“It was this,” he said, “or greeter at Walmart.”
He sat down across from her. His suit was well tailored and his tie probably two hundred bucks. But she knew he was a sweatshirt and jeans guy at heart.
“A past murder scene,” she said, “is your idea of memories, memories? There are cheaper ways to reminisce.”
His smile broadened. “I’m not a government worker anymore, remember? I’m a high-priced consultant. Let me show you how much an average citizen like me appreciates you hardworking G-gals and guys.”
“I smell an ulterior motive,” she said.
“Well, you’ve got a cop’s nose. Or maybe it’s my Clive Christian Number One.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Hell no. Aqua Velva. Don’t laugh. It’s a step up from Old Spice. Listen, Patti. Thanks for this.”
She toasted him with her empty martini glass. “Thank you. It’s overdue. Been almost a month.”
A real waiter arrived and raised an eyebrow at Reeder by way of a question.
“Arnold Palmer for me,” Reeder said, “and... another martini for the lady?”
She nodded, thinking how twentieth century her former partner always sounded, and the waiter left.
“Rough day at the office?” he asked, knowing she rarely had a first cocktail, let alone a second.
She shrugged. “Uneasy the head that wears the crown.”
“Fuckin’ A,” he said.
These dinner meetings, not really dates, occurred every couple of weeks. The two had an easy chemistry developed in a case that had finally gone somewhere very dark. At first, they had met to talk about that, their shared trauma so to speak, and their dinner chats had evolved into a casual frankness. Joe Reeder seemed to her much less the mystery man now and more a good friend.
“But you’re okay?” he asked, with understated but genuine concern.
In the low-key lighting of the bar, the planes of his rugged face had an undeniable attractiveness, emphasized by the whiteness of his hair, including those eyebrows, against a tanned complexion left over from a Florida trip.
The fresh martini came, she sipped it, the waiter disappeared, and she said to Reeder, “I’m going to ask you an embarrassing question.”
“Do my best not to wet myself.”
“Joe — in all this time... I’m just wondering... why is it you’ve never, you know...”
“Hit on you?”
She nodded.
He chuckled and a wave of embarrassment washed over her.
“You can ask that with a straight face?” he said. “I’m something like fifteen years older than you, easy.”
“Like that has ever stopped any man from hitting on a woman! Particularly with your kind of sugar daddy potential.”
A grin flashed. “I like that. Sugar daddy potential. But what’s the use, kid? I mean, after all, you’re gay.”
Red rushed to her cheeks. “What do you mean? I... I’ve had boyfriends.”
“Okay, then. Let’s say you’re bi. An old goat like me has two sexes to compete with? No thank you. Even if you are cute as lace pants.”
She laughed. “Maybe that should offend me.”
“No it shouldn’t. Potential sugar daddies get to say politically inexcusable things to nice-looking women in bars. Anyway, you should be flattered — I was quoting Raymond Chandler.”
“No you weren’t.”
He sipped his Arnold Palmer. “I certainly was.”
“You were quoting Philip Marlowe, and that’s a completely different thing.”
The white eyebrows went up. “I stand corrected. And impressed by your investigator’s eye for accuracy.”
The waiter returned and took their order.
“Okay,” she said. “So much for repartee. Why are we here? I mean, we’ve established we’re not going to be an item.”
His face turned serious — not grave, not somber. But decidedly serious. He tilted his head as if he were looking over the tops of glasses he wasn’t wearing. “I need to ask a favor.”
“The steak that’s on its way to me,” she said, with a touch of lightness, “will buy you a pretty good favor. Not to invoke unpleasant memories, Joe — but shoot.”
“Not so fast, kid. Even for filet béarnaise, this might not be worth the risk.”
She leaned forward and almost whispered. “You saved my life, Joe. Gay, straight, bisexual, it’s a life I don’t mind living. What do you need?”
His shrug was barely perceptible. “I’m looking into a suicide.”
She arched a brow. “The president of ABC Security is looking into—”
“Supposed suicide of a friend,” he said. “Retired Secret Service agent. Worked with him back in the day.”
“‘Supposed suicide’ says you think it’s murder.”
“I do. And his wife thinks the same. I’d like to say the man saved my life...”
As he had saved hers.
“... but that’s not the case. He wasn’t best man at my wedding. He was no Gabe Sloan. Just a guy I occasionally worked with. But, Patti — he was one of us. He deserves better.”
She set her martini to one side. “Spell it out.”
He did.
Then she said, “And the cops are buying this? They think a guy with a Glock in a shoulder holster chose to hang himself? Ridiculous.”
“My read exactly. Of course, they formed their theory before I let Carl Bishop know I’d received that phone message from Chris. Bish thinks I can get the detective in charge to listen, but I’d like to have something more to show the guy.”
She flicked him a smile. “Sounds like this is where the favor comes in.”
“Almost certainly Bryson called me from a burner phone. But the police are not about to let me get into his records.”
She shrugged. “Play the hero card. You’re Joe frickin’ Reeder, for Pete’s sake.”
“Is that your third martini? Fourth maybe? In what world do cops adore ex-feds who get a lot of play in the media?”
She nodded; he was right again. “And you want to know if he called anybody else on that phone?”
“Could be a good jumping-off point — see if the police are missing anything.”
Nodding again, she said, “Give me both numbers, normal cell and burner one. It wasn’t a blocked number, was it?”
“No. I have that for you. Both of them.”
“Good. I’m in. Hey, I’m the boss of a task force, remember?”
“It’s good to be king,” Reeder said, and handed her a slip of paper with both numbers.
She held it up by thumb and middle finger, like evidence she didn’t want to spoil. “You knew I’d say yes.”
“No. High probability. Particularly after I said you were nice looking.”
She grunted a laugh. “Sugar daddy.”
They went silent as their food arrived. When the waiter left, they ate slowly, enjoying their steaks, which was a skill cops like Rogers and Reeder had to develop, in a life filled with so many on-the-fly meals.
When they had finished, and a busboy had cleared the table, she noticed him staring at her.
“What, broccoli in my teeth?”
He glanced around them, then said quietly, “If this really was a suicide, and I suppose it could be, well... it’s no big thing. Just another guy the job caught up with. But if it’s murder...?”
“Yeah?”
He leaned in. “Patti, Chris Bryson was good, really good. He made presidential detail in the Service. He was successful as a one-man operation in this corporate world.”
“Okay...”
He gave her the over-the-invisible-glasses look again. “If somebody took him out, and managed to get the better of him? So much the better of him that they could make his murder look like it was his idea...?”