Countdown - Iris Johansen [72]
“Starting today?”
“Okay, today.”
“It’s enough—for now.” Mario added, “Just one more thing.”
“You’re pushing.”
“It’s something I have the right to know. It’s what I should have asked in the beginning. Why is Grozak after the scrolls? Why did he kill my father?”
Trevor nodded. He was too volatile to tell everything, but he deserved to know the basics. “You’re right. It’s not fair to keep you in the dark.” He turned toward the front door. “Come on in and we’ll go to the library and have a drink. You may need it—it’s a nasty story.”
You’ve upset Trevor,” Brenner said as he met Jane at the plane. “He’s threatening me with mayhem if I don’t take proper care of you.”
“Then do it. I understand you’re pretty good at mayhem yourself.” She changed the subject. “Have you talked to the waiters at the café yet?”
He nodded. “It’s pretty busy early in the morning. Evidently there are a lot of regulars like Donato who show up every day. Albert Dengler, the man behind the counter, says he got a close look at the man Donato was sitting with. The café is sort of like your Starbucks, and he served him when he came to the counter. I thought it best to only tell him that Donato is missing and no details.”
“Will he be working today or do we have to go to his home?”
Brenner checked his watch. “He should be starting his shift in about an hour and forty minutes.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He opened the passenger door of the car for her. “Anything else?”
“You can make sure I have sufficient time with him to get a good enough description to do the sketch.”
“I’ll do my best.” He smiled. “It shouldn’t be a problem. If I have to do it, I’ll take over his shift. Of course, I can’t promise that the caffe mocha won’t turn out to be caffe latte. But I’ll be such a charming lad that no one will care.”
“Just so you don’t make Dengler too nervous to concentrate.”
“I wouldn’t judge him to be the nervous type. Or if he is, it’s not when he’s on his favorite pot.”
“Oh, great. He’s on drugs?”
“Marijuana. There’s no mistaking the odor that clings to him, and he appeared very mellow.”
“Maybe too mellow to be detail oriented.”
“Well, if he’s on the stuff regularly, he’s not going to have a great memory. You’ll have to see, won’t you?” He started the car. “But if he’s on the happy weed, he’ll be laid-back enough to give you all the time you need.”
He usually sat over there.” Dengler nodded at a table by the wrought-iron railing overlooking the lake. “A nice old gentleman. Always dressed neat and tidy. Not like some of the kids who come in here. I have to tell them to wear shoes. You’d think they’d realize this is—”
“Had you ever seen him with the other man?”
He shook his head. “He was always alone. No, once he came in with a woman.” He wrinkled his brow. “Late fifties, gray hair, a little plump.”
Donato’s sister, Jane guessed. “How long ago was that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Six months, maybe.”
The description was good—excellent, for the length of time from the sighting. Brenner was right about the smell of pot that clung to Dengler, but it must not be habitual if he had this decent a memory.
“Was there anything unusual about the man who sat down at Donato’s table?”
He thought about it. “He was tall, thin. Long legs. He seemed to be all legs.”
“No, his face.”
Dengler thought about it. “Nothing really unusual. Large eyes. Hazel, I think.”
“No scars?”
He shook his head. “His complexion was a little pasty, as if he worked inside a lot.