adapting outside her natural habitat. All the more reason to get the Andrews case solved as soon as possible and send her back to New York where she belonged.
Chapter 3
Robin slid into a booth at the diner. Detective Winton— Mitch, since he had insisted on first names—took the side facing the door. She remembered reading once that gunfighters of the Old West had done that.
He smiled when he handed her a plastic-coated menu and held the pleasant expression as he looked up at the waitress. “Hey, Mabel. How’s it goin’?”
The heavyset blond with frizzy hair grinned back and popped her gum. “Great. Y’all want coffee?” She wrinkled her nose at Robin and said with mock confidentiality, “This rascal’s on my list. He ain’t been in here for weeks. You musta been keepin’ him real busy lately.”
Mitch cleared his throat to regain the waitress’s attention. “Just bring us the coffee, Mabel. Got any of that country ham I like?”
“You betcha.” The waitress thumbed a page off the top of her order pad, scribbled, paused and asked, “Your usual with it?”
“Yes, ma’am. You want eggs with yours?” He raised a brow at Robin.
She declined and placed the menu on the table. “No eggs, no ham. Just a waffle. And a glass of water.”
Mabel laughed and winked. “You ain’t gotta watch that figure, hon. Bet he’ll watch it for you.” She scooped up the menus and wriggled off behind the bar. Robin winced at the way Mabel screamed the order through the opening to the kitchen in back. So all Southern belles weren’t soft spoken.
“The cook’s a little hard of hearing,” Mitch explained. He clasped his hands on the table next to the rolled-up napkin that held his flatware. “I guess this place is out of the ordinary for you, huh?”
It seemed to amuse him, bringing her to a restaurant like this. Robin was determined not to react the way he obviously expected. She had eaten in worse places, though not often.
Dylan’s Diner looked like a fifties diner that hadn’t been refurbished since its creation. More antique than retro. A bar ran the length of the place, its chrome stools topped with mottled red leather cushions. Old photos of Elvis, Dolly, and others she didn’t recognize dotted the walls in a haphazard arrangement. An old-fashioned jukebox stood at the far end of the room in front of the rest rooms.
The booths were in fairly good shape. Blinds covered the windows that began at table level and nearly reached the ceiling. Thankfully they were closed, so Robin didn’t have to see the neighborhood outside. It had looked rather seedy driving through it.
“Sorry, but there aren’t too many eating places open this time of the morning, at least not on the way to where we’re going. Dylan’s plays host to the night crawlers in this area.” He shrugged. “I’m one of ’em when I pull night duty.”
“This is fine,” Robin said, gingerly unwinding her fork, spoon and a serrated steak knife from their paper wrapping and arranging them in a proper place setting. The utensils appeared to be clean, she noted with relief. “I’m really not that choosy.”
“Good sport, aren’t you?” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and laid it in the corner of the booth. “Beaner is a fair cook. The food’s good here, trust me.”
Robin sighed. He kept saying that. Trust me. If he only knew how impossible that was, that she would put her trust in any man. Or any one else, for that matter. It was good that he didn’t seem to expect an avowal of it. Maybe it was only a figure of speech with him.
“How far is it to this apartment you mentioned?” she asked, wondering if she would be required to stay in this particular area with its unkempt houses interspersed with run-down storefronts.
He didn’t answer her. His full attention was suddenly riveted on the entrance. Robin had heard the door open and close, felt the draft.
She started to look over her shoulder and see who had come in when Mitch grasped her hands, squeezed and whispered. “Trouble! Lie down, Robin. Sideways in the seat and slide under the table. Do it now!” He shoved her hands off the table sending her flatware clattering to the floor. She followed.
Robin didn’t even think about protesting. She did exactly as ordered, curling herself around the sturdy chrome pedestal. Mitch was grappling with his ankle which was mere inches from her face. He pulled a gun from a small holster strapped to his leg.
Oh, God, it was a robbery! That had been her first thought when he warned her to duck out of sight, and she’d been right. All those years in New York and never a bit of trouble, and now… She heard Mabel scream and scooted as near the wall as she could.
“Drop it, cop, or I’ll blow her away,” said a deep voice.
A clunk sounded on top of the table above Robin.
“Move back,” the voice shouted. “To the back of the room.”
Robin watched Mitch’s legs and feet as he slowly backed out of her limited line of vision.
Desperate for something to defend herself, Robin searched the floor for the steak knife, but couldn’t find it. She grasped the fork. Her breath rushed in and out between clenched teeth and she felt sick.
When a head appeared wearing a ski mask, Robin yelped. A large and rather dirty hand reached under the table, attempting to grab her foot, the closest part of her to the aisle. He was cursing, saying something, but the words wouldn’t register. In terror that he would drag her out before she could stop him, Robin struck. She stabbed the fork into his hand. The tines disappeared into hairy flesh and the resulting roar was deafening.
All hell broke loose, and she couldn’t see a thing but the blur of tangled legs. Mitch Winton had attacked. That much was obvious.
Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn’t simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…
She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe. The police! Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.
“It’s safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.
Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.
“They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.
“Shouldn’t you…go after them or something?”
He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”
Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”
“That bastard shot my winder,” she
