The One That Got Away by Simon Wood Page A

desk.
    Shit , she thought.
    When she passed him to collect her things, he said, “I think we need to talk.”

CHAPTER TEN
    Inspector Greening held the door open for Zoë, and they walked out into the night. The sounds of her classmates’ dismay and disgust filtered through the studio’s frosted-glass windows. She crossed the street to her motorcycle to get away from her screwup. Greening followed her.
    “How did you find me?” she asked.
    “I went by the mall to see you, but you had already left. One of your colleagues told me where you were.”
    Greening could have easily called ahead or even made an appointment, but he’d dropped by unannounced so that he could catch her in her natural habitat. She didn’t have to ask him if she was a suspect. The fact that he’d witnessed her little display in class had probably done nothing to shake his suspicion. When she screwed up, she really screwed up.
    “You want to tell me what just happened in there?” he asked.
    “Nothing. I just got carried away. It happens. What do you want?”
    “I have some things to tell you about our investigation, but I have some questions too. Do you have some time to talk?”
    The question sounded more like a request. “Sure. Where do you want to do this?”
    “I want to go over some of the events from last night, so how about we go to that place you were drinking at, Ferdinand’s?”
    Zoë groaned inside. The last thing she wanted was to go back to the scene of her crime. She tried to think of an excuse why they couldn’t return there but came up short. She surrendered and said, “Sure. Whatever.”
    He insisted on driving, so she left her bike where it was. She felt he was controlling the situation in a passive-aggressive way. That was the cops’ MO—make you feel like you had a choice when you didn’t.
    It was another busy night on Russian Hill. The area around Ferdinand’s was packed and it took Greening three blocks to find parking. They walked together. A casual observer might have mistaken them for a couple, if he didn’t look very closely.
    Ferdinand’s was as busy as the night before. It was a crush all the way to the door, and the restaurant didn’t have much in the way of tables.
    “It’s a war zone in there,” she said. “Sure you want to discuss police stuff with so many people around?”
    “I think we’ll be OK.”
    She conceded there was no avoiding this and walked inside with him.
    Stepping into the restaurant, she felt uncomfortable. Ferdinand’s didn’t have a dress code, but no one else was slumming it in workout gear. They’d have to trade off Greening’s suit and badge. Last night she’d come in here dressed to kill, and here she was in sweats and a hoodie.
    But her workout look also worked for her. She recognized a couple of faces among the staff, but they didn’t recognize her. Last night, she’d looked like a million bucks. Tonight, she looked like fifty with change. No wonder no one recognized her. That helped shift a load from her shoulders.
    Greening asked the hostess for a table. As she picked up her clipboard to get his name, he casually flashed his badge. They were seated immediately, although immediately didn’t mean a good table. They ended up with a two-top in the window by the door. He took the seat facing the door—the seat she wanted. She never liked having her back to the entrance. You never knew who might creep up on you. It wasn’t something that had bothered her before the abduction.
    “Come here often?” he asked, looking around before turning to the menu.
    “Now and again.”
    Has it been only a day since I was here last? It seemed like a lifetime ago. She wished she was as carefree as the other customers. They were happy, laughing, and joking, as if a murder hadn’t happened just a handful of miles away. But it hadn’t happened for them, had it? People recognized death only when it touched them. She bet that if she asked any of them if someone had been murdered last