters. The East Coast had its share of cold weather, for sure. But there was nothing to stop the wind here; it beat relentlessly across the land.

But still, this was his hometown, his home state. He had played for the mighty Buckeyes and then, albeit briefly, the Cleveland Browns. He was a product of the Midwest. He never got too high and never got too low. He looked at the world realistically. He was a jeans and beer kind of guy. He could never fit inside a Ferrari, not that he would ever want to. He always tried to do the right thing. He helped others when they needed it.

And he tracked down killers nonstop.

And that was pretty much the sum total of Amos Decker.

He lifted his hands from his pockets and rubbed his temples. He scrunched his eyes closed. Something was funny up there. He felt a pang of anxiety start up from deep within him. He lurched up and went into the bathroom and drank handfuls of water in an effort to calm himself down.

He tried to push back visions of volcanic masses of memory loops cascading down on him, but he was powerless to stop his own mind from tormenting him.

He lay back on the bed, shuddered once as though he might be sick, and then drew a long, deep breath. With that one physical machination, the anxiety left him.

Maybe I should take up yoga. A downward dog every morning might do the trick.

He glanced out the window and decided that he was hungry. And he only had one place in mind to go.

He drove to the American Grill.

He had never answered the question of why Rachel Katz still owned it. And he didn’t believe it was because it was her husband’s first business venture.

He walked in, got a table, and sat and perused the menu. The place was about three-quarters full at seven o’clock. Most of the clientele seemed to be blue collar, some with spouses, some with kids. There were a few teens wolfing down burgers and wings. On the big-screen TV was an ESPN show where the panel was talking about the upcoming Sunday of football.

Decker looked out the window at the building across the street. It was a bank. The one where Don Richards had worked. On the other side of the Grill was an apartment building. Decker knew this because he had briefly lived there when he returned to Burlington after his football career ended.

He eyed the interior of the Grill. Large model prop planes and ships and cars suspended from the ceiling. Pictures of old movie stars framed on the walls. Humorous signs dotted in between them. Dusty fake plants standing in corners. A buffet bar set up in the middle of the place. The wait staff wore white shirts and black pants.

The kitchen was through a set of double swing doors. Restrooms on the right for men and the left for women. Greeter station right at the front door. Computer stands at the back where the wait staff logged in their orders. Full bar at the very back of the restaurant where multiple TV screens were bolted to the wall. The carpet underneath was a dull green, designed not to show dirt or stains. The tables were a heavy wood. There were four-topper tables set up along the perimeter. He could smell an alchemy of fried foods, cheap beer, and sweet desserts.

It was Americana at its monotone finest.

It wasn’t all that profitable. And yet it was still in business when Katz had far more glamorous projects on which to spend her time.

Decker ordered his food, a Reuben and fries, and a Michelob to top it off. He once more almost looked around guiltily for Jamison to suddenly pop up and reprimand him.

The sandwich was good, juicy enough without being all over the place. The fries were warm and crisp. The beer tasted fine going down.

He eyed the table where he’d seen Earl Lancaster with his “friend.” He hadn’t expected his talk with Mary at the football field to have carried the day, but he was happy that they were giving it another shot.

This happy thought receded when he dwelled for a few moments on what the next few years of his former partner’s life might be like.

The brain was the most unique organ humans possessed. Decker knew that better than most. When it failed you, it was unlike any other breakdown in your body. If your heart went, so did you, six feet under. Gone but remembered, hopefully fondly, for who you had been.

But if your brain went, you were also gone, though your body lingered and became dependent on someone else to take care of it. And that would be your loved ones’ last impression of you, even though it wasn’t really you, at least not anymore.

Decker came out of these musings in time to glance up. Through the window of the door going into the kitchen, he caught a man watching him. It was just a quick look, and then the man was gone. The only thing Decker could really observe was dark hair and a pair of penetrating eyes.

Decker, the cop, was instantly intrigued. He had spent almost his entire adult life as a policeman. Reading people’s faces, separating the bad from the good, the scared from those trying to hide something. It was not a skill he could teach someone else. It really had become almost instinctual over time. It was a million little things processed together to spit out something close to a useful deduction.

And his antennae were quivering.

He slowly eased his phone out of his pocket, turned the flash off, and, while ostensibly checking his phone screen, snapped a series of pictures of the wait staff flitting around the restaurant. He recognized the waitress from the last time he was here. And trailing behind her was the young man named Daniel, who was learning the craft of being a waiter.

When he put the phone away, he glanced over at the kitchen double doors and thought he had seen someone at the window there.

Had it been the same guy watching him?

Decker motioned to the young woman who had been serving him. Daniel had gone into the kitchen.

She came over. “You want anything else?”

“No, the food was great.”

“I’ll get your bill.”

“Looks like you’re hustling tonight.”

“Yeah, it gets a little crazy sometimes.”

“Been working here long?”

“About a year.”

“Last time I was in, you had a trainee following you around.”

“Oh, right, yeah, well, that’s how we learn the job.”

“So, you did that too?”

“No, I already had several years of waitressing experience. Only reason I got the job. But it’s kind of silly, if you ask me.”

“What is?”

“Training all these people. They never stay. Two or three months on the job and then they’re gone. I guess some people don’t respect hard work or the time and money it takes to train somebody.”

“Yeah, you’re right. That doesn’t make much sense.”

“I won’t be working here much longer, so it doesn’t matter to me. I got another job offer and I’m taking it. Better pay, and benefits.”

“Great.”

“My mother used to work here, oh, about ten years ago. She was the one who told me to apply. Pay’s not great, not that any wait job’s is, but the tips aren’t bad, especially on the weekends when the guys get drunk and open their wallets. Makes up a little for all the stupid stuff they say, but if they get handsy, and a lot of them do, I bring the hammer down.”

“Good for you. Did your mother work here long?”

“No. I mean, she wanted to. But after about a year they let her go.”

“Why’s that?”

“They never told her. Then later, a friend of hers was hired to be a waitress here. About a year after that, they let her go too. No reason.”

“That is really odd.”

“Well, it’s not my problem. I’ll be out of here. Come to think of it, I’ve been here about a year. I guess if I wasn’t leaving, they might fire me too.”

“Maybe the management has changed since your mom’s time.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Come again.”

“Bill Peyton is the manager now. And he was the manager when my mom was here. She didn’t like him. He was always watching everything so closely.”

“I guess that’s what managers get paid to do.”

“I guess. And the kitchen staff, they haven’t changed either all that time.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because they’re the same people when my mom was here. I told her some of their names when I first started working, and she recognized them all. They were here from when the place opened, for all I know.”

“You mean the cooks and busboys and all that?”

“Right.”

“What are they like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Old, young, men, women, Ohio farm stock?”

“All guys. And, no, I don’t think any of them are from Ohio. To tell the truth, I’m not sure where they’re from. They don’t interact with us much. Age-wise, they’re probably in their fifties.”

“Long time to be a short order cook or a busboy.”

“I guess they’re content with what they have. You get in a rut, you know? That’s why I’m getting out. And I’m taking coding classes too. I don’t want to be a waitress my whole life.”

“Hey, well, good luck with your new gig.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring your check.”

He gave her a nice tip and left.

On the way out, he looked at the plaque next to the door. It read: Manager: Bill Peyton.

He looked back into the restaurant.

He had never been a regular here. But he’d been here a few times before his life had fallen apart. He had never considered it anything special until now.

And now something that he had found at Katz’s office took on a heightened importance.