“Sam?” It was Reed Duvall.
“Hi.”
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Naw. You just caught me in the middle of sanding my throat.” I glanced at the clock radio. It was almost ten.
“You must be some crack investigator,” I said. “’Cause I’m unlisted and I’ve never given you my number.”
“Got it from Jamila.”
“Ah, Jamila.”
“I’ve been doing some research. Jamila said it was OK to share this new information.”
“About what?”
“Connie Ash.”
“Connie Ash? And?”
“And he’s part of the case now. Along with the IRS.”
“IRS?” I was beginning to feel like a parrot. “Is this going somewhere?”
“There’s more. Why don’t we meet somewhere?”
“You couldn’t just tell me now?”
“I could, but let’s meet. Feel like breakfast?”
“I could go for some food.”
“Silver Diner? In about an hour?”
“Make it two, OK? I need a shower.”
“Tell me you don’t take showers that long.”
“I don’t. It’s going to take me an hour and a half to crowbar myself out of bed.”
“Here’s an added incentive. I don’t know all the details, but it seems to involve tax fraud.”
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
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For the second time in two days, I had breakfast at a diner. This one was part of a chain. Like Frank’s, Silver Diner had tabletop jukeboxes and Formica-and-stainless-steel decor, but the help consisted more of college students on summer break than professional wait staff. It was one of those nouveau diners, where meatloaf and mashed potatoes shared space on the menu with mesquite and lime marinated grilled salmon.
The line was out the door, so we snagged a couple of stools at the counter with its up-close view of the kitchen. Over the shelf where orders appeared for pickup, you could see a line of men in white, exchanging brief remarks in Spanish as they shoved more plates under the heat lamps. I inhaled the wonderful smell of bacon and eggs sizzling on the grill.
After we got coffee, Duvall said, “Your friend Christof Stavos has been in an accident.”
“I know.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
I told him about my run-in with Stavos and associates. “I hope that wasn’t part of your big news.”