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A waitress appeared and addressed Simpson. “Good evening. Would you like something to drink?”
Simpson picked up the drink menu, perused it, and then ordered a local pale ale.
“Would you like an appetizer?”
He glanced at Greta, who shook her head negative. “No, I think not. Could you give us a few minutes before we order?”
“No problem. I’ll bring the beer.”
Alone again, Greta jumped in. “So, are you here to threaten me with dire consequences if I don’t stop looking at you too closely, or are you going to tell me some cock-and-bull story?”
“I take it M-two tried the former, and it didn’t go over well. Subtlety isn’t his forte, though he’s really not as bad as he sometimes seems. Well, not quite as anal anyway. What he is, though, is dedicated to his job, and he has genuine concerns about your activities.”
“Am I to take it his job is witness protection?”
“And who says local cops are unimaginative dullards?”
“I’d start with the State Police, then move on to the FBI and the Marshal Service.”
“Touché. I admit some such agencies can be a little full of themselves.”
“A little?”
“Okay,” he acknowledged. “A lot.” His ale arrived, and he took a long draught. “One of many nice things about around here. The local brewery is quite good, as are ones in Tillamook and Lincoln City. Is that a thing all along the Oregon coast?”
“I’m not sure. I’m usually a wine person. Can’t say that I’ve sampled all the local brews.”
“I recommend them. If you’re not into stronger stuff, you might try the local hefeweizen, and they have a couple of nice light pilsners.”
“I may do that.”
Greta took another sip of her wine, and Simpson, another draught. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, any chance I’m going to hear the cock-and-bull story?”
He smiled. It looked like a real smile, and he seemed to be trying to turn on some charm. “As you have surmised, what you’ve come upon is part of the Marshal Service’s witness protection program.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“The witness being protected. Usually, such people are criminals who have turned evidence against cohorts, and in exchange the government provides them with new identities. They effectively disappear. In a few cases, it’s innocents who happened to see something they shouldn’t have, and they’re given new identities after testifying.”
“Somehow I don’t envision you as the innocent bystander,” Greta said sarcastically.
“I take it you do see me as the criminal, then?”
She hesitated. Sipped her wine again, then leaned back, looking at him. “Maybe I’m having some problems with that one, too.”
Simpson laughed. “I’m crushed that you don’t feel certain I’m a dangerous person.”
“Oh, I didn’t say you aren’t dangerous. Just not certain now that you’re a felon.”
Simpson looked back at her calmly, then smiled. “I’m with the Marshal Service. A GS-13 Deputy U.S. Marshal. I was based in Boston when I got tapped to be loaned to the DEA. It was supposed to be a six-month transfer that turned into two years. You don’t need to know any details, but the bottom line is that I uncovered some interesting information that is being used against some quite nasty people. Trials are ongoing, and I reappear from time to time to testify. The powers that be, with my agreement, believe it best if I keep out of sight, except for that testimony. The trials are expected to go another year or so. Once they’re finished, we’ll reevaluate whether I can resurface without the Robert Simpson cover.”
Before Greta could think of anything to say about this, the waitress interrupted them. “So, folks. Decided what you’d like?”
They picked up the menus.
Greta had trouble focusing, so Simpson jumped in.
“While the lady is still considering, I think I’ll have the small filet, medium rare, with the baked potato, butter, no sour cream, and the soup.”
