“You’re profiling, aren’t you?”
“My free time’s my own.” He sounded defensive and angry. “Bergman gave the job to Pruneface—Bill Skater. The guy has one speed: turtle.”
“He’s also Bergman’s brother-in-law. Do the math.”
“Did that creep at Foret’s do something to your neck?” Liz asked.
“I—no.” Angel frowned. “Why?” Then she realized she was rubbing the same spot again.
Still holding the phone, she peered around the side of the booth, but saw only tables, more booths and a roomful of people who were paying no attention to anything except their food.
“What?” Liz followed her gaze.
“Someone’s watching us.”
Her friend tugged her back by her hair. “Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomach’ll make the feeling go away.”
“I know how hungry feels, and it isn’t hallucinogenic.” She made another quick circuit. “Brian, does the killer stalk his victims?”
“Ask Skater.”
She forced patience. “I’m asking you.”
“Don’t they all?”
“Okay, well that doesn’t make me feel any better, actually. Liz, we need to lose the Goth cafés for a while.”
“Food’s good at this one.” Liz spooned up more stew. “Not that you’d know, since all you’ve done is play with your bread.”
“Oh, hell.” Angel’s eyes fixed on the door. “Paul Reuben just slithered in. And he’s wearing his media hat.”
“There’s the last bite done, thank you, God.” Liz wiped her mouth and fingers. “How does he always know?”
“Afternoon, ladies.” At Liz’s exasperated look, he pressed an exaggerated hand to his chest. “What am I supposed to say? Afternoon, Feds?”
Angel smiled. “‘I just stopped in to say good-bye’ works.”
“Thanks, I’d love to join you.” He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.
“You know, Paul, it’s just possible we’re busy here.” Angel waved her cell phone. “You want a story, talk to Bergman’s assistant. That’s why he’s there.”
Paul Reuben’s flinty eyes gleamed. “Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?”
“Go away.” She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. “Touch my lunch, and I’ll cite you for something really unpleasant.”
When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.
“Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.”
“For what?”
“Perverts, peeping Toms.” She summoned a sweet smile. “Murderers.”
“Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?”
“There you go. If you know that much, you’re as up to date as we are. Bye.”
“Cut the guy some slack, Angel,” Brian suggested on the phone. “He might know something.”
“He might also be fishing.”
“What’s the deal with Graydon?” the reporter persisted. “Is he in or out? Give me that much at least.”
Angel rested her chin on her fist, let her smile ride. “How did you hear about Foret, Paul?”
“I got a tip.”
“Where and from whom?”
“None of your business—on both counts.”
“Okay then, we’re done. Drive carefully.”
He appealed to Liz. “Your husband’s tight with Graydon, right?”
Elbows on the table, Liz pushed on her temples. “You know, I didn’t have a headache when I came in.”
Paul started slurping hot coffee—and Angel found her own fingers straying under her hair again.
Determined to shake the sensation, she returned her attention to Brian. “Do I know yet why you called?”
“Not unless you’re a mind reader. I’ve been instructed to tell you that Bergman’s staying over in Washington. He tried your cell, but the line was tied up. Would that have been before or after your run-in with a sleeping vagrant?”
“Street person, and he topped your two-thirty by a good ten pounds.”
“Using?”
“Definitely.”
“You know, I was once as quick as you are, and as elusive as Noah Graydon when I chose to be.”
“You sound bitter, Bri.” Sliding to the end of the booth, she made another casual sweep of the restaurant. “Get some physio, get in shape and presto, you’re back in the field.”
“On restricted duty. No thanks, kid. Don’t forget to check in with Bergman’s lackey before you go off shift. And have fun detaching your investigative burr.”
Angel ended the call with a distracted press of the button. Her eyes traveled from table to table. “Got to be coming from a booth. I can see everyone else.”
Reuben waved a hand in front of her face. “Why the space flight, Angel?”
Looking back, she noted that his mustache, blonde and perpetually droopy, was saturated with coffee. “Trust me, Paul, there are times when outer space is preferable to planet Earth.”
He snagged her wrist as someone in black brushed past. “If you won’t talk about Graydon, explain the pennies on Foret’s eyelids.”
Liz breathed out. “Don’t you have…?” Then she stopped, met Angel’s eyes, and bent forward over the table. “Well, well, Mr. Reuben.”
At a similar look from Angel, the reporter released her. “Okay, why have you two turned cat all of a sudden?”
But he knew. Angel could tell by the dull red flush creeping up his neck that he understood exactly what he’d done.
Smiling, she crooked a leg up and turned companionably toward him. “Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit, PR. Guess what? There was no mention of any pennies in our official statement. Only a handful of people saw the body, and those who did wouldn’t have talked. So—” Brows arched, she cocked her head to observe. “How is it you managed to find out about them?”
