Page 44 of Little Bitter Truths
A few minutes later, Hunter sent a few photos to my phone.Karl looked like an awkward introvert, not a killer.But looks could be deceiving.
I drove to his office, pulling into the parking lot just as the first wave of employees began filing out of the building.
I spotted Karl sitting on a bench outside the office, eating a piece of cake over a napkin.I stepped out of the car and walked toward him.The moment our eyes met, his expression changed.He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth, and a flicker of unease crossed his face.It was the look of a man who knew I hadn’t come there by accident.
17
Karl looked to be in his mid-fifties, and he was balding, his comb-over doing little to hide the fact.His work attire consisted of a pair of khaki pants, a white button-up shirt, and a tie that was determined to keep the ’80s alive.
“Karl Holland?”I asked.
He stood too fast, almost dropping the cake in the process.“Yes?”
“My name is Georgiana Germaine, and I’m a private investigator.”
The introduction seemed to rattle him, his gaze darting toward the entrance of the office, where employees were beginning to spill out in twos and threes, chatting on their way to the parking lot.The more people who exited the building, the more on edge Karl became.
“Why are you here?”he asked.
“I’d like to talk to you about Mia Bennett.”
That did it.
His shoulders tensed.For a moment, I thought he was about to turn and run.Instead, he whispered, “I can’t talk here.”
“I just have a few questions.”
“No, I mean …” He turned toward the office again, lowering his voice.“Nothere.Too many people I work with hanging around.”
I kept my tone even, hoping not to rile him any further.“We can talk wherever you like, Karl.But we do need to talk.”
His fingers moved to his tie, tugging at the knot though it already sat loose against his neck.“Let’s go somewhere else.”
I considered alternative options and came up with what I thought was a good idea.“Are you hungry?If you are, dinner is on me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he seemed to realize that anywhere else was better than talking about it here, and he said, “I could eat.”
I suggested we meet at the Boathouse Diner, and minutes later we parked next to each other out front.The diner’s owner, Billy Bob Armstrong, was a friend.He’d bought the diner some years back and made it his own while keeping the bones of the original building intact, strengthening the place with old ship planks and adding more room in the back when the crowds outgrew the front.
The diner had become something of a landmark over the years.Tourists came in looking for the clam chowder they’d read about in magazines and travel guides.And locals came because the food was good, the coffee was hot, and Billy could turn a fish tale into the best seafaring story they’d ever heard.
We exited our vehicles, and Karl glanced over at me like he’d rather be anywhere I wasn’t.
“Have you eaten here before?”I asked.
“A few times, though I wouldn’t consider it a good place to talk in private.”
“It’s not, but it can be.I know the owner.I’ll ask him to put us in the back room, and I’ll let him know we need privacy.”
Karl followed me inside, the smell of chowder and fried seafood wrapping around us the second we entered.Nets and old lanterns hung along the walls, and model ships sat on shelves between framed photographs of storms and fishermen holding catches bigger than their torsos.A low hum of conversation filled the room, broken every now and then by a burst of laughter from one of the corner tables.
Billy Bob stood near the register talking to a couple, his weathered face set in a grin that could sell a story before he even opened his mouth.He spotted me and smiled, raising an enthusiastic hand.
“Well, now,” he called out, “if it isn’t our famous local detective.You here for dinner or to stir up trouble?”
“A bit of both,” I said.
He laughed.“Reminds me of the time I told a deckhand not to whistle at sea because it called the wind.Fool ignored me, whistled anyway, and five minutes later the storm hit so hard we lost three crab pots and a grown man’s dignity.”
