“And?”
“And a guy who must be your Glenn Willard did deliver her meals regularly... but he didn’t do it the day of her death.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. The guy subbing for Willard was dressed similarly, similar look generally, but definitely not the same guy.”
Her stomach did a backflip. “Do we know who the ringer is?”
“Not yet,” Miggie said. “Facial recognition came up nada.”
“Have you talked to Avninder, the owner of the restaurant, since you got this?”
“Briefly, on the phone. Knows nothing about anybody filling in for Willard. But I figure you’ll want to talk to him yourself, and not on the phone.”
Nearby, the evidence team was hauling the bulging bags of dope out of Building Two and loading them into a van — they were going to need another.
She told the phone, “Send the file on the restaurant and the owner to our phones. Hardesy can fill me in while I drive.”
“You got it,” Miggie said, then clicked off.
Turning to Hardesy, she said, “Reeder was right.”
“Was he now?”
“Ready for this? Glenn Willard delivered the secretary’s sandwich on every day but one. Guess which.”
Her colleague’s eyebrows rose high on his endless forehead. “Jesus. What are we into?”
She didn’t answer that, saying instead, “We kind of missed the noon hour, but I did promise to buy you lunch. And I have a certain restaurant in mind...”
Ye Olde Sandwich Shoppe, a hole-in-the-wall joint, sat only blocks from Yellich’s DC office. Owner Dev Avninder was in his sixties, the patriarch of a family business he’d opened when he brought his brood to the United States almost three decades ago (according to the file Altuve sent them).
When Rogers and Hardesy walked in, the lunch rush was long over, just a couple of diners at the four tables in the tiny room. The back was taken up with a glass deli case and a counter with register, behind which stood a gray-haired, white-bearded man in suit and tie, with the proud look of a man who’d built an empire, however small. Behind him, younger workers in clean white T-shirts were making sandwiches and otherwise putting together orders, working rather frantically. Lunch hour might be over, but the demand for the little shop’s sandwiches wasn’t.
“Mr. Avninder?” Rogers asked, flashing her credentials.
The man’s brown eyes lost a tiny bit of spark, and his automatic smile for all customers died on its way to his lips. “Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Rogers and this is Special Agent Hardesy. We’d like a word with you.”
“We are very busy,” Avninder said.
Hardesy said, “Doesn’t really look that way, sir.”
“My business is mostly delivery. And my best deliveryman did not show up for work today. We are seriously behind schedule.”
Rogers said, “Your best deliveryman — you mean, Glenn Willard?”
Avninder’s eyes became slits. “And how do you know this?”
“He’s in the hospital,” Rogers said. “In the emergency room, or possibly surgery by now.”
A hand rose to his lips but didn’t quite touch them; his eyes were wide, white all around. “This is terrible. What has happened? Is he ill?”
Hardesy said, “He pulled a gun on a federal agent and got himself shot.”
Avninder drew a breath in, quick. “I... I don’t believe it! Glenn... he is a good man!”
At his raised voice, a slender girl working the food counter turned in concern. “Papa, what is it?”
“More federal agents, dear — they say Glenn drew a gun, and that... that one of them shot him.”
The girl, her black hair ponytailed back, her white T-shirt emblazoned with the name of the restaurant, looked far less surprised than her father. She peered at them past the register.
Matter-of-fact, she asked, “Was it because of drugs?”
“Drugs!” her father said. It was damn near a yelp.
“You knew he sold drugs?” Hardesy asked the girl.
She shrugged.
Shaken, Avninder said to his daughter, “What is this craziness about drugs?”
Rogers locked eyes with the girl, who had ignored her father’s question. “And you are?”
“Veena Avninder.” She was in her early twenties, pretty, and clearly had a different angle on the world than her father.
Rogers asked, “Did you know Glenn was selling drugs?”
“Yes,” she said, not at all ducking it. “That was common knowledge.”
Her father’s eyes flared. “Veena!” Then to the agents he said, quietly, “I did not know of this. He seems a nice young man.”
Veena seemed a nice young woman, but she knew about the drugs didn’t she?
As if Rogers had spoken that question aloud, Veena said, “But Glenn never sold them here! My father’s business is legitimate. We make deliveries to some of the most important people in town.”
But that didn’t preclude drugs, did it?
Hardesy asked, “What about Glenn’s deliveries? Was he delivering more than sandwiches?”
Veena gave a very elaborate shrug that said she didn’t know, but suspected he probably was. Rogers wondered if the girl was herself a customer of Glenn’s, but didn’t press in front of her papa.
Hardesy asked, “Mr. Avninder, has anyone talked to you about the death of Secretary of the Interior Yellich?”
The old man frowned deep and suddenly Rogers had a pretty good idea why Avninder had been brusque when they came in. He seemed to be searching for words, but his daughter beat him to it.
She said, “Other FBI agents stopped by, and my father explained that he himself made the Secretary’s sandwiches — she was a longtime, valued customer, who came into the shop at times.”
“I knew all about her allergy,” her father said. “I told the agents, and someone from the FBI today who called, and I told him, too. She was a fine lady and I looked out for her.”
Rogers asked, “You made the sandwich yourself that day?”
“I did. As always.”
“It’s not possible you were busy, and someone else stepped in to do it, maybe someone who didn’t know about the allergy and made a mistake?”
“No! Impossible.”
Rogers didn’t press it further. “All right,” she said. “Did the FBI agents ask you about the other deliveryman the day of the tragedy?”
Avninder shook his head as if trying to clear it. He said, “What are you talking about? For over a year now, Glenn delivered the Secretary her sandwich every day. What other deliveryman?”
Rogers said, “Someone substituted for Glenn that day.”
The old man swiped the air with a dismissive hand. “No, you are misinformed. Glenn took it as always.”
On her cell, Rogers brought up Miggie’s security still showing the alternate deliveryman and showed it to Avninder.
Nodding as he looked at it, Avninder insisted, “As I said, Glenn...” Then his voice trailed off.
Veena stepped forward, looked at the photo. “That’s not Glenn,” she confirmed. “There’s a resemblance, but that’s definitely not Glenn.”
Rogers asked, “Do you know who it is? Someone else here? Someone who fills in?”
Veena shook her head, then turned to Avninder. “Papa?”
He said, stiffly, ridiculously proud, “I have never seen this person before.”
“So, then,” Hardesy said, “how did he end up delivering the Secretary her fatal lunch?”
They both shrugged, then looked at each other and shrugged again.
“No idea,” Veena said.
“I have no idea also,” her father said, at her side.
Rogers exchanged grim glances with Hardesy.