Page 33 of Stone
“Chad, the oldest,” Simon answered. “I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard his wife is well connected in that world, too.”
Anna studied them, then nodded. “That’s a better plan than handing it over to me. My usual FBI contacts aren’t so fond of me right now. There’s the little issue of me exposing their corruption and general fuckery during the Rosenblum case. They’ll get over it. They always do. But if I were to take them something, they might sit on it longer than I’d like.”
“And let it continue? Just because you pissed them off?” Juliana asked. She probably sounded like a naive fool, but shehad a vague overarching faith in the concept of the justice system. Then again, if the past few years had shown the world nothing else, it was that justice was indeednotblind.
“They’re good people. They’d sit on it, but not for long,” Anna said. Silence fell over the table, then Anna leaned forward and pulled something out of her back pocket. “My card. Keep in touch and if I hear anything that might be useful, I’ll pass it along.”
Juliana nodded as Simon took the card and slid it into the pocket of his leather jacket. “You know how to reach us?” he asked.
Anna snorted as she rose. “I’m a reporter. If I can’t figurethatout, we’re in trouble.”
They watched her leave. As the door shut behind her, Omar set the check down on the Formica table.
“That was oddly…uneventful,” she said when Omar walked away. “One might say, even dissatisfying.”
“She wasn’t going to sweep in and take the matter off our hands,” he said with a smile.
Juliana huffed. “I know. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hoping otherwise.”
“I’m glad we met her, though. It doesn’t feel like it did much good, but it did.” Juliana raised a brow, and he continued. “She’s a seasoned reporter who’s seen—and uncovered—a lot of shit in her career. We confirmed we’re on the right track. We may not know how we’ll reach the end destination, but we’re going the right way.”
She considered that perspective and had to give Simon credit—it might be a slightly optimistic perspective on the conversation, but it wasn’t wrong. Anna had been working on the story for a long time. She wouldn’t have invested in it unless there was something there. If nothing else, she validated their take on the situation.
“Is that all we got from the conversation?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We learned we have an ally. And never underestimate a good ally.”
17
“So what now?” Juliana asked as they stepped out of Omar’s and onto the narrow lane. Stone reached out and took her hand.
“Now we head home,” he said.
She snorted a laugh. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been to San Francisco, but it’s Monday at five in the afternoon.”
He paused, then groaned. “Fucking traffic,” he said. Hehadforgotten things like traffic. Mystery Lake didn’t have much except on a few holiday weekends. And the times he’d been in the city recently, he’d been in and out during the day when it wasn’t much of an issue.
“Okay, dinner, then head home?”
She nodded. “I’m not familiar with this area, but I’m very familiar with North Beach. How do you feel about Italian? We shouldn’t hit too much traffic headingintothe city.”
“Deal,” he said, leading her back to his car. A few minutes later, they were poking along the surface streets, avoiding the major highways that ran through the city. Traffic was heavier than he’d anticipated on these less commuter-friendly routes,but he didn’t mind the time in the car. It gave him a chance to talk with Juliana about things other than corrupt politicians and dirty cops.
When they hit the Mission District, Juliana took his phone and plugged an address in. He assumed the directions would lead them to a restaurant but didn’t ask. He liked the idea of being surprised. As if where Juliana would take him—what she’d want to share with him—was a gift he’d get to open when they arrived.
Which they did nearly an hour after leaving Omar’s. Well, they arrived at a small car park Juliana directed him to. “There’s never any street parking,” she explained. He believed her. It was a residential neighborhood and by now, many of those residents were home for the evening, taking the few spaces available.
After setting the ticket on the dashboard as instructed, he took Juliana’s hand and followed her through the historically Italian neighborhood. They passed a few greengrocers closing for the night and a deli that had him slowing down and contemplating buying a truck full of cured meats.
His mind still on the bresaola, it took him a second to realize they’d reached their destination when she stopped in front of a glass door. Peeking in, he spied a small space—no more than ten tables, most of which were full. “Will we get a table?”
She nodded and pushed through the door. “I texted the owners when we got in the car. I went to college with their daughter and spent a few school breaks with them. They always have room for me,” she added with a mischievous grin.
On cue, a man emerged from the kitchen. With his chef’s hat and general proprietary air, he was clearly the owner. But for a chef, he was immaculately clean.
“Juliana!” he exclaimed, walking toward them with open arms. “How’s my favorite second daughter?”
“Papa,” she said with Italian inflections, making it sound like his name rather than a role in her life.
