âYou loco ?â
âI had dinner here once. An anniversary, the last one before Julia divorced me and went off to Bali to Find Herself.â
Cesar snorted. âYou canât find yourself in New Mexico, you arenât going to find anything different in Cincinnati or damn Bali.â
âYeah. But the food was actually pretty damn good.â
âJesus, if lunch is like this, whatâs dinner for two cost?â
âAbout the price of a trip to Paris.â Salvador grinned and read the small print: âAnd the ham sandwich has green chile aoili, ciabatta, aged Wisconsin Goudaââ
âItâs still twenty-five dollars for a fucking ham sandwich. Okay, a ham and cheese. I donât care if the butter was made from the Virginâs milk.â
âCan I help you?â a young woman in a bow-tie outfit said, opening the door. âLunch doesnât start seating untilââ
They flashed their badges. âThe manager, please.â
That brought the manager out quickly. âIâm Mr. Tortensenââ
After the introductions the manager showed them through to his office, though Salvador felt as if half the contents of his wallet had vanished just stepping over the threshold of the front door into the pale Taos-style interior. Even the office was stylish. The man was worried, brown-haired, in his thirties, lean to the point of emaciation, and licking his lips.
What sort of restaurant manager is skinny ? Salvador thought. Well, probably this far up the scale the customers donât like to think eating can make you fat.
âWhat can I do for you, Officers?â he said.
Salvador leaned back in the chair. He knew he could be intimidating to some. People whoâd led sheltered lives particularly. He didnât have to do anything, even if they were people whoâd consciously think of him as something theyâd scrape off their shoe on a hot day.
âYou had two guests at dinner yesterday,â he said. âFrom a little after five thirty to seven thirty. Ellen Tarnowski and Adrienne Brézé. Iâd like some details.â
The man started very slightly; then his mouth firmed. âIâm afraid our clientsâ confidentiality isââ
Cesar cut in smoothly: âMs. Tarnowskiâs house burned down last night, and thereâs suspicion of arson. Her car was found and towed from a parking spot not too far from here. We have independent confirmation that she was here last night, and sheâs a missing person with this as her last-known location.â
Salvador nodded. âSo weâd really appreciate your cooperation in this arson and possibly kidnapping investigation.â
The manager started; short of shouting terrorism it was about the best possible way of getting his attention.
âLet me make a few calls,â he said, pulling out his phone.
Cesar worked on his notepad. Salvador crossed his arms on his chest and enjoyed watching the manager sweat as he tried to get back to his routine. People came in to talk to Mr. Tortensen about purchasing and things that probably made perfect sense. At last a harassed-looking man in his early twenties came in; he was slimly handsome, but looked as if he really wasnât used to waking up this early. Which, with a night-shift job like waiting tables, he might not be.
âAh, this is Joseph Morales, Officer,â Tortensen said. âHe had A-seventeen . . . their table . . . last night.â
Maricón , Salvador thought; clinically, he wasnât bothered by them.
There had been one he knew who was an artist with a Javelin launcher. He could put a rocket right through a firing slit, which has a good dirty joke in it somewhere.
âPleased to meet you,â Morales said to the policemen with transparent dishonesty, but he was at least trying to hide it. âHow can I help you?â
The restaurant manager started to speak, and Salvador held up a hand.