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“Well, then, hell, yes.”
“I thought Hellman’s? They have booths in the back.”
“Give me thirty minutes to check out and I’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks, Carter, I appreciate it,” Washington said, touched Carter’s arm, and walked back to his car.
When Sergeant Carter walked into the back room of Hellman’s Restaurant, he found Sergeant Jason Washington already there, sitting alone in a booth, his massive hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
“You must have a problem,” Carter said as he slipped into the bench across from Washington. “Beer, little problem, whiskey, big problem.”
“Big problem,” Washington agreed.
Carter glanced around the room, looking for a waitress. He couldn’t see one, but he saw a familiar face in another booth.
“Richard Kallanan’s over there,” he said, waving.
Kallanan took his hand from his glass of whiskey long enough to wave back.
A waitress appeared from the barroom. Carter waved to catch her attention.
“Cutty Sark, on the rocks,” Carter ordered. “You ready, Jason?”
“Might as well.”
“I thought Kallanan was one of those straight home to the wife and kiddies types,” Carter said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in here before.”
“I don’t think he comes in here often,” Washington said. “Tonight’s sort of special.”
“What?”
“You want to know what Kallanan’s thinking right now, Carter?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He’s thinking, ‘Christ, why didn’t I recognize Carter in that car?’”
“What car would that be, Washington?”
“The car normally driven by Foster Lewis’s boy, the kid we call ‘Tiny,’” Washington said. “The one you drove to Monahan’s house.”
“That sounds like an accusation, Washington.”
“Statement of fact. We picked your prints off the plastic behind the front seat. You know where I mean? Where it’s flat on top? You must have touched it when you got in. Or maybe when you reached for the seat belt. We got a match on your pinky, ring and index fingers.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but you could probably find my prints on half the unmarked cars in the parking lot.”
“We also got your prints, heel of the hand and four fingers, on the hood of Matt Payne’s pretty little Porsche.”
“I must have rested my hand on it when I looked down at the tire.”
“More likely when you stabbed the tires,” Washington said.
“You don’t really believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind, Washington!”
