Chat - Archer Mayor [31]
She tried reading between the lines. “Medically?”
“Not really, although Leo’s not out of the woods.” He resumed removing the overalls, continuing, “I’m helping the sheriff’s office look into the car crash.”
“You’re kidding me,” she exclaimed.
He shook his head. “I’m not saying there’s anything to it—not necessarily. But I have some questions.”
He held his hand up as she opened her mouth, her eyes wide. “Sam, that’s all I’ve got right now. If I hit on anything, you’ll be the first to know. In fact, you’ll probably have to take the case over ’cause of my personal involvement. Right now I’m just sniffing around.”
He bundled up the white suit and shoved it into a transparent bag for disposal. “You could do something, though, come to think of it,” he admitted.
“Shoot,” she answered.
“Run down what you can about Andy Griffis. I don’t remember his birth date, but he was from Thetford originally. I busted him in Bratt a few years ago, and he committed suicide late this summer, so he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Everything you can find.”
She was already scribbling a few notes in her pad. “Got it. Reach you at your mom’s?”
“Generally, or use the pager. And don’t punch a case quite yet, okay? Off the books.”
Joe stood on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his coat pockets, looking across the street at the bar. It was a far cry from the place in Gloucester where he’d first met Lyn Silva, whom he’d known then only as Evelyn. That had been a notorious dive, well known to the local cops, and literally home to an ever-changing tide of anonymous people who lived on the top two floors in rented rooms that looked like jail cells. Included among those residents had been the dead man Joe had come down there hoping to interview.
This was a serious step up. A handsome, elaborately carved sign over the door advertised “Silva’s,” the bay windows to either side of the door had been framed with nicely worked wooden casings in the style of a century ago, and he could see, behind the glass, tables placed on raised platforms to afford patrons a better view of the street.
He crossed over and saw a paper sign on the door reading “Not open yet, but hold that thought.”
He paused at the foot of the three steps leading up, startled at how well that phrasing reflected his own situation. His attraction to Lyn was not at issue, nor was her clear interest in him, despite his wondering at that good fortune. What was stalling him was old baggage—his age, his past with Gail and its lingering emotional fallout, his near miss at losing his mother and Leo. He was gun-shy and unsure and more inclined to pulling in than to exploring a new relationship. His one night with Hillstrom had been a defining moment, though in large part appreciated precisely because it had no future.
Proceeding through the door ahead of him could be much more than he wanted to handle right now—if ever again.
“Does he dare?” came from behind him.
He turned around sharply, struck as much by the wording as by the voice. Lyn Silva stood in the street, carrying three precariously balanced cardboard boxes, a half smile on her face.
“I serve Coke, too,” she added.
He wondered if her opening line, as insightful as it had seemed, had in fact meant something more mundane. It was possible, given the Coke follow-up, but he’d learned not to sell her short. Her canny instincts about people—including herself—had struck him all the way back in Gloucester. She was just as possibly allowing them both a little leeway.
“Looks like it’s really coming along,” he said blandly, instinctively reaching for the top two boxes of her stack.
She nodded, glancing up at the sign. “I was about to ask if you wanted to come in, but if you don’t now, you’ll be stealing my stuff.”
Almost surprised, he looked down at what he’d just taken into his arms. “Sorry. That was a little—”
“Much appreciated,” she interrupted. “Come on. It’s open.”
She cut around him and led the way, bumping the door open with one slim blue-jeaned hip.
The interior was warm and smelled of old wood and leather, with