water here, for sure. I’m open if you have a better idea—?”
I shake my head. “Wish I did. Nothing’s come in on either of the tip lines?”
Zake pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “No messages or missed calls. I’ll reach out to Taft just in case.”
I watch as he connects the call, speaks for a few minutes, listens for a few minutes, and disconnects. “Nothing?”
“Nada. No ransom calls. The Andersons are doing an interview with Live5News at three this afternoon. Brett’s station is pulling out all the stops.”
“Sounds like Beverly got her exclusive. What are the chances we could talk them out of it?” I ask him.
“Less then a snowball’s in hell. Taft and Biller already tried. They did promise not to mention anything specific about the investigation.”
Before he can say more, the waitress is back with two plates balanced on one arm, two identical pitchers clutched in the opposite hand. She places the pitchers on the edge of the table, sets our food in front of us, then proceeds to fill our glasses. How she can tell which tea is sweet and which is unsweetened, I don’t have a clue. But a cautious sip tells me she got it right.
Zack ordered what appears to be a pulled pork sandwich with baked mac and cheese and cheddar grits. As soon as the plate is set in front of him, he starts right in on his sandwich.
“Good?”
“Terrific,” he says, before enthusiastically sampling the mac and cheese.
I take another swallow of tea, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. Zack looks like a man who works out religiously. His biceps bulge under his shirt as he picks the sandwich back up. ’Course the werewolf genes might be a factor. I’ve yet to meet a fat werewolf.
Zack catches me staring. “What?”
“I envy your metabolism. Apple turnovers, pecan rolls, cheese grits.”
“They really are fabulous,” he says, holding out a forkful of the grits in my direction.
I hold up my hand. “No thanks.”
I flake off a bit of salmon. It’s light and the honey glaze melts in my mouth.
He waves the cheesy concoction in front of me. “Come on, you know you want a bite. They’re awfully goooood…” He drags out the word like a kid.
Well, why not? I take his hand in mine, open my mouth, and guide the fork in. Zack’s skin is warm. The texture of the grits velvety smooth, the flavor rich with an unexpected kick.
“Those are amazing,” I admit.
“It’s the Tabasco.” Zack grins and takes a bite himself. “You know, we might make a proper Southerner out of you yet.”
I pick up a French fry and chomp down on it. “I don’t think so.”
He studies me for a moment. “I wonder…”
“What?”
“Is it the Southerner part you find objectionable, or the proper part?”
The hint of flirtation is back in his voice. I’m tempted to play along. The past couple days have been filled with too much darkness. The truth is, it feels good to pretend we’re normal people, that this is a normal lunch. To put aside business, if only for an hour.
But we can’t. The stakes are too high.
Zack senses my shift in mood. “How about we take it from the top? Go over everything we know one more time?”
I nod. We need to solve this case.
And then, I need to get back to San Diego.
CHAPTER 5
The Boroson home is about one fourth the size of the Nicolsons’. It’s a white clapboard bungalow with a porch just big enough to hold two rocking chairs and a planter of plastic yellow daisies. The front lawn has been neglected, the grass brown and ragged from lack of water. There are no trees on the lot, and hardly any along the street leading to the house. The houses are so close together, I imagine Mrs. Boroson could talk with her neighbor through any facing window. I’m guessing there aren’t many secrets on this block.
I see a curtain move in the house to the right. Our arrival has been noticed.
Mr. Boroson answers our knock. “You’re the FBI agents?”
Zack and I nod and show our
I shake my head. “Wish I did. Nothing’s come in on either of the tip lines?”
Zake pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “No messages or missed calls. I’ll reach out to Taft just in case.”
I watch as he connects the call, speaks for a few minutes, listens for a few minutes, and disconnects. “Nothing?”
“Nada. No ransom calls. The Andersons are doing an interview with Live5News at three this afternoon. Brett’s station is pulling out all the stops.”
“Sounds like Beverly got her exclusive. What are the chances we could talk them out of it?” I ask him.
“Less then a snowball’s in hell. Taft and Biller already tried. They did promise not to mention anything specific about the investigation.”
Before he can say more, the waitress is back with two plates balanced on one arm, two identical pitchers clutched in the opposite hand. She places the pitchers on the edge of the table, sets our food in front of us, then proceeds to fill our glasses. How she can tell which tea is sweet and which is unsweetened, I don’t have a clue. But a cautious sip tells me she got it right.
Zack ordered what appears to be a pulled pork sandwich with baked mac and cheese and cheddar grits. As soon as the plate is set in front of him, he starts right in on his sandwich.
“Good?”
“Terrific,” he says, before enthusiastically sampling the mac and cheese.
I take another swallow of tea, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. Zack looks like a man who works out religiously. His biceps bulge under his shirt as he picks the sandwich back up. ’Course the werewolf genes might be a factor. I’ve yet to meet a fat werewolf.
Zack catches me staring. “What?”
“I envy your metabolism. Apple turnovers, pecan rolls, cheese grits.”
“They really are fabulous,” he says, holding out a forkful of the grits in my direction.
I hold up my hand. “No thanks.”
I flake off a bit of salmon. It’s light and the honey glaze melts in my mouth.
He waves the cheesy concoction in front of me. “Come on, you know you want a bite. They’re awfully goooood…” He drags out the word like a kid.
Well, why not? I take his hand in mine, open my mouth, and guide the fork in. Zack’s skin is warm. The texture of the grits velvety smooth, the flavor rich with an unexpected kick.
“Those are amazing,” I admit.
“It’s the Tabasco.” Zack grins and takes a bite himself. “You know, we might make a proper Southerner out of you yet.”
I pick up a French fry and chomp down on it. “I don’t think so.”
He studies me for a moment. “I wonder…”
“What?”
“Is it the Southerner part you find objectionable, or the proper part?”
The hint of flirtation is back in his voice. I’m tempted to play along. The past couple days have been filled with too much darkness. The truth is, it feels good to pretend we’re normal people, that this is a normal lunch. To put aside business, if only for an hour.
But we can’t. The stakes are too high.
Zack senses my shift in mood. “How about we take it from the top? Go over everything we know one more time?”
I nod. We need to solve this case.
And then, I need to get back to San Diego.
CHAPTER 5
The Boroson home is about one fourth the size of the Nicolsons’. It’s a white clapboard bungalow with a porch just big enough to hold two rocking chairs and a planter of plastic yellow daisies. The front lawn has been neglected, the grass brown and ragged from lack of water. There are no trees on the lot, and hardly any along the street leading to the house. The houses are so close together, I imagine Mrs. Boroson could talk with her neighbor through any facing window. I’m guessing there aren’t many secrets on this block.
I see a curtain move in the house to the right. Our arrival has been noticed.
Mr. Boroson answers our knock. “You’re the FBI agents?”
Zack and I nod and show our
Similar Books
