She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking. And she could see Corbett’s point. Raking this whole thing up wasn’t going to help her solve this case. And certainly the last thing she wanted was to be taken off it. Better just to tell Corbett what he wanted to hear and keep her thoughts to herself for now.
“No, I’m good. You can count on me to do whatever it takes to get a result. My only interest in Kirk is that I think he can help solve the case. Other than that, I don’t care.”
“You’re doing a great job, Browne. Keep it going.”
The line went dead.
A few moments later there was a faint knock at the door. She grabbed a thin black sweatshirt from the back of the chair and slipped it on.
“Come in.” She was still standing by the window, her phone in her hand, as Tom entered.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Sure.” She thought she might be imagining it, but she detected a slightly hostile tinge to his voice. “I’ve booked us a table at the place next door.”
“Great.” She turned her phone off and tossed it onto her bed. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The restaurant was old-fashioned and busy, smoke lazily rising from between gesticulating fingers, dented cutlery chiming against the dull glaze of white china. Their table was at the back of the room, a slab of cold marble on cast-iron legs, a chair on one side and a bench on the other, its red velvet covering worn and stained. Tom chose the bench, Jennifer took the chair.
A waiter appeared and handed them both menus before lighting the candle that had been jammed into an old wine bottle, its neck thickened by layer upon layer of melted wax. The wick sputtered into life, the flame teasing and dancing as it grew, until its pale glow soared and reflected off the mirrored ceiling back down on to them.
Jennifer looked up from the menu and glanced at the room around her.
“Great place.”
“You can tell it’s good because it’s full of locals.” Tom nodded at the tables around them. A young couple, wedding bands freshly minted. A solitary old woman, wire-wool hair drawn back into a chignon, cracked face caked in white foundation, feeding surreptitious scraps to the Shih Tzu lurking in the depths of her handbag. A middle-aged man, arm ostentatiously draped around the shoulders of his handsome young male lover, reveling in the jealous glances from the two single women at the neighboring table.
“Has it been here long?”
Tom’s head snapped back round to face her.
“Years. Since the 1930s, at least. The Germans used to come here all the time during the occupation and if nothing else, they were always good judges of restaurants. The rest of Europe at war and this place was making a fortune.”
The waiter reappeared and took their order. Green salads to start and then steak for Tom and lamb for Jennifer accompanied by a bottle of Burgundy. The wine appeared almost immediately and Tom tasted it before nodding his approval. Two glasses were poured and the bottle was deposited on the table between them. The salads arrived, big green leaves coated in a thick, mustardy vinaigrette. They ate in an awkward silence, Jennifer’s mind drifting over her conversation with Corbett until Tom spoke, his question coinciding with her own thoughts.
“So is our deal still on?”
Jennifer nodded as she swallowed her mouthful.
“You help us, we help you. The deal stays the same. And when this thing is over, you bury Centaur. Otherwise, they’ll come after you with everything they’ve got.”
“And you believe them?”
“Why shouldn’t I? They’re not interested in you anymore. They just want the coins.”
“What if they don’t get the coins back? What if they change their mind? I’ve got no guarantees, have I?”
“Look, I give you my word on this.” Her eyes met his as she said this and she saw the same suspicion there that she had seen when they had first met. A suspicion that had faded during the day, but now seemed to have returned stronger than ever.
“Your word?”
“If you knew me, you’d know it was worth having.”
The waiter swooped down, carrying off their empty plates with a flurry of his black apron. Jennifer helped herself to another glass of wine, the alcohol helping to soothe her frayed nerves.
“So why the Bureau?” Tom asked after a long silence.
Jennifer smiled, glad for the opportunity to discuss something different.
“It’s in the blood. My father, Uncle Ronnie, Grandpa George, they were all cops. I guess the Bureau was just a small step on from that.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“It’s like any job; there are good times and bad times. But I guess I get a kick from feeling that I’m making a difference.”
“And that’s important to you, is it? Making a difference.”
“Isn’t it to everyone? Otherwise, why bother?”
Tom nodded and again she got the sense he wasn’t actually that interested in her replies, that he was just making conversation. She guessed that he was probably finding their unlikely cooperation as hard as her to reconcile with a lifetime of prejudices.
“So what do you do when you’re not working?”
“Sleep, mainly.”
“Oh.” Tom’s mouth curled into a mocking smile. “Not seeing anyone, then?”
“No,” she shot back, immediately defensive.
“But there was someone?”
“Yes.”
“What happened.”
“He died.” As soon as she said this she wished she hadn’t. This was the one thing she’d buried deep, far away from her own penetrating gaze, let alone that of others.
“How?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She drained her glass and filled it up again, feeling a little light-headed now, the candle smoke irritating her eyes.
Their food arrived and they continued eating in silence, the restaurant quieter as a few of the tables emptied. Their plates were cleared away and Tom ordered an espresso, Jennifer preferring to finish the last of the wine. When the coffee came, Tom stirred it a few times, letting the creamy film on the surface melt into the black liquid beneath.
“So where are you from, Jennifer?”
She was relieved that he seemed to have moved on.
“Do you know Tarrytown? Westchester County?” Tom shook his head.
“New York State. It’s a nice place. Shaded streets, craft stores, shiny red fire engines, active Little League. Safe.”
“And your family?”
“Mom’s a hairdresser. Worked at the same salon all her life. Just retired this year. All she wants is for me to get married so she can have grandchildren.”
Tom smiled.
“Dad’s just the opposite. Very quiet but also real funny. I think he wanted a boy but he got two girls instead, so he just always made us do boy things.”
“Is that why you drive so fast?”
“It’s the only way I know.” She grinned. “Anyway, he left the force five years ago now. My sister Rachel’s just finished at Johns Hopkins. She wants to be a doctor.”
“You get on well with them all?”
“We have our moments, like everyone. But yeah, sure. I don’t see them as much as I should, though.”
There was a pause.
“They must be… very proud of you,” said Tom.
Perhaps it was the sudden sadness in Tom’s voice that hinted at his own loss, or the smoke from the candle, or even the sharp pain of Jennifer’s unspoken guilt. Whichever it was, she suddenly felt incredibly sad.
They were both silent as the waiters pirouetted around their table, suffocating the candles between their saliva-coated fingers with a sharp hiss.