“Why?” I asked, standing once more and grabbing my sweater.
“Silver fox.”
I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother replying. I tugged on a sort of threadbare and frumpy-looking thing, buttoned it, and patted my magnifying glass in the front pocket. After Max had been quiet for another minute, I asked, “So?”
“There are a few Roger Trims. Do you know what he looks like?”
“Nope.”
“Helpful. I’ll just go with the younger guys.” He sighed. “So one of the Rogers lists his hometown as Brooklyn, twenty-eight, and works at Taylor & Taylor International Tax Firm.”
I frowned, slowly shaking my head as I returned to the phone on the bed. “I don’t think so. I get the impression he’s not a six-figure-a-year sort of guy.”
“Hold on—here’s the other. Says he’s twenty-one and works at Tall, Dark, and Bitter.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, it’s a coffee shop.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, in Midtown on the East Side. You’ve never been there?”
“Apparently not.”
“It’s a nice place. They have a cake called Murdered by German Chocolate.”
THEY DIDhave the murder cake.
In fact, Tall, Dark, and Bitter seemed to get a kick out of menu names and didn’t miss a beat from beverage to dessert. The café was up on Twenty-Eighth Street, squished between a yogurt shop and a bank. It was dim inside, with dark-colored walls and tables, and those funky, paper-looking light fixtures from IKEA. There were couches and coffee tables near the back, and a long bar and register to the right as I walked in. A big, fancy chalkboard hung behind, decked out with their colorfully worded menu.
Most of the tables were full with early lunch-goers, so I took a seat at the bar. I had to squint hard to read the menu from that far away. Jumpstart the Ticker Espresso, Double Shot Heart Attack, Murder She Latte—I was hesitant to drink the coffee here.
“Howdy,” a young guy said as he slid into view in front of me. “Help you?”
“Uh, I guess,” I said, looking at him. Was this Roger Trim? He was young enough, but there were several employees mingling about. “I think I’ll stay away from those coffees and get some lunch.”
“I suggest the Flat on the Freeway Burger.”
I nodded. “Do I need a tetanus shot first?”
He smiled. “It’s just a turkey burger. But it’s really good.”
“Sure.”
“Want Brains with that?” He leaned over the counter. “Curly fries with ketchup,” he whispered.
“Ah. Why not. Dead freeway bird and brains, please.”
He chuckled and wrote the order on a menu pad. “I’ll be back with it soon.”
I pulled out my cell as he walked through a door that must have led to the kitchen. I picked Max from my contacts and gave him a call.
“Yo, Sleuthy McSleutherson.”
“No, it’s Sebastian.”
“I think I have Sleuthy on the phone,” Max answered.
