Page 35 of Fatal Strike
“It means questioning.” Jon pointed to the job application. “I’d like a copy of your document.”
When the manager agreed, Jon snapped a pic. “Thanks. Okay for us to talk to his coworkers?”
“No problem. I’ll introduce you to those who worked directly with him. Never had any complaints or reasons to question his work ethic.”
Jon and Leah spent the next hour and a half posing the same questions and receiving the same answers—Dylan Ortega worked hard, no one phoned or visited him, and although quiet, he was friendly. No mention of criminal activity.
Afterward Jon and Leah talked in the parking lot of the hotel. Palm trees swayed beneath landscaping that mirrored the hotel’s finery.
“We have two indicators of Dylan being a part of the murder,” Leah said. “He’s missing and Edgar Whitson ID’d him. However, I’m not totally convinced Dylan’s a killer. Yet.”
“You can play devil’s advocate if you want. Edgar Whitson’swords are enough for me. I saw or heard nothing to doubt his testimony. If Dylan shows up with a solid alibi, I’ll change my tune. In the meantime, I’m not nominating Dylan as the all-American citizen of the year.”
“I’m glad you’re my partner. If we agreed on everything, we’d miss a detail,” she said.
“And I’m your fave as long as I bring you coffee.”
She frowned. “I should have added a hamburger. Right now, I’m hungry. It’s 7:30.”
23
JON DROVE TO WILLIEG’S—a popular seafood restaurant on Harborside Drive. Neither had eaten since breakfast, and sharing dinner seemed like the perfect time to talk over more of the day’s findings. Seafood ranked at the top of Leah’s great foods list. Except catfish. She just couldn’t develop a taste for it. Must be a Southern thing.
Jon pulled into a paid parking lot at Pier 21, and they exited his truck. Tourist attractions ranged from boat tours and exhibits about French pirate Jean Lafitte or the Great Storm of Galveston in 1900 to mouthwatering food and nightlife. Looked like fun if her attention hadn’t been on the case.
By habit, she noted the area and people before she and Jon walked to the restaurant entrance. No one raised her suspicion. Inside, huge handblown glass fixtures in red, blue, yellow, white,and leopard hung from the ceiling like Christmas tree bulbs. The enticing aroma of fish swirled around them, and while her stomach growled, her mind sped with the unsolved case.
“I’ve been a sniper for too long,” Leah said. “Just when I’m ready to enjoy a tasty meal, a sensation creeps over me like we’re being watched through a rifle scope.”
He huffed. “I’m right there with you.”
“I’ll hold a fork in one hand and my Glock in the other.”
Jon greeted the hostess and requested a table by the windows where they could monitor who entered the restaurant. A young man with pinned-up dreadlocks took their drink and food orders. Leah selected crab-stuffed shrimp, and Jon opted for blackened snapper.
When they were alone again, she opened the conversation. “Where do we begin?”
“Zero in on the restaurant’s guests who might be spying onus?”
“You go first,” she said.
“Three minutes after we arrived, a couple was seated in the rear. They’re real cozy.”
“I saw them. They’re completely absorbed in each other, only occasionally observing who’s here.” Oh, to have nothing on her mind but fabulous food and a good-looking guy. “She knows one of the waitstaff, a guy.”
“I missed it.”
“She acknowledged him when he escorted the couple to the table, a hint of a smile the guy with her didn’t see. Could be history. A girl thing.” She glanced around. “The others who’ve arrived have kids or are older.” Her own words repeated in her mind. “Of course, members of the Venenos could have families.”
“We’re a distrustful lot.” He leaned back in his chair.
Jon and Leah’s waiter placed drinks before them. She took a sip of water, then sneaked a look behind her at the young couple. A bulge in the man’s suit jacket pocket gave her pause. “Do you see indications of a gun?” Her left hand touched the Glock inside her pocket. If she believed in anything, it was her training.
“I’m watching.” He stared while she studied his face. “We’re good. He isn’t packing. Looks like a rectangular box.”
Jon had a definite charm about him and a steely determination she admired. But Leah needed to stop gawking at him like a schoolgirl. She grabbed her phone for new messages. Great, another disagreeable topic—snakes.
She refused to let the subject get in the way of their assignment. “Nothing’s turned up on any rattlesnake farms in Houston, San Antonio, Austin, or Dallas areas. No purchase of rattlers or interest in the venom. Texas doesn’t require a special permit to keep indigenous snakes.”
