Betrayed (Rosato & DiNunzio, #2)(82)
“Are you okay?” Judy asked, alarmed. “Have you been drinking?”
“A thousand dollars, Miss Judy. You have that much money, you are a lawyer.”
“Where are you, at the barracks?”
“No, I left. If you bring me the money, I will tell you what you want to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bring the money. I know a place to meet. Don’t tell anyone. No police, no one else. Just you. Now.”
“Now? I’m in the city. I don’t understand. What’ll you tell me?”
“Pay me, and I will tell you what they did to Iris.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Judy raced west, as the sun rose behind her in a clear sky, spilling brightness into the back window of her VW Beetle. She’d hit the highway before rush-hour traffic, having made great time to Chester County. The dashboard clock read 6:15, and she zoomed through East Grove, a small town consisting of an off-brand gas station and a Turkey Hill convenience store. The farther from the city Judy got, the more she left behind what was going on in her personal life and turned her attention to Iris’s death. She’d been right that it had been a murder, and that fueled her. She’d tried to convince Domingo on the phone to let her go to the police, but he’d insisted that he wouldn’t tell her anything if she did. She’d complied so far, but intended to convince him to notify the authorities, though she had plans even if he didn’t.
She accelerated onto a paved country road, then turned left and right, following the GPS directions past fenced pastures with grazing horses in muddy blankets, then long stretches of cornfield, and acres of open space, covered with underbrush. She was heading for a sandwich shop in East Grove, which Domingo had said was hidden enough for their meeting, and her heart began to hammer from a half a mile away. She took another right, then left, in light traffic, mostly pickup trucks, one full of baled hay, and a rusty red Farmall tractor, which pulled over to let her pass.
She spotted an Agway feed store up ahead, then the coffee shop came into view, a white shack with a faded sign that read HALTMAN’S HOAGIES. The two stores sat together alongside the road, and beyond them stretched yet another open field thick with underbrush, then in the distance, a large bluish building with a corrugated roof. Birds flew over the building, seeming to congregate, and Judy didn’t know why until she pulled into the side parking lot next to the sandwich shop, turned off the engine, braked, and stepped out of her car. The air reeked of compost, and she assumed that the building out back was a large mushroom grower, which could explain why Domingo had said that nobody ate at the sandwich shop.
Judy could barely take the stench, trying not to breathe as she hurried past a white Ford pickup, went around the building, and entered the sandwich shop, which was practically empty. Domingo had told her that he’d meet her at six thirty, and she was early, so she didn’t worry that he’d be a no-show. There were two rows of small white tables on the right, and on the left was a stop-time soda fountain with an older man behind the counter, wearing a white apron over his T-shirt and pants. He was filling up a line of plastic catsup bottles, balancing one upside down on top of another, and he looked up when Judy came in.
“What can I do you for?” he asked, with a smile.
“Coffee and a doughnut would be great, thanks.” Judy crossed to the counter and peered at the doughnuts sitting on a cake dish underneath a cloudy plastic dome. Her stomach was too jumpy to eat, but she wanted to get some for Domingo. “What do you suggest, glazed or plain?”
“I’d suggest you go to McDonald’s,” the old man answered, with a dry chuckle.
“What makes you say that? The smell outside?”
“Heck no, I’m used to that. None of us smell it anymore. I meant the pastry. It’s day-old, and my wife is the baker.”
Judy smiled. “I’ll take my chances with two glazed and two coffees, please.” She checked her watch, but it was only 6:27. “Which mushroom grower is back there?”
“In the back field? That’s not a grower. That’s the plant where they treat the compost, then it gets trucked to the growers. The growers don’t treat their own compost.” The old man slid the glass pot from an old Bunn coffeemaker and filled a white mug, the pour making a glug-glug sound.
“I didn’t know you had to treat compost. I thought it was just horse manure.”
“No, it’s horse, chicken, and whatever chemicals they put in it, then they wash it and dry it out. They gotta treat it, you know, make it sanitary, to grow mushrooms on it. Big government got its eye out, you know, comes out here to inspect.” The old man put the two mugs of coffee on the yellowed counter, picked up a plate, and lifted up the lid of the cake dish. “One down, one to go.”
“Thanks.”
“You go pick a table and I’ll come serve you.” The old man retrieved two doughnuts with plastic tongs and put them on the same plate, then reached for a dented stainless steel tray.
“Perfect.” Judy turned around, scanned the tables, and made her way to one in the corner, where they wouldn’t be seen by anybody who came in. The old man followed her, setting down the coffees and the doughnut plate with a napkin.
“Enjoy your meal,” he said, with a wink, then returned to the counter while Judy sat down, taking the seat facing the door. She put her phone on the table and slung her shoulder bag on the back of her chair. She sipped her coffee, which was bitter and predictably did nothing to settle her stomach. She checked her watch again, and it read 6:33, though when she looked up, Domingo was coming through the door.