Zero Day by David Baldacci Page A

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 awayover 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.”
    “Looks like it does a brisk business.”
    “Pretty much the only place in town open this late.”
    “Cash cow for the owner.”
    “That would be Roger Trent.”
    “He owns this place too?”
    “He owns most of Drake. Got it cheap. Place is so polluted people just want to sell and get out. Those that remain he gets coming and going. Groceries, vehicle repair, plumbing, electrical, this restaurant, that gas station, bakery shop, clothing place. List goes on and on. They ought to rename the place Trentsville.”
    “So he profits from creating environmental nightmares.”
    “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
    “How about Annie’s Motel? Does he own that?”
    “No. Owner wouldn’t sell. Barely makes ends meet. Doubt Roger was really all that interested in buying it.”
    She scanned the other customers. “People here are curious.”
    “About what specifically?”
    “About you. About what’s happened.”
    “Understandable. Word travels fast?”
    “It’s like an old-fashioned viral. Mouth to ear.”
    “Media inquiries yet?”
    “It finally hit. Messages waiting for me on my phone. Newspaper. A radio station. Got an email from a TV station over in Parkersburg. Expect to get one from Charleston too. Something bad happens they all want to jump on it for about fifteen minutes.”
    “Executive-lag them all for now.”
    “I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but the last word’s not up to me.”
    “Your boss?”
    “Sheriff Pat Lindemann. Good guy. But he’s not used to media inquiries.”
    “I can help with that.”
    “You handle lots of press relations, do you?”
    “No. But the Army has folks that do. And they’re good at it.”
    “I’ll let the sheriff