Beverly Long - Running for Her Life

Jake unlocked the door and kicked it open with his foot, wide enough that they could enter. With the door open, there was enough light that he could quickly scan the dim interior. There were tables on one side, booths on the other. An aisle down the middle led to a long counter with six stools. Behind the counter were the pop machine, milk machine and stacks of glasses. “I’m going to check the kitchen,” he whispered. “Stay here.”

He walked toward the swinging door at the rear of the restaurant. However, instead of opening it, he veered behind the counter and walked toward the service window that was cut into the rear wall. It was chest high, three feet long by eighteen inches high, perfect for getting the hot food from the stove to the table in an express manner. He peered through the opening.

Toward the back, a light burning over a three-compartment sink made it possible to see the grill, stove and steam table on one side, refrigerator and worktable on the other. Across from the sink, behind a half wall, was the dishwasher. Beyond it, a rear entrance that looked undisturbed.

“It’s clear. Tell Tara that she can come in.”

By the time he got to the front of the restaurant, she was standing next to the cash register. The drawer was open and the slots were empty. “You keep any money in here?” he asked.

Tara shook her head. “After we close up in the afternoon, I make a deposit at the bank. I hold back enough to start the drawer out in the morning but I keep it in the kitchen.”

“Freezer, right?”

She smiled and it reached her eyes—her very pretty moss-green eyes. They went nicely with her hair—a rich, more strawberry than blond mix that touched her shoulders.

“Too obvious,” she said. “I use a mixing bowl.”

“Go check it and make sure it’s all there,” he said.

He flipped on a light and looked around. The place wasn’t fancy but it looked spotless, and the combination of colors—blues, greens and browns—made it welcoming. He picked up a menu, scanned it and almost laughed at how reasonable the prices were. Okay, there was one good thing about small towns.

It took him about fifteen seconds to find the baseball lodged underneath one of the wooden booths. “Andy, you got an evidence bag in your car?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Chief Vernelli is fine. Go get it.”

The kid was back so fast with a bag, gloves and a camera that Jake was pretty sure he’d run. Had he ever been that eager to please? God knew he’d loved being a cop. Had never contemplated that he’d walk away from it.

He snapped a few photos before putting on the gloves and carefully picking up the ball. He’d just put it in the bag when Tara returned. “We’ll dust it for prints but if it was kids, they likely won’t have a record,” Jake said.

“This is the kind of stuff kids do, right?”

She sounded almost hopeful. The last teenager he’d arrested had stolen a car. The one before that had stabbed his mother. “Anybody in particular who might be pissed off at you? Fired any high school help lately?”

She shook her head. “No. I did have a dishwasher leave, but I didn’t fire him—he quit. And he wasn’t a kid. Probably in his early thirties.”

“Why did he quit?”

“I don’t know. I would have appreciated some notice but he just left a message on my voice mail that he wouldn’t be back. I hope he found a better job. He took this after he lost his position when his company outsourced their manufacturing to China.”

Dishwasher. He hadn’t contemplated that as a career choice when he’d been up at two in the morning, wondering just what the hell he was going to do if he couldn’t be a cop anymore. He could go from scraping garbage off the street to scraping food off plates. “Name?”

“Donny Miso.”

Easy enough to remember. Jake walked to the front door and snapped a couple more photos. He handed the camera back to Andy. “I’ll finish up here,” he told the young officer. “I think you can probably move the squad out of the street now,” he added.

Jake watched Officer Hooper lope down the sidewalk. When he was almost at his car, Jake turned toward Tara. “Something tells me that he doesn’t get to use the lights and siren very often.”

She smiled. “He means well.” She squatted and grabbed a piece of glass and promptly sliced open the tip of her index finger. Blood welled up from the cut. He moved to her side and grabbed her wrist to get a closer look.

“Go wash that out,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

“That’s not necessary,” she protested weakly. She was looking at the blood on her finger. Her face had lost its natural color, making the freckles on her nose stand out.

She started walking back to the kitchen. He followed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Making sure you don’t fall over,” he said, deciding truth was the best option. He’d noticed her reaction to the bloody wipe earlier and had better understood why she’d freaked when he’d pulled back his hood and she’d suddenly been up close and personal with the blood streaking down his face. Everybody had their Achilles’ heel.

She squared her shoulders. “I am not going to fall down.”

Soft curves and a rod of steel up her backbone. Hell of a combination. “Okay.” He turned back toward the dining room. He picked up the larger pieces of glass, all the while listening for unusual sounds in the kitchen. He was almost done when there was a shadow in the doorway. He looked up and saw Frank.

“I got a piece of plywood to nail over the window,” he said.

“Perfect.” Jake walked outside and it took only a couple minutes for the two men to nail the covering in place.

Frank shook his hand when they were finished. “Welcome, Jake. By the way, my daughter Lori Mae is your daytime dispatcher and department secretary. If you want to know anything, she can tell you. And if I can be of assistance, let me know. In fact, if you’ve got the time tomorrow, we could meet for a cup of coffee here at Nel’s, say ten?”

“I’ll see you then,” Jake said. When he stepped inside the restaurant, Tara was standing near the door.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, motioning to the floor and the window.

“Frank helped. Seems like a nice guy.”

She nodded. “When I opened the restaurant fourteen months ago, he was my first customer, and he’s eaten lunch here every day since then.”

“Did you grow up in Wyattville?”

She shook her head. “I moved here from Florida.”

He’d spent five of the worst weeks of his life in Miami, working undercover, sniffing out drug dealers. “Where at in Florida?”

It might have been his imagination but he thought she pulled back a little. “We moved around a lot,” she said. “You know, I’m really tired. I should finish up here so that I can get home at a reasonable hour.”

She didn’t need to hit him over the head with a baseball bat. And it wasn’t as if he really wanted her life story. No matter how cute she was, he was a short-timer, and in six weeks he’d have paid his debt back to his friend. Then he was driving back to Minneapolis and forgetting about this wide spot in the road.

“I still need to get in contact with Toby Wilson about Veronica. My truck,” he added quickly.

She didn’t bat an eye that he’d named his truck. Just grabbed the pen that was next to the cash register, tore a napkin out of the two-sided dispenser on the counter and scribbled a number down. “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

For a second time, he yanked the directions to Chase Montgomery’s house out of his pocket. “By my calculations, Chase’s house should be just a couple blocks from here. I’ll call from there.”