Читать книгу Fatal Judgment - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 20

13

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

The flier was the first thing I noticed as I pulled open the door of the restaurant and stepped inside. The question in bold black type, above a grainy color photograph of a young man named Todd Orick, missing for the past two months. The paper pinned with thumbtacks dead center on a cork bulletin board, surrounded by business cards advertising hair cutting, log splitting, auctioneering, and more. The number for the Mohican Township police department printed below the photo, asking anyone with information on Orick’s whereabouts to call.

Down Home Buffet sat half a mile from the interstate, on a two-lane road off Route 13, at the bottom of a ridge of tree-covered hills running parallel with the highway. It was a long, two-story red-plank-sided building with a peaked roof meant to summon images of a classic Ohio barn. A high school–age girl greeted me as I stepped into the restaurant. She pulled a menu from a slot on the host stand and led me into the main dining room.

“Something to drink?”

My waitress, appearing less than a minute after I was seated. My mom’s age or close. Resplendent in a country frock and apron.

“Just coffee, thanks. And water.”

I looked around the half full dining room. Lace curtains on the windows, real red checkerboard cloth on the tables, authentic wooden wagon wheel bolted to the far wall. A couple paint-by-numbers landscapes near the wheel, plus a copy of a painting I’d seen before—a representation of the signing of the Treaty of Greenville, which helped create the modern Ohio. Customers a mix of retirees, families, and guys that looked like they drove big rigs for a living. No sign of anyone with a tear drop on his face.

My waitress reappeared with my drinks. She set them down and pulled an order pad from the pocket of a red apron with frilly white edges. “Are you ready, dear? Buffet’s $12.99, all you can eat. Or you can order off the menu.”

“What kind of pie do you have?”

“Apple–Dutch apple–cherry–blackberry–lemon meringue–coconut cream–pecan–chocolate cream, and peach. Peach is real good. That’s my favorite.”

“Peach it is.”

“À la mode?”

“Why not?”

“Anything else?”

“Sure. Ever seen this guy?”

“I’m sorry?”

I produced Tear Drop’s license and handed it to her.

“Look familiar?”

She studied it for an honest five seconds or so, then placed it beside my coffee cup like a gift card to a store she’d never in a million years patronize. “Can’t say that it does.”

“Anybody else?”

“Anybody else what?” she said nervously.

“Would anyone else here recognize him?”

“May I ask why you’re inquiring?”

I dug out a business card and handed it to her. “He lost his wallet in Columbus. I’m trying to return it to him.”

My business card had the usual effect on her, which is to say the look on her face matched the expression people get finding half a bug in their house Caesar salad.

“So why are you here?”

I explained about finding the receipt.

“I can ask my manager,” she said doubtfully.

“Thank you. Also—?”

“Yes?”

“Could you warm up the pie?”

As she disappeared around the corner, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of “Welcome to the Jungle” emitting from my back pocket. My heart sped up. The judge? I extracted the phone, and swallowed my disappointment when I saw it was Bonnie calling.

“That was fast.”

“Sure, not counting the nap I just took. Anyway, that license? Gary Phipps from Missouri? He’s not showing up anywhere, other than a Wikipedia page about retired motocross racers. It’s probably fake.”

“I should have figured. He just didn’t have the ring of truth about him. Any connection to the realty company? Or the judge?”

“None that I could find.”

“Anything on Rumford itself?”

“Not a whole lot. Looks like a medium-sized business, headquarters in Hilliard.” The fast-growing suburb on the northwest side of Columbus was a booming conglomeration of subdivisions, big box stores, and vanishing farmland. No wetlands to speak of. “They do a lot of small retail plazas. Not a huge player, as far as I can tell, but not small either.”

“And that’s what’s planned for Mendon Woods?”

“Hard to say. They want commercial zoning, but there’s nothing concrete beyond that. Pretty vague.”

Carefully, I said, “And this judge. Laura Porter—the one overseeing that case. She’s supposed to rule soon?”

“Relatively soon, yes.”

“Meaning what?”

“She delayed things recently at the state’s request. They wanted to do another survey on this bird.”

“What bird?”

“Hang on.” I heard the click-clacking of keys. “It’s called a coastal tanager.”

“Right.” I remembered the marker at the park along the walkway. “What’s the survey about?”

“To see how many are left. Apparently Mendon Woods is one of their last habitats in Ohio.”

I recalled Deanna Fleischer’s timely appearance at the pond as Tear Drop prepared to do his worst. Is that what she’d been up to—conducting a new count of coastal tanagers?

I said, “What did the survey show?”

“It hasn’t come back yet. I guess she’s still waiting for it. That guy’s not happy about it, according to one article I read.”

“Which guy?”

“One of the lawyers.”