She smiled, clutched her books, walked backward for a moment, then turned to exit the room. As she left, she was certain that both men kept their eyes on her. She wondered if they were reflecting on her request—or thinking she had difficulty with punctuality? Or, worse, did they somehow know she had been drawing in class?
Great. So far she had offended a respected homicide officer, made those responsible for her think she might have a problem with timeliness, and maybe they had even realized she spent half of her class time doodling. No…they wouldn’t have been so polite, she was certain, if they were about to tell her she wasn’t up to par.
As she exited the building, she found herself in the middle of a crowd of people. There were three shifts, or platoons; eight to four, four to midnight, midnight to eight. The “day” shift always left when class broke.
She had come to recognize many people as they made their way to their cars. She had found “waving to” and “smiling at” friends among them. Not people she really knew; just people she saw every day. There was a certain brotherhood to be found at headquarters. Clicking her car open with the remote, she smiled at one of the women from records. The woman smiled back.
That was when Ashley saw him again. And knew now, of course, who he was. Detective Jake Dilessio. He was leaving with another man, and they were carrying on a conversation as they walked across the lot. She hurried on toward her car. But before she could open the door, the detective turned. He looked different in a suit. Taller. Older. More official. More like he could get her into trouble. She quelled the thought and remembered that everyone was entitled to their privacy—even cops. She wasn’t sure how that fit with spilling coffee over someone who happened to be standing in her doorway, but she still didn’t want to turn herself into a cowering little kiss-ass.
With luck, he wouldn’t notice her. She was probably just one of a horde of ants to him. Lots of officers didn’t take the students seriously until they’d actually graduated from the academy.
He was wearing sunglasses, dark glasses over dark eyes, shielded by a stray thatch of dark hair. He glanced her way but made no acknowledgment whatsoever. He obviously hadn’t seen her.
But as she slid into the driver’s seat, she was aware that he was still looking in her direction. He had seen her.
But he sure as hell hadn’t waved or begun to crack anything like a casual-acquaintance smile.
He’d stared.
Wishing she could slide beneath her seat, she slid her glasses on, buckled her seat belt, switched on the ignition and eased her car from the lot.
Once on the road, she recalled that Sandy had told her that the detective had just moved his houseboat to Nick’s marina.
It wasn’t Nick’s marina, of course. It belonged to the city. People just called it Nick’s marina because Nick’s restaurant had been there so long.
As she drove homeward, she realized that the detective’s car was behind her own for quite some time. She recognized him in her rearview mirror. Then, somewhere on the highway, he turned off.
She entered the house through the kitchen door and could tell that it was a busy afternoon at Nick’s; she could hear voices and laughter even over the sound of the jukebox. She made her way through the house to her own wing and stripped out of her uniform, jumped quickly into the shower and let the hot water pour over her for a long time. She wished she could stop thinking about Stuart Fresia, but she couldn’t. She wondered if it was guilt—she hadn’t kept up with old friends the way she should have. She wondered, too, if it was just that what people claimed had happened was so jarring that she simply couldn’t put it aside.
Showered, somewhat refreshed, yet dolefully aware that her long weekend and its late hours was beginning to tell on her, she went through the back entrance into the restaurant. Nick was behind the bar, helping out Betsy, the weeknight bartender. The place was jumping—odd for a Monday night.
“Hey, kid!” Nick called to her. “You bushed? Or can you give me a hand for a few minutes? Kara called in sick, so I’ve only got David out on the floor. There’s a food pickup for table twenty-four. Can you grab it?”
“Sure.”
She moved to the counter that separated the kitchen from the service area. The food pickup was just one plate, broiled snapper, with baked potatoes and broccoli. She set the plate on a tray, added a few lemons and a paper cup of tartar sauce, and headed to the outside porch area, where tables eighteen to twenty-six could be found.
Table twenty-four was a two-seater, off around the L of the porch, often chosen by those in a romantic mood—those who knew of its existence, of course. As she walked around the corner, she saw that, as expected, tonight there was only a single occupant at the table. A man, dark-haired, head bent low, intensely interested in whatever he was reading.
As she set the plate down, she went into waitress mode by rote.