“License plate says Fulton County.”
Will smiled patiently.
“All right, you got me,” Lionel relented. “You’re here to look into that stuff with Tommy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was a good kid.”
“You knew him?”
“I saw him in town a lot. He’s the kind of kid got thirty different jobs—mowing lawns, walking dogs, hauling trash, helping people move house. Just about everybody in town knew him.”
“How do people feel about him stabbing Brad Stephens?”
“About how you’d expect. Confused. Angry. Torn between thinking there was some mistake and thinking …” His voice trailed off. “He was a bit tetched in the head.”
“He’d never been violent before?”
“No, but you never know. Maybe something set him off, turned on the crazy.”
In Will’s experience, people were either prone to violence or not. He didn’t think Tommy Braham was an exception. “Do you think that’s what happened—he just snapped?”
“I don’t know what to think about nothin’ anymore, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” He gave a weary sigh. “Lord, I feel old today.”
“The weather gets into your bones,” Will agreed. He’d broken his hand many years ago, and every time it got cold like this, his fingers ached. “Have you lived here all your life?”
Lionel smiled again, showing his teeth. “When I was a boy, people called where we lived Colored Town.” He turned to Will. “Can you believe that? Colored Town, and now I live on a street with a bunch of professors.” He gave a deep laugh. “A lot’s changed in fifty years.”
“Has the police force?”
Lionel stared openly at Will, as if he was trying to decide how much to say. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. “Ben Carver was chief when I left town. I wasn’t the only young black man who thought it was a good idea to leave while the gettin’ was good. Joined the army and got this for my trouble.” He knocked on his leg. There was a hollow sound, and Will realized the man wore a prosthetic. “Laos. Nineteen and sixty-four.” Lionel paused for a minute as if to reflect on the loss. “There was two kinds of living for people back then, just like there was two kinds of law under Chief Carver: one for black and one for white.”
“I heard Carver retired.”
Lionel nodded approvingly. “Tolliver.”
“Was he a good cop?”
“I never met the man, but I can tell you this: A long while back, my father was working at the diner when a lady professor from the college got killed. Everybody saw a black face and made their assumptions. Chief Tolliver spent the night at Daddy’s house just to make sure he woke up the next morning.”
“It was that bad?”
“Chief Tolliver was that good.” Lionel added, “Allison was a good girl, too.”
Will got the feeling that they had finally reached the point of Lionel’s impromptu visit. “You knew her?”
“I own the diner now. You believe that?” He shook his head as if he still could not believe it himself. “I came back a few years ago and took it off Pete’s hands.”
“Is business good?”
“It was slow at first, but most days now we’re full up. My wife works the books. Sometimes my sister pitches in but it’s better if she doesn’t.”
“When was the last time you saw Allison?”
“Saturday night. We’re closed on Sundays. I guess except for Tommy, I was one of the last people to see her alive.”
“How was she?”
“Same as usual. Tired. Glad to be getting off work.”
“What sort of person was she?”
His throat worked, and he took a few moments to collect himself before he could continue. “I never hire kids from the college. They don’t know how to talk to people. They just know how to type into their computers or their phones. No work ethic and nothing’s ever their fault no matter how red-handed you catch ’em. Except for Allison. She was different.”
“How so?”
“She knew how to work for a living.” He pointed to the open gates at the end of Main Street. “Not a kid in that school knows how to do an honest day’s work. This economy is their wake-up call. They’re gonna have to learn the hard way that a job is something you earn, not something you’re given.”
Will asked, “Did you know much about Allison’s family?”
“Her mama was dead. She had an aunt she didn’t talk about much.”
“Boyfriend?”
“She had one, but he never bothered her at work.”
“Do you know his name?”
“She never mentioned him except in passing, like I’d ask what she was going to do over the weekend and she’d say she was going to study with her boyfriend.”
“He never called her or dropped by? Not even once?”
“Not even once,” he confirmed. “She was mindful that I was paying for her time, you see. I never saw her on her cell phone. She never had her friends come in and take up her time. It was work for her, and she knew that she had to take care of business.”
“Did she make a good living?”
“Hell no.” He laughed at what must have been a surprised look on Will’s face. “I don’t pay much and my customers are cheap—mostly old men and cops, sometimes students from the school who think it’s funny to run out on the bill. Or, try to run out. Pretty stupid thinking you’re gonna stiff the check in a room full of cops.”
“Did she carry a purse or book bag with her?”
“She had this pink book bag with a tassel on the zipper. Left it in her car when she was at work. Except her wallet. She wasn’t one’a them primpin’ girls, can’t stay away from a mirror.”
“Was there anyone suspicious hanging around her? Customers who were too attentive?”
“I would’ve taken care of that myself. Not that I’d need to. That girl was street-smart. She knew how to take care of herself.”
“Did she carry a weapon? Maybe pepper spray or a pocket knife?”
“Not that I ever saw.” He held up his hands. “Now, don’t get the impression she was hard. She was a real sweet girl, one’a them who just wanted to go along to get along. She didn’t take to confrontation, but she stood up for herself when it mattered.”
“Had her attitude changed lately?”
“She seemed a little more stressed than usual. She asked me a couple of times could she study when we were slow. Don’t get me wrong—I’m an easy man to work for so long as you do your job. I let her crack open her books when we weren’t busy. I made sure she had a hot meal before she went home.”
“Do you know what kind of car she drove?”
“Old Dodge Daytona with Alabama plates. You remember those? Based on the Chrysler G platform. Front-wheel drive, kind of low to the ground.”
“Four door?”
“Hatchback. The pistons were blown. She kept the trunk tied down with a bungee cord. I think it’s a ’92, ’93.” He tapped his head. “Mind ain’t as good as it used to be.”