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“You say he’s become a regular?”
“I asked the people on shift tonight, and they aren’t positive, but they think it’s only Wednesday nights and after eight o’clock.”
“Does he ever eat with anyone?”
“Not that anyone can remember.”
So . . . no evidence of meeting Toompas. She smiled at herself. Hey . . . one can always hope for a miracle, like them remembering him eating with Toompas every Wednesday.
He saw the deputy drive up and come in the front door. A big man, he automatically assumed. Moves easily on his feet. He noticed things like that, a natural gift honed by experiences that put a premium on situational awareness. His casual observations sharpened when the deputy looked directly his way from the other corner of the restaurant after speaking with the staff person at the register. He didn’t worry, but one never knew.
He was surprised when the deputy doffed the wide-brimmed hat. Unless he’s were different from she’s around here, the he was a she, as evidenced by the bun. A woman, then. You do see more woman police every year, he thought, but this was a big one. About late thirtyish?
His attention focused more sharply, as the deputy headed in his direction and took off her coat. He made three quick observations. Many women police looked ridiculous in the uniform and a utility belt too big for their size, but this one wore the belt easily, riding on her hips as if it wasn’t there. She moved smoothly, like a cat, except this cat had to be a good six foot three and upward of two hundred pounds. His final observation was that she was much younger than he’d first thought, maybe late twenties? It was her size and the initial impression of her features from a distance that made his original estimate older. Clear young skin. Sharp light-brown eyes that went with the cat-like movements. Dark brown hair, probably long, as indicated by the size of the bun. Definitely female, judging from the hips and the chest.
He took all this in without a fractional second, with no more apparent attention than someone’s brief glance around an entire room. A learned wariness elevated his heart rate, although he didn’t show it.
“Hello, there,” said a contralto voice, deeper than most women but definitely female.
He pretended surprise and looked up. “Hello?” He’d planned for his tone to indicate surprise. However, he didn’t have to pretend when she dropped her coat at the end of the booth seat opposite him and slid in, setting her hat on top of the coat. She gave him a friendly enough look.
“I’m Tillamook County Deputy Sheriff Havorsford. And you might be—?”
Not expecting such a direct approach, he momentarily stared, then, caught a little off guard, asked, “Why do you want to know?”
The friendly façade morphed into a more suspicious mode, her brows dropping and mouth tightening slightly.
He faked what he hoped was a confused smile. “Sorry. You just startled me, Deputy . . . Haversferd, was it?”
“Havorsford, with O’s, Greta Havorsford. As I was saying, you are—?”
“Simpson. Robert Simpson. What can I do for you, Deputy?”
“Oh, I just hadn’t noticed you around Pacific City. This is my patrol area. I like to get acquainted with people. Helps the citizens to be familiar with me and lets me feel the pulse of the community to see who’s coming and going. You been around here long?”
“A few months. Just moved from back East.”
“Back East, huh? Like . . . East Coast?”
“Boston.”
“Boston, huh? Don’t hear much Boston in your accent, although I noticed the California license on the Toyota Prius out in the lot, not Massachusetts. All the others were Oregon plates.”
“I’m not from Boston originally,” he answered, skipping over the incongruity of license plates. “Just lived there the last couple of years. Came originally from Illinois.”
“Still surprises me. I’m from Missouri and thought I could recognize a Chicago area accent.”
His attention was now on full alert. Why these questions? he wondered. He had been answering without thinking, going through memorized facts. He needed to pay more attention.
“Not Chicago, Peoria.”
“Peoria. Never been there myself. I hear there’re some pretty settings along the Tippecanoe River.”
Jesus, he thought. She is grilling me.
“Illinois. It’s the Illinois River. Tippecanoe is across into Indiana. Goes through Lafayette.”
“Right,” Greta said. “I’m not much on geography.”
