Ssssssss! came a low hiss from below the kitchen table, where an angry Russian blue cat with bald patches and forehead scars sat.
“Sarah Connor, did you mess up my floor?” Nola asked.
Sssssssss! the cat hissed again.
Nola rolled her eyes and picked up the toad, which was really all Sarah Connor wanted. Every few days, the cat would sneak out through the hole in the window screen and bring back a new gift: toads, mice, giant dragonflies . . . whatever she could find.
“You’re a horrible cat,” Nola said, tossing the toad outside.
Sssss, the cat hissed, satisfied, narrowing her white milky eye that had been scratched by a fox. Three months ago, Nola had found the cat bleeding, its paw broken and bent in a chain-link fence that it was trying to scale. No collar, no home, and clearly running from something. God, did Nola understand that.
The local veterinarian said to give up on her, that the cat would be dead in a week anyway. Nola brought her back here, where Sarah Connor refused to eat for four days, until Nola found her weakness: buttered corn on the cob. The damn cat would do anything for that.
Sss . . . the cat hissed again, scratching at the peeling linoleum floor for no reason.
Nola barely noticed, pulling off her shirt to get a better look at her collarbone. Back at the funeral, when she took out the staff sergeant who tried to handcuff her, he’d stabbed one of the cuffs into her neck. Kid was quicker than he looked.
Good for him. Right instinct. Trained well, Nola thought, pulling aside the strap of her black bra, trying to get a close-up look in the bathroom mirror. There was a little blood, but she’d be fine.
Turning her attention to the iPad, she hit the power button.
Onscreen, the logo for Barron’s Steakhouse bloomed into view, along with two buttons.
SCHEDULES RESERVATIONS
Nola didn’t hesitate. Reservations.
A calendar appeared. Today’s date, then four columns.
HOUR NAME PHONE NOTES
Tonight was a weeknight. The earliest reservation was at 5:30 p.m., party of three under the name A. Epstein, with a note that read, Celebrating 75th B.
Another half dozen reservations were listed below that.
Nola swiped back to Saturday, the night of Mint’s death.
“Whattya think, Sarah Connor? A middle-aged man going to a fancy steak house by himself?”
The cat stayed silent.
“Yeah, me neither,” Nola said, scrolling down and doing everything in her power to not reach into her pocket and pinch the skin on her thigh.
Time to see who Colonel Mint was meeting the night he died.
18
Nola scrolled through the iPad, scanning the reservation list for parties of two.
According to his death certificate, Lieutenant Colonel Archie Mint died at 7:46 p.m. That meant he probably pulled up to the steak house somewhere between 7:15 and 7:30 p.m.
Parties of two, Nola thought as she continued to scroll. 7:00 p.m. 7:30. 8:00. 8:30. No one named Archie, no one named Mint.
She started again, expanding the search to bigger parties. There were plenty of names, each in its own digital column. Bendis. Gaydos. Mack. Maleev. But no Mint or anything close to it.
At the top of the screen, she noticed a Search box and quickly typed the name Archie.
No records found.
She typed the name Mint.
1 record found. Two years ago. October 15. Mint’s birthday.
That meant he liked this place. Or used to like it. Either way, he hadn’t been back—or at least made a reservation—until two nights ago, when he decided he needed some steak. Most likely, he didn’t plan to eat alone.