He shrugged, waiting for her next question.
“Peoria and Boston. Funny how people can make incorrect assumptions. Given that you’re driving the Prius with California plates and wearing a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, I would have bet you were from California. Either the southern part of the state or the southern part of the San Francisco Bay Area.”
Goddamn it, he thought. I keep telling myself to get more local-style clothes! I gotta stop being sloppy. And that yuppie car. Now that she mentions it, I don’t think I’ve seen another Prius around here, and those plates! Whose idea was that car?
“So . . . why move from Boston all the way across the country?”
“Company I worked at downsized, although everyone knew they were shipping all the work overseas. It was literally a nuts and bolts factory. Specialty stuff. I was a warehouse foreman. Me and a couple other men were mainly forklift drivers. When they laid us off, I decided to try some other part of the country.”
“Not many forklift jobs around here, I would think.”
“No, but I can drive about anything. Haven’t looked for a job yet, though. The only good thing with being laid off was a pretty good severance package. I figured to take a few months and relax before settling in and finding another job. If not here, then maybe up in Portland.”
“Lots more options up there, for sure. Where you staying while you’re here?”
He didn’t want to tell her, but he bet that she’d wait and follow him. “I’m renting a place over on Ferry and Fifth streets.”
“One of the mobile homes?”
“Right. There’s a row of them there.”
“Well, it’s a friendly community once people get used to you. That’s the way it’s been for me. You
managed to make any acquaintances?”
“Been keeping pretty much to myself. Relaxing, not working . . . you know.”
“You don’t happen to know Howard Toompas, do you? Goes by the name of Howie?”
“Howie Toompas? No, can’t say I do. Why?”
“He’s a friendly enough sort. Thought you might have run into him at one of the bars or the brewery.”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
She smiled, although it didn’t reach her eyes. “I need to get back on patrol. Nice meeting you, Robert Simpson.”
She pronounced the name with a hesitation, either as if she was trying to remember it or he imagined a question mark after it.
“Good meeting you, Deputy Havorsford.”
“As I said, this is part of my patrol area, so don’t be surprised if you see me around.”
With that bit of friendly talk, or warning, she slid back out of the booth, picked up her hat and coat, and walked away. He watched her going down the aisle, wondering why she was so interested in him. At the same time, he took in her graceful, firm walk and generous hips. She had offered a hand as she stood. It was a good size for a woman. Her grip had also been firm, and he had the feeling it was natural and not forced to make an impression.
Greta had also evaluated him. As she approached his booth, she felt him scanning her, even though he pretended not to. A good-sized man, although she couldn’t tell height from his sitting position. Not necessarily an athletic type, but a sense of solidness. The short-sleeved shirt was a little out of place, though not unique around Pacific City, where many retired Californians lived. Big forearms corded with muscle and tattooed. Needed a haircut and either hadn’t shaved in a couple of days or was practicing the scruffy look that Greta considered ridiculous. Light brown hair, slightly receding hairline. Age, hard to judge. Early thirties to early forties, depending on how hard he had been living. Something going on inside him. She didn’t believe for a moment the cock-and-bull story about Peoria, Boston, and driving a forklift.
He hadn’t given anything away when she mentioned Toompas. She didn’t know if that meant anything. Having nothing specific, she decided to keep an eye open for him.
It was a week later when she saw Simpson’s Prius once again at the Ocean Brewery and Pub parking lot. It was half past seven on a Wednesday night and misting. She parked on the other side of the building and went in, standing by the front door to let her eyes adjust.
“Hello, are you waiting for someone, or would you like a table?”
Greta started. She had been scanning for Simpson and hadn’t seen the hostess approach.
“No, thanks. I’m just looking for someone.”
The young woman nodded and answered the phone. Greta couldn’t see Simpson, so she walked farther into the room. Then she saw him—at a table in the rear corner.