True Blue

CHAPTER 70

YEAH, I remember Ms. Tolliver. Used to come in here all the time.”

Mace and Roy were seated at a table at Simpsons. The man speaking to them was a waiter. They’d made inquiries, and by luck this same fellow had waited on Diane Tolliver on Friday night.

“She wasn’t alone, right?” asked Mace.

“No, a guy was with her. Damn shame what happened to her.”

“Can you describe the guy?” asked Roy.

The waiter turned to him. “You think he had something to do with her death?”

“Haven’t ruled out anything yet.”

“Are you with the cops?”

“Private eyes,” said Mace. “Hired by her family. Have the cops been by yet?”

The man nodded. “Yep.”

“So you were going to describe this guy?” prompted Mace.

“White guy. Around fifty, salt-and-pepper hair, cut short and thinning. Not as tall as you,” he said, indicating Roy. “About five-ten. Dressed in a suit.”

“Glasses? Beard?”

“No.”

Mace showed him Watkins’s DMV photo.

He shook his head. “Wasn’t that guy.”

“You didn’t get a name?” she asked.

“No, Ms. Tolliver paid the bill.”

“See him with her before?”

“Nope.”

“How were their appetites?”

“Real good. Ms. Tolliver had the filet mignon, mashed potatoes, and a side of veggies. Coffee but no dessert. The guy had the salmon with a salad and a cup of clam chowder beforehand.”

“Wine, cocktails?”

“She had a glass of the house merlot. He had two glasses of char-donnay.”

“Good memory.”

“Not really. When the police came, I went back and looked at the ticket.”

“You remember the times Tolliver and the guy came in and left?” asked Roy.

“In about seven-thirty, left over two hours later. I remember looking at the clock when they sat down because my cousin said he was going to stop by around quarter till and have a drink at the bar, and I knew it was getting close to that time.”

“And you’re pretty sure on when they left?”

“It was Friday night, but we’ve only got fifteen tables and traffic was slow. In fact, there were only two other tables occupied, so I did notice. And the bill has a time and date stamp when it comes out of the computer. They didn’t hang out after she paid the bill. Bussed their table myself.”

“Did either of them appear nervous or anything?” asked Mace.

“Well, they didn’t come in together. She was here first and then he came in. They sat at that table over there.” He pointed to an eating space in a small niche. “Pretty private because of the wall there.”

“Did they leave together?” Roy asked.

“No. She went first, then he did. And he was kind of looking down the whole time, like he didn’t want anyone to get a good look at him.”

They asked him a few more questions, and Roy left his business card in case the waiter remembered anything else. As they walked along outside Mace pulled the reports she’d gotten from the ME from her pocket and glanced through them.

“What?” asked Roy.

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

“So it wasn’t Watkins she had dinner with. There’s another guy out there.”

“Seems to be. And they obviously didn’t want folks to see them together. Out-of-the-way place, secluded table, came and left separately.”

“We left my car at the garage. What now? We can’t walk to Alexandria.”

“We can cab it to Altman’s house, grab my bike, and then go from there.”

“Do you think whoever’s after us knows you’re staying at Altman’s?”

“It’s possible.”

“But what if they go after Altman for some reason? You know, leverage against you somehow?”

“Herbert told me there are three full-time security guards who live on the premises. I guess after the run-in with the HF-12 drug crew, Abe decided some of his own muscle wasn’t a bad thing. One’s a former Navy SEAL, another used to be a sniper with the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, and the other one is former Secret Service with five years in Iraq under his belt in counterterrorism.”

“Damn. I never noticed those guys when I was there.”

“That’s sort of the point, Roy.”

The cab dropped them at Altman’s. She took a few minutes at the guesthouse to slip some items into her knapsack. As they walked outside to where her bike was parked Roy said, “What’s in the goodie bag?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff for breaking and entering?”

“Get on.”

Roy barely made it on the Ducati before Mace punched the clutch with her boot and the back wheel gripped the asphalt for a single moment before its energy was released and they shot down the road. The automatic gates parted and Mace worked the clutch to top gear. Minutes later they blew down the windy, tree-bracketed GW Parkway, whipping past cars so fast Roy could barely see the drivers.

He finally yelled into her ear, “Why so damn fast?”

“I have a fetish for speed.”

“You ever crash this thing?”

“Not yet,” she screamed back over the whine of the Ducati’s engine.

Roy clutched her waist with both hands and muttered a brief but heartfelt prayer.