Page 22 of Dirty Valentine
“Feel better?”I asked as we pulled onto the main road.
“Yeah,” Jack admitted.“They’ll be safe on the island tomorrow.And now I can focus on finding a killer without worrying about them.”
We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers the only sound.
“Your mom wasn’t exactly subtle with all those grandchildren hints,” I said finally.
Jack laughed.“She never is.The baby quilt was a nice touch though.Very smooth.”
“She knows, doesn’t she?About the baby.”
“She always knows.It’s deeply unsettling.”He glanced at me.“She’s right about one thing though.You do need to eat a vegetable occasionally.”
“Hey, french fries are vegetables.”
“They’re really not.”
“They’re made from potatoes.Potatoes grow in the ground.That’s basically a salad.”
Jack laughed, and some of the tension that had been riding his shoulders finally eased.“Your logic is terrifying.”
“You married me.”
“Best decision I ever made,” he said, reaching over to squeeze my hand.“Even if you think french fries are health food.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Jack seemed more settledas we pulled back onto the main road, the rain still coming down but not quite as violently as before.
“We should head home,” I said, stifling a yawn.“It’s been a long day.”
“Actually,” Jack said, glancing at the dashboard clock, “Martinez gave me Al Contreras’s number earlier—the maintenance guy who was supposed to lock the cemetery gates Monday night.He works nights at city facilities, so this is actually the perfect time to catch him.”
“Of course he works nights,” I muttered.“Because why would anyone in this case have normal hours?”
Jack was already pulling out his phone.“If someone got into that cemetery through an unlocked gate, I need to know.This can’t wait until morning.”
I listened to Jack’s side of the conversation as he explained who he was and asked if Al could meet them somewhere to talk.After a few minutes, Jack hung up.
“He suggested Martha’s Diner,” Jack said.“He’s about to start his rounds but can meet us for a quick coffee.”
“Well, at least there’ll be coffee,” I said, though what I really wanted was my bed.“And maybe pie.”
Martha’s Diner was one of those roadside establishments that had been serving truck drivers and insomniacs since the Eisenhower administration.The neon sign buzzed and flickered in the rain, casting pink and blue shadows across the puddle-strewn parking lot.Half the letters inMartha’shad given up the ghost years ago, so it now readMa ha’s, which Emmy Lu always said made it sound like a laugh track for people with bad timing.
Inside, the familiar scent of coffee mingled with the smell of bacon grease and industrial-strength disinfectant.The black-and-white checkered floor was worn smooth by decades of work boots, and the red vinyl booths had been patched with duct tape in so many places they looked like they’d survived a knife fight.
Al Contreras sat alone in a corner booth, hunched over a cup of coffee that steamed in the fluorescent lighting.He was a small, wiry man in his sixties with weathered hands and the kind of deep tan that came from working outdoors year-round.When he saw Jack approaching, he half stood and extended a calloused hand.
“Sheriff Lawson,” he said, his voice carrying a slight Hispanic accent.“Thanks for meeting me here.I figured it was better than trying to talk over the rain.”
“No problem, Al.This is Dr.Graves, our coroner.”Jack slid into the booth across from Al, and I settled in beside him.
“Doctor.”Al nodded respectfully.“Heard about what happened at Olde Towne Cemetery.Terrible thing.Makes a man feel responsible, you know?”
The waitress—a woman named Dorris who’d been working at Martha’s since before I was born—appeared with coffee cups and a pot that looked like it had survived both World Wars.She poured without being asked, which was Martha’s Diner policy.If you didn’t want coffee, you went somewhere else.
“Tell me about Monday night,” Jack said, adding cream to his cup.“Walk me through your routine.”
