“Sir, what else did Nola ask you about?” Zig said as Roddy took a photo of the card. Ka—klik.
“Nola, huh?” Merante replied. “She told me her name was Kamille.”
“I meant . . . She’s actually—”
“I’m not offended, but do me a favor and spare me the bullshit, okay? I don’t care what her name is. I don’t care what she’s up to. In this job, the majority of my clients are polished people: businessmen, judges. I know what polished looks like. Your girl’s the opposite of that. She’s not even really a cop, is she?”
“Mr. Merante . . .”
“You don’t trust her, do you? I don’t blame you. From the moment she walked in, she asked a few questions, but kept her head down, drawing the entire time.”
Roddy looked up from the business cards.
“Did she draw anything in particular?” Zig asked.
“She asked for my pen, but she’s not exactly a sharer. From what I could tell, it kinda looked like the restaurant. Like she was drawing the whole place. Otherwise, all she cared about was the Army guy, Mr. Mint.”
“Colonel Mint,” Zig corrected, though again, he wasn’t surprised. Half a decade ago, Nola and Mint met each other on the same assignment, or at least in the same location, a place code-named Grandma’s Pantry. Now, someone seemed to be tracking, and killing, the few other people who served with them.
“Oh, she also wanted our security footage,” Merante added.
“I didn’t see any cameras out front,” Roddy said.
“There aren’t any. The owners are cheap. Only places they record are the safe in back and our wine cellar. I gave both tapes to the Army investigators.”
“You think she wanted to see Mint’s interaction with your valet?” Zig asked.
“Actually, she was asking about interior cams—like she wanted to know who Mint was meeting.”
Zig looked back at Roddy. It was a good question, one that Zig was already kicking himself for not asking. According to the police reports, once the valet took off, Colonel Mint jumped in a cab and followed him to Mint’s house. But in all the back-and-forth over the deaths, they’d forgotten a key detail: people don’t come to fancy steak houses to eat alone.
“Mr. Merante, is it possible to take a look at your reservation book?” Zig asked.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” Merante said, putting his coffee down with enough speed that it was clear none of the other investigators had asked about it. “I got it right . . .” He reached to his left, but nothing was there. Confused, he lifted a nearby stack of menus, then his laptop, then started rummaging through his briefcase.
“It was just here. I had it when—” He cut himself off. “That bitch stole my iPad!”
17
The first thing Nola did was turn off the iPad’s tracking.
Sure, she could’ve asked the steak house manager for a look at the reservation book, but if her hunch was right, the last thing she needed was for him to share it with others.
For the rest of the forty-minute ride, Nola did what she always did during drives or long runs—composed layouts in her head, in this case, a mental drawing of Mint that she’d been working on since the funeral.
Years ago, when she first drew him back at Grandma’s Pantry, she’d focused on the obvious: his stubborn lips, absurd jaw, and buzzed blond hair, so crisp it looked like it was cut every hour. Same with his military uniform. When you wash camouflage too much, the shades of green take on a faded, whitish tinge. Not Mint. The moment he stepped into a room, you knew he was the commander, though Nola quickly realized it had nothing to do with his clothing or jawline. It came from the hardest thing to render, the charisma and energy that radiated off him.