“Relax,” he said. “We’re not here for that. Let’s go inside and talk.”
The girl searched their faces. Lena wondered if she didn’t see a sense of expectation in her blue-green eyes. A certain reach as if she already understood why they were here and always knew that they would come.
“What’s your name?” Lena said.
“Natalie Wells.”
“Let’s talk inside.”
Rhodes swung the door open. As they entered the restaurant, they were met with a rush of warm, fragrant air. Lena could smell the chickens roasting from the pit behind the counter. To the right she noted a wood-burning fireplace, already lighted as they prepared for lunch, and dinner, and whatever came after that. A row of booths lined the far wall. Another two waitresses were setting the tables in the center of the room.
What struck Lena most about the place was that it didn’t meet her expectations in any way. Large black-and-white photographs of the city from the 1950s lined the freshly painted white walls. The floor was planked hardwood, buffed and finished to match the fireplace mantel and the molding around the doors and windows. And the tablecloths and napkins the waitresses had set down weren’t made of paper. They were linen. As she took a step to her right, she spotted a Hammond B-3 organ, a set of drums, and three mike stands. By any standard the Cock-a-doodle-do wasn’t a dive. The place was clean and inviting and they played jazz here.
A door opened from the kitchen and a middle-aged woman stepped out in black slacks and a white blouse. She appeared well groomed and well kept. Although her features were fine, even delicate, Lena could tell from the expression on her face that she made them for cops even before the door rocked back and closed. As she approached, her gaze shifted to the waitress.
“What is it, Natalie? Is there a problem?”
“We’re from Robbery-Homicide,” Rhodes said. “Are you the manager?”
The woman turned to him. “Catherine Valero,” she said. “I own the restaurant. How can I help you?”
Lena opened the file, displaying their photograph of the victim. “Last Wednesday night this woman was abducted from your parking lot. You may have seen it on the news. Her body was found in Hollywood.”
Valero studied the picture and appeared concerned. “I take Wednesdays off, but Natalie was here.”
Lena turned to the waitress. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her body, even tighter than before. And that reach was still burning in her eyes.
“I waited on her,” she whispered.
Lena traded a quick look with Rhodes, feeling the adrenalin kick through her bloodstream. Then Rhodes turned to Valero.
“We can talk later,” he said. “Would you mind if we spoke with Natalie alone?”
“Of course not. Sit down and relax. Would you like something to drink?”
“We’re fine,” he said. “Thanks.”
Valero walked back through the kitchen door. Rhodes glanced at the other two waitresses and pointed to a table out of earshot by the fireplace. As they sat down, Lena opened her file to the photograph and noticed that Natalie Wells was trembling. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her body was small and curvy. Her hair, the kind of brown that lightened in the summer. Sizing her up, Lena couldn’t help but notice that there was something soft and exceedingly gentle about the girl.
“Why are you so frightened?” she asked.
“I’m not.”
“Did you know her?”
Wells shook her head, lowering her gaze with her arms still shielding her breasts. “I just waited on her.”
“This is more than a restaurant, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” she whispered.
“Was she a regular?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. She seems familiar, but I don’t think so.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“A couple of months.”
“Just in the restaurant?”
Wells paused, her eyes dancing over the place setting before her. “No,” she said finally. “Not just in the restaurant.”
The words hung there for a moment, along with the image of that second building off the parking lot and what went on there.
“Okay,” Lena said. “You were working on Wednesday night. You were waiting tables.”
Wells’s eyes finally rose up from the place setting. “She ordered a cup of coffee.”
“She was by herself?”
Wells shook her head. “She came in alone. Then some guy sat down with her. When I brought the coffee over, he ordered a glass of ice water with lemon. He called her Jennifer.”
“Did she use his name?”
“No. But I got the feeling that they knew each other and had been together before. That happens a lot. Guys wanting the same girl.”
“Did you overhear anything they were saying?”
“Just small talk.”
“Were they here for very long?”
“Maybe half an hour. They got up like they were ready to leave, but then he changed his mind and said he wanted to finish his ice water. She walked out and he stayed for a while. It looked like he enjoyed making her wait.”
Lena glanced at Rhodes. He was sitting back in the chair, quietly taking notes. A ray of muted sunlight from the window brushed against his face and she could see a certain degree of emotion in his eyes.
She turned back to her file and found the DMV photo of Fontaine that Rhodes had added to the stack before they left Parker Center.
“That’s not him,” Wells said. “He was younger. Better looking.”
Lena flipped the photograph over to the shot of their witness stealing money from the ATM. Wells paused for a moment, her mind going.
“I’ve seen that face before,” she said. “But that’s not him.”
“We think he was here that night,” Lena said.
Wells glanced back at the photo. “Like I said, we were busy.”
Lena pushed it aside for later review and pulled out the six-pack Rollins had created on his computer. “What about any of these?”
The girl’s eyes drifted over the six faces. “They look familiar, too. But I can’t place them.”
“All of them look familiar?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Lots of people come through here. None of these look like the guy she was with.”
Lena set the six-pack beside the shot from the ATM. Remaining quiet, she let the din of the room take over and gave Wells a long look. The girl was still nervous. Too nervous. After ten minutes any embarrassment over what she did for a living should have subsided. Yet her arms were still wrapped tight around her chest. Her body remained stiff and locked up.
“You’re holding something back,” Lena said finally. “You’re not telling us the truth. When you walked outside ten minutes ago, you knew who we were and why we were here.”
Wells stared back at her in silence.
“Are you afraid you’ll lose your job?” Lena asked. “Did you see the abduction? Is someone pressuring you?”
“No,” she said. “I saw the story on TV, but didn’t call in.”
“Okay, so you feel guilty. But this is more than that. A lot more. You’re holding something back. Something that you know is important.”
Without a word Wells got up from the table and crossed the room. Her purse sat on the counter beside a cup of tea, a paperback, and a newspaper that had been read and folded in half. Retrieving the paper, she returned to the table, found the business section and opened it. Lena gave Rhodes a quick look, then watched as Wells set the paper down in front of them and pointed to a photograph.
“That’s who she was with,” she said. “Him.”
19
Lena sat in the passenger seat gazing at the photograph in the paper as Rhodes wheeled the Crown Vic toward West Hollywood. According to the article, I-Marketing Institute was conducting an open focus group at their offices on Melrose Avenue this afternoon. The first thirty people to survive the screening process would pocket $350 at the end of the day.
Justin Tremell owned IMI, Inc., and would be directing the marketing session with his business partner.