Why dig during the day? Why not wait until night? The noise, perhaps? The lights? Unusual activity could draw unwanted attention faster than if Mr. V just happened to be doing renovations. But why not use the vacant building to tunnel in from instead of essentially taking a man hostage? Maybe what they were after was closer to Mr. V’s shop? That made no sense either. Once they were in the building, they could go anywhere they wanted. Then again, why tunnel? Why not just break in?

None of the situation made any sense. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was getting Mr. V safely back to his family. If he were being held hostage —

I stopped at the entrance to the café and considered the magnitude of fear I’d felt radiating out of him. It was one thing to be afraid for your life, but could Mr. V’s entire family be at risk? Were his wife and kids hostages, too?

I had to report my suspicions, but what if a cop started poking around and got Mr. V killed? Or worse, his entire family? The situation demanded delicacy. A cavalry galloping to the rescue with lights flashing and guns blazing was not the answer. Sadly, I didn’t know what was.

A blast of arctic air urged me inside. I stepped into the gentle roar of a full house, and my gaze instantly shot to Reyes. His back was to me. Probably a good thing since I couldn’t think clearly when I looked at his face. Or his shoulders. Or his thick, unkempt hair.

I took out the money Mr. V gave me and headed toward the register to ring it in. Sweet Mr. V and his lovely family. Who could I go to with this? I needed someone high up in the law enforcement food chain, like a detective or even the police chief. I’d gotten to know a couple of the cops, but again, the situation demanded kid gloves, not boxing gloves, and the cops I’d met so far did not inspire that kind of confidence.

But that brought me to problem number two: What would I tell the person I did go to? I saw these Middle Eastern guys and got a bad feeling? Racist much?

I glanced at Garrett as I walked by and considered asking him. He did something coplike, though I wasn’t sure what. There was Mr. Pettigrew as well. He was a former detective. Maybe I could talk to him, but again, what would I tell him? And how much could I count on him what with that demon lurking in his innards?

I spotted Cookie looking at me with a huge smile on her face. An appreciative smile. Like a really big one. I slowed as she walked toward me. Her arms opened, and I half expected her to plant a big wet one on me. Instead, she planted one on her husband, which made more sense. He’d walked in right behind me.

“Hi, Janey,” he said when Cookie stopped accosting him. Weren’t there laws against X-rated PDA?

Robert, or Bobert as I liked to call him, but that was Cookie’s fault, had warm eyes and a charming, full-mustached smile. He seemed to like me almost as much as Cookie did. They were always inviting me over for dinner or to a movie. At first, I found their enthusiasm a bit intimidating. But once I got to know them – and realized they weren’t swingers – I was grateful for it. They were a grounding force in my antigravitational life. A cord that kept me tethered to earth.

“Hey, Bobert. How’s it hanging?”

“Little to the left. You?”

He pulled me into a giant bear hug, swallowing me in his arms. It felt wonderful despite our conversation about the trajectory of his manly parts. Some might have seen that as awkward.

I had a thing for awkward.

“Same,” I said when he released me. “Your wife tried to service another customer today.”

He glanced at Cookie, his expression sympathetic. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink. They’d only been married a couple of months and were the cutest newlyweds on the planet. I was certain of it. Especially Bobert. To be so old, so elderly and decrepit, practically on his last legs, to find love where he least expected it, at a rave in the Mohave. At least that was what Cookie told me. She’d been lying when she said it, though. If she lied about meeting her future husband at a rave, she had to believe that the truth would sound worse. The truth must have sucked. They probably met at a strip club. Or a human sacrifice. Or a tractor pull.

Bobert took a table near the drinks station, while Cookie and I decided to do what we were paid to do. Weird how that was expected of us.

I rang up Mr. V’s order, feeling much better about the whole situation. A solution had come to me the moment I’d walked in out of the cold. Bobert. I could ask Bobert what to do. Cookie said he was a detective of some sort in New Mexico. I didn’t know what they called detectives in Latin American countries, but he spoke English really well. Surely he’d know who I could talk to. Who I should talk to.

And he didn’t have any ties here. He wouldn’t send the cavalry in and risk Mr. Vandenberg’s life. I could ask him who in the department would be the most likely to take my concerns seriously and keep the investigation under the radar.

Bobert normally stayed for the better part of an hour. He hung around until Cookie had a break and could eat with him. It was so sweet. Hopefully by then, the café would’ve cleared out a little and I could talk to him in semi-private.

I couldn’t decide if I should bring Cookie into it. He might be the type of officer that kept his professional and personal lives completely separate. He might not want Cookie involved in any of his investigations for her own safety. I’d try to approach him about it before Cookie took her break.

I glanced toward Reyes. He sat at a booth, eating a sub and reading on his phone. He was doing the same about five seconds later. Five seconds after that, he took another bite, then started reading again. Approximately five seconds later —

Francie sauntered up to him with the dessert plate we used to tempt unwitting customers into ordering just a bit more than they could safely stuff into their stomachs and asked him if he saw anything that he liked.

She was not talking about the dessert. She’d undone the top two buttons of her blouse and leaned in to give him a better view.

I so could’ve done that. I had fantastic boobs.

But Francie was laying it on thicker than usual, becoming more desperate. It was sad.

It was even sadder when Reyes took note, causing me to almost drop a plate of spaghetti in a customer’s lap.

After a pause that had Francie and me both in breathless anticipation, he said, “I’m good for now.”

Disappointment washed over Francie. Triumph rocketed through me. Triumph mixed with a sweet shot of euphoria. I rarely heard him talk. His voice was like being bathed in warm caramel. Not appealing to some. Scary appealing to me.

“What do you think of that one?” Dixie asked me, nodding toward the issuer of my future restraining order.

“Who?” I asked, all innocence and myrrh. “Oh, Reyes?”

“Mm-hm,” she said, refilling my customer’s iced tea.

“He seems… nice.”

A grin as wicked as my darkest fantasies spread across her face. “I think so, too.”

Saucy minx. Dixie made the rounds, often gravitating toward either Garrett or Reyes, which would explain why she was making the rounds at all. She rarely waited tables.

I started taking orders, beginning with a table of thirty-somethings. All female. All dressed to the nines. All salads and lemon water. Poor things. I took the orders of two more tables and two booths. All female. All dressed to the nines. Thankfully, not all salads and lemon water.