Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams Page B

got peoplefrom all over the county coming to eat here now. There’s a line for Sunday brunch
     and fried chicken night.”
    “Pretty quiet in here now,” I observed.
    “People around here eat supper early. It’s after nine o’clock.” Gene put down a small
     plate. “Applewood-smoked bacon. Local. On the house.”
    I heard the door open behind me, heard a puff of air escape the seat cover on the
     stool next to me. A manila folder appeared on the counter.
    I glanced over at Detective Robert Raymond. “Oh joy. You going to try to run me out
     of the diner too? A person has to eat, Detective.”
    I thought he might smile. “
Try
being the operative word. Medical records.” He nodded at the file. “Hey, Gene, how
     about a cup?”
    “How’d you find me?” I took a bite of the thick-sliced bacon.
    “That car of yours is easy to spot.”
    “You go over the medical records?” I asked.
    “Your instincts were right. Looks like neither vic had broken bones prior to their
     disappearance,” Raymond said. “Guess that’s gonna give you some ideas about who did
     this?”
    I took another sip of burned coffee. “Says something about his psychological requirements.
     And physical requirements. As in what kind of space he’d need to do what he does.”
    Gene put a mug in front of Raymond and filled it up. “Hey, Gene,” Raymond said. “This
     is that hotshot investigator from Atlanta I told you the sheriff hired.”
    Gene gave me a nod. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He moved quietly around the counter
     with his coffeepot. I heard him checking on the couple in the booth.
    I looked at Raymond. The scarlet veins under the skin on his cheeks looked like tiny
     explosions under the harsh diner light. I picked up the folder, opened it, took a
     minute to look it over. My phone jangled on the counter. The display lit up with Kenneth
     Meltzer’s name and mobile number. I picked it up. “Good evening, Sheriff.”
    Raymond swiveled on his stool and stalked out of the diner.
    “Evening, Dr. Street … Keye,” the sheriff said. “Sorry I had to bail on you today.
     Had to be in court. Let’s meet in the morning. You probably have some things to discuss
     by now.”
    After nine hours on the job I hadn’t exactly kicked in any doors. But I did have ideas.
     I told the sheriff that quietly while Gene hovered around the counter and did a bad
     job of disguising his interest.
    “You an early riser? Let’s say breakfast at seven-thirty. Silver Spoon makes a good
     one. You know where it is?”
    I didn’t mention I was sitting at the diner’s counter. “See you then.” I clicked off
     and put my debit card on the counter. Gene collected it. I watched him work the card
     reader with fingers that looked arthritic. He came back with my ticket. I wrote in
     the tip and stood up. “Great pancake,” I said loud enough for the cook to hear. He
     gave another nod from the back. I headed for the door.
    “Excuse me there, little lady.” I stopped and turned. Gene came around the counter.
     “Rob Raymond was a bully growing up too. Most people around here are scared of him.
     For good reason, I reckon. I wouldn’t get on his bad side.”
    “Too late.” I smiled, thanked him, and pushed through the glass door.

10
    The Whispering Pines Inn was part motor lodge, part fake southern mansion. My room
     was upstairs. I didn’t mind the climb. I’d packed light—something I’d gotten good
     at all those years with the Bureau when I had to be ready to jump on a helicopter
     or a plane anytime the phone rang.
    I set my bag on a chair and pulled the bedspread and mattress pad up at the bottom
     corners, inspected all the crevasses and seams in the mattress. I put the bottom corners
     back on, took the pillows off, and repeated this process at the top. Hey, don’t judge.
     The whole bedbug thing is terrifying. The little fuckers are indestructible. If they
     get in your bags and go home with you, you might as well douse