“I think I should remind you that you and I are the ones in the wrong here. We were illegally breaking and entering. I think we should—” When his phone buzzed, he looked at the message. “It’s from Steve and there are no records on the guy. The car’s had several owners, but nothing’s been reported on it. The man and his vehicle are clean.”
“They tell you anything about him personally?”
“No. Think we should look on his Facebook page?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I know you think this is silly. Maybe his Jag broke down and that car is the only loaner the garage had. Or maybe that’s not his briefcase or his watch.” She took a breath. “But I have a feeling and I know something is wrong!”
Eli was looking at the menu. “If I had a briefcase I cared enough about to keep it on a white cloth, I wouldn’t put it in a tied
-down trunk. I would carry it into a restaurant with me and not leave it in a place that can’t be locked. And watches are to be worn.”
When he looked up, Chelsea was smiling at him. “I agree.”
The waitress came to ask for their orders.
“What kind of salads do you have?” Chelsea asked.
“Baby greens with fresh-caught Pacific wild salmon with balsamic dressing. We age the vinegar in our own kegs.”
“That sounds great!” Chelsea said. “I’ll have that.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “Two club sandwiches, mayo on the side for her.”
“And what about you, darlin’?” the waitress asked Eli, smiling at him.
“All the mayo you can give me.” He gave her a slow, lazy smile.
Smiling, she took the menus and left.
“What the hell was that about?” Chelsea asked. “Were you flirting with her?”
“Actually, I was. My Taggert cousins taught me how to do it. It was a struggle to learn, but I believe I mastered it. What do you think?”
“I think you should stick to who you truly are.”
“By that I take it you mean a computer nerd? A guy with no life? To quote you: That guy was a myth.”
“I liked him,” Chelsea muttered.
“Sorry. Didn’t hear you.”
“I liked that guy,” she said through her teeth. “He had an honesty about him that was admirable. He was—”
Chelsea broke off because a woman entered the diner. She was in her late thirties and had once been pretty, but now she looked tired and anxious. She was wearing jeans and a shirt, both of which looked as though they’d been washed too many times. Her eyes searched the diner.
In the booth behind them, the man got up and went to her.
“Give me your phone,” Eli said.
“I need it to—” Chelsea began, but at his look, she handed it to him and he began punching numbers into it. “What are you doing?”
“Watch them and listen,” he replied and kept punching. “And remember to never carry an open bag.”
They were too far away to hear what was being said, but the woman seemed to be upset about something. The man slipped his arm around her shoulders in a comforting way and she leaned her head against him.
“Whoever he is, she trusts him,” Chelsea whispered. He was in his forties, maybe older, and the clothes he had on were cheap: a nearly worn-out cotton shirt, the cuffs frayed. His trousers were old and the belt’s edges were nearly raw.
At first glance he looked like he was one step below the poverty line, but Chelsea noticed some other things. “His nails were done professionally.”