Page 2 of Dodge

Apparently so.

A nod. “And I’m Ed. I need a pitstop and refill. Where’s good for coffee?”

Lombardi stabbed a slim finger at Maggie’s.

He could use some caffeine too. He hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours because he kept thinking about the sheriff’s phone call at 9:00 p.m.—the special assignment.

Out of the ordinary ...

They walked into the bright place, just past bustling hour, and were assaulted by a tidal wave of smells. Fry fat predominated.

Greene hit the restroom while Lombardi took a booth. When the marshal returned they ordered coffee. He asked, “Anything else? Uncle Sam’s buying.”

Lombardi was hesitating, as if eating would seem unprofessional in the eyes of a law enforcer who would be, the deputy felt, superior to him in all respects.

Then the marshal rapped the laminated menu. “How about burgers all around? You’re in a diner, you eat diner food. Though I’ll bet the mac ‘n’ cheese isn’t bad.”

“Burgers’re better. The mac can be gluey.”

Spry Kate, in her seventies, poured the coffee and took the order, then headed to the kitchen.

Sipping, Greene nodded. “Yessir. Thatisfine. Now, Tony, let me explain what I’m here for. And we’ll see where you stand.”

Odd phrasing. “All right.” And he stepped on the “sir” before it snuck out.

Lombardi lifted the mug. Greene too, like they were toasting. Ceramic did not meet ceramic.

“Did your sheriff brief you?” Greene asked.

“Some. There’s a manhunt. You’re covering this part of the state and could use somebody local.”

A nod. “Pretty much. Now, the Marshals Office, it’s sort of a grab bag. We guard federal judges and transport prisoners. Then there’s the Witness Security Program. What I do. You know, whistleblowers, people who testify against the mob and cartels.”

Lombardi and Jess liked their true-crime shows. He didn’t think there’d been a show about the US Marshals. It could be a good one.

Greene continued, “I got this one family set up, new identities, new home, after the husband testified in Chicago—he was a bookkeeper and got the FBI spreadsheets that brought down a big drug ring.”

Lombardi’s face grew still. It was clear where this was going.

The marshal’s hands encircled the mug. “An assistant in our department? She was kidnapped and gave up the location.” Greene hesitated. “Everybody breaks. Just a matter of time. Joanneworked for us six years. Married, children.” He stopped speaking before his voice cracked, which it was just about to do.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” Nearly a whisper.

The burgers landed and, without ketchup or other doctoring, Greene started eating, small bites. The tough story about his assistant had dampened his appetite, it was clear. Still, he nodded his approval. “Place must be an institution.”

“For miles around.” Lombardi turned his patty yellow and red, then cut the sandwich in half, which he always did, and then ate too, slowly. He and Jess had talked about when the kids arrived: they’d make sure mealtimes lasted awhile. They’d talk about their days—their jobs and school, the news, everything. Like onBlue Bloods, at the end of each show.

Then: Stay on this, he told himself. Focus.

Wiping his lips with a napkin, Greene continued, “So, there it is. I lost a coworker, and my witness and his wife. I’d become friends with them. A lot of the people we protect, they’re assholes. Mob, petty criminals. But these were good, solid folk.”

Lombardi started on the second portion of his burger. The fries were vanishing too. He ate them with a knife and fork to make them last. Maggie’s was known for its fries.

“So I dropped everything. Told my bosses, this’s all I’m working on, finding their killer. Didn’t have any luck for weeks but then I get a lead from a CI ...” He hesitated.

“Confidential informant.”

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