Something occurred to me. “We don’t know that he didn’t just come up here tonight to get something to eat before the bus ride home. How do we know he wasn’t just doing something mundane like that?”
Our cars were near several cruisers and a crime scene van, and the reporters had gone.
I unlocked the station wagon door and got in. Marino stood with his hands in his pockets, a suspicious expression on his face because he knew me so well.
“You aren’t posting him tonight, are you,” he said.
“No.” It wasn’t necessary and I wouldn’t put myself through it.
“And you don’t want to go home. I can tell.”
“There are things to do,” I said. “The longer we wait, the more we might lose.”
“Which places do you want to try?” he asked, because he knew what it was like to have someone you worked With killed. – Well, there’s a number of places to eat right around here. Millie’s, for example.”
“Nope. Too high-dollar. Same with Patrick Henry’s and Most of the joints in the Slip and Shockoe Bottom. Remember, Danny’s not going to have a lot of money unless he’s getting it from places we don’t know about.”
“Let’s assume he’s getting nothing from anywhere,” I said. “Let’s assume he wanted something that was a straight shot from my office, so he stayed on Broad Street.”
“Poe’s, which isn’t on Broad, but is very close to Libby Hill Park. And of course there’s the Cafe,” he said.
“That’s what I would say, too,” I agreed.
When we walked into Poe’s, the manager was ringing up the check of the last customer for the night. We waited what seemed a long time, only to be told that dinner had been slow and no one resembling Danny had come in. Returning to our cars, we continued east on Broad to the Hill Cafe at 28th Street, and my pulse picked up when I realized the restaurant was but one street down from where my Mercedes had been found.
Known for its Bloody Marys and chili, the cafe was on the corner. and over the years had been a favorite hangout for cops. So I had been here many times, usually with Marino. It was a true neighborhood bar, and at this hour, tables were still full, smoke thick in the air, the television loudly playing old Howie Long clips on ESPN. Daigo was drying glasses behind the bar when she saw Marino and gave him a toothy grin.
“Now what you doing in here so late?” she said as if it had never happened before.
“Where were you earlier when things were popping?”
“So tell me,” Marino said to her, “in the joint that makes the best steak sandwich in town, how’s business been tonight?” He moved closer so others could not hear what he had to say.
Daigo was a wiry black woman, and she was eyeing me as if she had seen me somewhere before. “They were crawling in from everywhere earlier,” she said. “I thought I was going to drop. Can I get something for you and your friend, Captain?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You know the doc here, don’t ya?”
She frowned and then recognition gleamed in her eyes.
“I knew I seen you in here before. With him. You two married yet?” She laughed as if this were the funniest thing she had ever said.
“Listen, Daigo,” Marino went on, .1 we’re wondering if a kid might have come in here today. White male, slender, long dark hair, real nice looking. Would have been wearing a leather jacket, jeans, a sweater, tennis shoes, and a bright red knee brace.
About twenty-five years old and driving a new black Mercedes-Benz with a lot of antennas on it.”
Her eyes narrowed and her face got grim as Marino continued to talk, the dish towel limp in her hand. I suspected the police had asked her questions in the past about other unpleasant matters, and I could tell by the set of her mouth that she had no use for lazy, bad people who felt nothing when they ruined decent lives.
“Oh, I know exactly who you mean,” she said.