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In other words, she mentally translated, you’ll do your best to shit-can my job here and then relocate this Simpson someplace else. I doubt they want to go through that. Maybe I’d better throw out a bone to appear somewhat reasonable, but I’m not backing off if there’s any chance Simpson was involved in Toompas’s murder.
She tried to match his “Let’s try to work together since we’re all buddy cops” new tack. “I appreciate that you have your job, but you should also reciprocate in understanding I have mine. Now if you can convince me that our Mr. Simpson had nothing to do with my murder case, then I’ll, of course, back off. If not, then I have no choice but to continue.”
Marshall settled into his chair. He knew she wasn’t going to back down. He would have to kick this upstairs. He stood up. “Consider everything I’ve said, Deputy Havorsford.” Marshall Asshole stalked out.
Well, that went well, he thought, as he got into his car. He had misjudged how to handle the local woman sheriff’s deputy.
It was drizzling the next morning. Greta sat at the kitchen nook, eating a yogurt, when she got a call on her personal cell phone.
“Hello.”
“Hello, there. This is Robert Simpson. We met briefly at the Surf’s Up Restaurant, and I understand we have a mutual acquaintance you talked with yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“I would like to suggest we meet and discuss where to go from here. What if I buy you dinner tonight?”
Well, well, she thought. This is interesting.
“The Surf’s Up Restaurant. Seven tonight.”
“Fine. I’ll see you there,” he replied in an amused tone.
She made herself a cup of coffee, real coffee, not decaf, and a bowl of oatmeal, then sat at her table, mulling over the unexpected invitation.
Why the invite? she wondered. To warn me off again? Revealing something? Sizing me up for a mob hit? Maybe not the last option, but I’ll go armed, even if it’s in a public place during the busiest time of the evening.
The rest of the day dragged, despite her efforts to concentrate on immediate tasks. No one else noticed her distraction. One speeding ticket (50 mph in a Pacific City 25 mph zone), a lapsed license plate registration sticker (two years out of date—she would have just warned the driver if it had been only one year), a complaint about someone doing a wheelie on a lawn, and the big item of the day, driving to Lincoln City to transport a bail jumper back to the Tillamook jail.
At six fifteen that evening, she got home. It was still drizzling, as it had all day. When she first came to the Oregon coast, she had been amazed how an all-day drenching drizzle could still add up to only a tenth of a measured inch of precipitation. Greta liked the dampness and the accompanying fresh ocean air, but she understood why it wasn’t a country for the depressed.
Now, what to wear for her “dinner date”? She toyed with the idea of dressing up, heels and all, then decided, only half in jest, that heels would only slow her down if she had to run from or after Simpson.
Her deputy uniform was out. She settled for a dark gray pants suit, a white blouse, one-inch heeled shoes, hair let out, a slight touch of rouge. She hemmed and hawed and then left the top two buttons on the blouse undone. Her .32 went in the back of her waistband.
She got to the restaurant at ten to seven, hoping to be first so she could pick where to sit. It worked. She asked for and got a table for four in the middle of the main dining room. The restaurant was about two-thirds full of customers, including several she knew casually and a few others she was on a first-name basis with.
She ordered a glass of wine, figuring she needed a bit of bracing. She planned to drink it slowly. She was in luck—they had a Columbia Valley riesling. Many restaurants thought white wine began with chardonnay and ended with white zinfandel. She never understood why anyone drank chardonnay, and white zinfandel was cloyingly sweet to hide the taste. She was a quarter of the way down her glass when Simpson showed up.
He still looked rough, but his short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt had been replaced by a heavy plaid flannel, which, along with slacks, sport
coat, shined shoes, and a new haircut, made him seem a few years younger and less suspicious-looking. He was tallish, perhaps her own height or an inch or so less, and he was quite a bit heavier than her now that she could see all of him. A compact build hinted at needing to watch his weight to avoid a paunch. He didn’t have the expression of a felon about to be exposed but instead appeared to be almost bordering on amusement.
“Good evening, Deputy Havorsford,” he said, sitting opposite her. “Thanks for coming.”
Well . . . there’s no doubt she’s a woman, Simpson thought. Her low neckline and dark suit emphasized her smooth white skin and ample chest.
She had chosen deliberately to give him something to look at and maybe provide her with a slight edge in whatever they were going to discuss.
She’s never going to be called pretty, he thought, but it’s a strong face. All in all, a striking young woman . . . big, but striking.
Greta cut to the chase. “And our mutual friend is where tonight?”
“M-two is back in Salem, as far as I know.”
“M-two?”
“That’s his nickname in the Marshal Service. He prefers it pronounced ‘M-two.’ Some say ‘M-squared,’ although he doesn’t really like that. Even he is aware that Marshal Marshall is a bit much.”
