“Roger that. Proceeding to subject now. I am.”
Wondering what the last sentence meant.
“And weapon is confirmed?” he asked uneasily.
“Affirmative, Eight One.”
“Roger.”
Well, he knew his job. He had to clear the cab and disarm Merritt.
Not only for his and everyone else’s safety, but for his own reputation. He could hear: What were you doing, kid, just standing there with your thumb up your ass? You didn’t even try to collar him?
He crouched behind his open door and drew his Glock. Nagle peered through the window. Glare. Not much to see other than the former cop’s silhouette. No sign of his hands.
He thought of the fiancée he’d proposed to just one week ago at their favorite Outback. He’d rested the black Zales ring box on a napkin in the center of the restaurant’s signature Bloomin’ Onion.
Oh, Kelli...
Well, muscle up some balls. Crouching, Nagle pointed the weapon at the outline of the cop’s head. When the window didn’t come down he felt more confident. Aiming, two-handed, keeping low, he stepped from cover and slowly approached.
“Jon Merritt! Put your hands out the window. If you do not show your hands you will be fired upon!”
This line came not from training but a thriller novel he’d been listening to on speed-trap duty on Old Davie Road. Sounded good, though, and it was probably what real cops said because the author had been with the NYPD.
No response.
“Merritt! Let me see your hands!”
Moving close, Glock up, he slipped his finger from outside the trigger guard to in. Still no clear view of Merritt, but he saw his own reflection in the window. With his left hand he gripped the door handle. If it was locked, he’d just retreat and wait. He’d done his duty.
Please let it be locked.
It wasn’t.
Nagle yanked the door open all the way and dropped immediately to his knees like doing squats at the gym, praying that when Merritt shot, he would hit the armored plate and not flesh.
The young officer blinked and lowered the gun.
He couldn’t imagine how the teenager, a gangly boy in an AC/DC sweatshirt and with a panicked expression on his pimply face, had managed to curl up into such a tiny ball that his entire body fit perfectly on the passenger-side floor.
50
They finally would sit down to a meal.
Though it would have to be a brief one.
Sonja Nilsson had motored east along Route 92 to this diner, a mile from the Sunny Acres motel.
Shaw wanted a briefing as to how her canvass among employees of HEP was going; he would give her details of the assault at the motel.
Could this be done over the phone?
Of course.
But... why not meet in person, as long as he had time to kill while the Winnebago was being repaired?
They climbed from the Range Rover, Shaw noting that she had changed. She now wore a black pleated-skirt business suit and a black silk blouse. The jacket fit closely and had been tailored to add a bulge on her right hip, slightly back, the exact place where Shaw wore his Glock. Her blond tresses were down and shimmered in the muted sunlight as they danced in the hay-scented breeze.
She radared the surrounding. Shaw did too. He saw neither lead nor threat.
The diner was the only living structure in the immediate vicinity. The other buildings were long abandoned, some in a partial or full state of collapse. A rusted sign with the silhouette of a green dinosaur swung back and forth before a long-closed gas station. What was the brand? Shaw couldn’t recall. From ages ago.
Shaped like an Airstream trailer, gleaming even in the shade, the diner was an architect’s fantasy. Inside, all the seating surfaces were covered with red Naugahyde. The floor was gray linoleum, the counters abundantly armed with chrome condiment racks: you would never want for salt or pepper or ketchup or mustard in the Route 66 Diner, the name apparently deriving from an old TV show; black-and-white production stills and headshots were mounted everywhere.
At the register, Nilsson pointed to a booth in the back and a waitress said, “Sure thing,” and led them to it.
Shaw usually sat facing the front.
Never present your back to the enemy...
But Nilsson took that spot. He didn’t mind; she seemed just as watchful as he was.
A cheerful, pink-uniformed waitress, inked on the forearm with a bared-tooth tiger, took their order — BLTs for both, coffee for Shaw, tea for Nilsson.
“The attack?” she asked.
“Two of them, armed. Wore ski masks. I don’t think Merritt was one of them. On the video at the lawyer’s car he was wearing a dark windbreaker. These two were in a black suit and tie, and a tan jacket. Looks like he’s hired a pair of triggermen.”
“Pros?” She frowned.
The beverages arrived. Shaw added milk to his, Nilsson lemon.
Shaw said, “He probably used a contact from his cop days. Somebody with a crew.”
“He really wants her dead. I know reason goes out the window with domestics, and that’s part of it. But it smells like there’s more. Maybe—”
Shaw completed her thought: “What Marty was talking about earlier. She’s got something on him he doesn’t want to get out.”
She lifted the tea, inhaled the steam. “You know, Colter, I was thinking. Those two, at the motel? There was a hit downtown. A month ago. Whistleblower for a state agency. Another corruption thing — dipping into cleanup funds. A witness said the perps were two white males and one was in a black suit. They got away in a white van. There was a third perp, a driver. Not identified. You know what the two at the motel were driving?”
“White van — a Ford Transit.”
She said, “I wonder how many Transits there are.”
“Eight million since it was introduced. Most of them are white.”
“You know that from your reward business?”
“Just looked it up online. That deputy back at the motel—”
Nilsson asked, “Oh, the pretty one?”
Shaw came back with “Was she?”
Drawing a wry smile.
“She’s got it out on the wire. We’re in Marshall County, but it’ll go to all surrounding. And Allison’s in a gold Kia sedan now. Sheriff’s office’s looking for that too.”
The food came and they ate. Shaw understood the popularity of the diner. The sandwich was excellent. Crisp would have figured prominently in a review, applying it to the entire dish: bacon, lettuce, tomato and toast.
Nilsson gazed around. She was then aware he was watching her face and turned her attention back. “Classic. Feels like we’re in a Quentin Tarantino movie. He gets a lot of mileage out of diners.”
Shaw had started to watch one of the director’s films with Margot, years ago. He couldn’t remember the title but seemed to recall that, yes, there’d been a big scene in a diner. The two of them never finished the film, though not because of cinematic flaws. Something had intruded. Afterward, they’d been too tired to fire up the DVD player again.
“Any word about the lawyer?” Shaw asked.
“Still missing, presumed dead. The Kenoah’s a popular burial ground. FPD has divers but nobody wants to go in. They draw straws. They’re running a grid search near his car. Any idea which direction Allison went from the motel?”
“A camera got her on Fifty-five, north. The Transit kept going west on Ninety-two. Assuming she’s not bound for Canada, what’s around here, where she could go to ground?”
“Not much. No motels until you get north of Millton. Mostly forest and field. Marshland. A few residences: vacation places. Cabins and trailer parks. Has some bad pockets.”