Zero Day (John Puller, #1)(27)

“But the minutes only add up to fifty-five.”

“I need five minutes to communicate with my boss. I should’ve done it before now, but things got a little busy.”

“A little busy? You have high standards, then. I’ve got my stopwatch. Don’t disappoint me.”


He drove back to the motel, passing the restaurant where they would be eating, showered, and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. He pulled out his mini laptop, plugged in his communication fob, and sent an encrypted email back to Quantico. Then he spent two minutes on his secure phone filling in the SAC on what he had discovered and his progress so far. Don White wanted detailed reports sent out the next day by email with more formal ones in the snail mail shortly thereafter.

“Lot of eyes on this, Puller.”

“Yes, sir. You made that very clear.”

“Any theories yet?” White asked.

“As soon as I have them, so will you. The colonel’s laptop and briefcase are secure. I’ll try to get them released from police custody and drop them off at the DHS site.”

“Have you readied anything to be sent to USACIL yet?”

“In the process, sir. Should go out tomorrow. At least the first batch. There’s a lot to process. Two crime scenes instead of one.” He paused to allow the SAC to offer more manpower to assist him. The offer never came.

“Lines of communication open, Puller,” the man said instead.

“Yes, sir.”

Puller closed his phone and slipped his mini laptop into an inner pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like leaving things like that behind in a motel room that anyone could break into with a jackknife or credit card. He gunned up, one front, one back.

He passed his car on the way out and double-checked that it was locked. He decided it would be faster to walk to the place than drive.

So Puller walked. He’d get a better lay of the land that way. And he might just see the person who had wiped out two households. He had a feeling this killing was local. But not necessarily in all respects.

CHAPTER

19


THE PLACE WAS like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use—although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.

Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.

Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the men were lean, almost gaunt. They were mostly dressed in jeans and work shirts, steel-toed boots, hair slicked back probably from a recent shower. Maybe mining employees, Puller thought, just off their shift. Cole had said they didn’t dig here for the coal. They blew it out of the mountain and then hauled it away over treacherous roads. It was still dangerous, hard work. And these men looked it.

The women were halved between matronly types in wide knee-length skirts and modest blouses and younger wiry females in cutoff shorts and jeans. A few teenage girls wore skintight outfits short enough to reveal glimpses of panties or pale bottoms, probably much to the delight of their rugged-looking boyfriends. There were a couple of men in jackets and slacks, button-down shirts, and scuffed wingtips. Maybe mining executives who didn’t have to get their hands dirty or their backs ruptured for their daily bread. But apparently they all had to eat in the same place.

Now that was democracy for you, thought Puller.

Cole was already there, at a booth near the rear. She waved and he headed over. She had on a jean skort that revealed muscled calves and a white sleeveless blouse that showed off firm, tanned arms. Her sandals revealed the woman’s unpainted toes. Her large shoulder bag was next to her and inside it Puller figured she kept both her Cobra and her badge. Her hair was still damp from the shower. The coconut smell of it cut through the grease as Puller approached. All eyes in the place were on him, a fact he recorded and recognized as perfectly normal under the circumstances. He doubted many strangers found their way to Drake. But then again, Colonel Reynolds was one of them. And now he was dead.

He sat. She handed him a plastic menu. “Fifty-eight minutes. You didn’t disappoint.”

“I scrubbed fast. How’s the coffee?” he asked.

“Probably just as good as the Army’s.”

His lips twitched at her comment as he scanned the menu. He put it down.

“Already made up your mind?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I guess quick decisions are a necessity for someone like you.”

“So long as they’re the right ones. The Crib Room?”

“Coal miner slang. Means the area designated at a mining operation for miners to eat and take a break.”