Deserves to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Pull yourself together.

Fortunately, as they were at one of her tables, she was able to overhear their conversation, or at least snippets of it, as she waited on them. What she hadn’t expected when she placed the ice water on the table was that the man was wearing a badge marked SHERIFF.

“Coffee?” she asked, reading his name. BLACKWATER. The man she’d heard was taking over Grayson’s position, at least until the next election.

“Black,” Blackwater said, his eyes cool, his expression without the hint of a smile.

“Sure,” said his compatriot, a woman whose name tag read DEPUTY DELANIE WINGER. “With sugar.”

Nodding, Jessica slid menus onto the table, then, her knees trembling a bit, motioned to the whiteboard hanging near the swinging doors. “We’ve got some interesting specials today,” she said by rote, though she felt the sheriff’s gaze upon her. “Marionberry waffles, a BLT with a fried egg, and a peanut butter and chocolate smoothie. I’ll give you a few minutes.” She was sweating nervously, her hands nearly shaking under his piercing glare, almost as if he could see through her disguise. Impossible. She’d never met Blackwater, nor the deputy he was talking to.

Servicing the other tables near the booth where they were seated, she heard bits of “shop talk,” but nothing more than general information.

“Waiting on the autopsy,” the sheriff told his colleague. “No, nothing yet from Missing Persons . . .” and “checking other jurisdictions.”

That conversation, Jessica figured, was about the woman they’d discovered.

Then, very seriously, he said, “. . . a shame . . . yep, a good man . . . irreplaceable, but I’ve got to try.” Words for Dan Grayson.

There was other talk about what she assumed were open cases, but she couldn’t hear much as they spoke in low tones, and became quiet as she served a breakfast burrito to the deputy and a spinach and egg white omelet to the sheriff.

“Refills?” she asked on a second go-round when they were nearly finished.

The deputy said “Yes,” and Blackwater nodded, so she started pouring the coffee.

Crash! The clatter of silverware rang through the building and Jessica jerked, slopping hot coffee as a stream of angry, rapid-fire Spanish emanated through the pass-through to the kitchen.

“Sorry . . . oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, seeing that she’d sloshed coffee onto Blackwater’s wrist.

“It’s fine,” he said shortly.

“I’ll get a towel.”

His eyes turned on her and she quickly withdrew her hand. What the hell had she been thinking? She never touched a customer, and especially not a cop.

“Sorry,” she repeated and turned away, carrying the coffee back and retrieving a clean towel from the linen storage inside the kitchen where Marlon was busily picking up knives, forks, and spoons, then loading them into the dishwasher haphazardly.

Armando shook his head over the grill. “Por el amor de Dios. ¡Qué idiota!”

Breathing fire, Misty flew through the swinging doors, her mouth set in a red bow of disgust. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the busboy.

As Misty unleashed the reaming out, Jessica hurried back to the dining area where a few of the patrons were craning their necks toward the kitchen and Blackwater was reaching for his jacket.

“It’s fine,” he told her as she offered up the towel.

“No no no. I’m so sorry.”

For the briefest of seconds, his eyes, dark as obsidian, seemed to look through her facade, past her disguise. In the brightly lit diner, she sensed that he could see deeper into her soul, which was absolutely ludicrous. It was all she could do not to take a step backward.

“Of course, your breakfast . . . both of your meals,” she added with a quick look at the younger deputy, “will be comped. I’m really sorry.”

To her surprise, he flashed her a smile, white teeth against darker skin. “I think I’ll live.”

In an instant, the awkward moment had dissipated as if it hadn’t existed and Jessica told herself that she was jumping at shadows, reading more into the situation than there was,

Blackwater, even though she slid the plastic receipt holder back into the pocket of her apron, left enough money on the table to cover the cost of both meals and include a decent tip. “Accidents happen,” he said and shrugged into his jacket.

“Miss?” a man in another booth said, flagging her down and holding up his coffee cup for a refill.