going on,” she said. “I can’t do that,” he said. Her lips pressed together for a moment, and her eyes narrowed.
“All right. Then here’s the deal. If I don’t hear from you every...seventy-two hours, I’ll start looking for her again,” she said. “That
Quinn tensed, but he sensed this was not an argument she would give up on. “Fine,” he said as he jammed the paper into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
He headed for the front door. “Hold on,” she said. “I want to hear you promise me.” He looked back at her, annoyed. “Well?” “I promise,” he said.
CHAPTER
QUINN AND NATE TOOK A CAB TO AN ITALIAN RESTAU-
rant a few miles away, in Richmond. There was better Italian food in North Beach, but the quality of the meal wasn’t as important as the privacy of the location. And there was no place better for a meeting than a restaurant that served mediocre food.
Richmond was a mix of the new and the old. Family businesses that had been in the neighborhood for years, next to boarded-up buildings awaiting renewal. On some blocks, the gentrification had already begun. But that wasn’t true for the block Angie’s Fine Italian Restaurante was located on. It was part of a 1970s-era strip mall. Its neighbors were an insurance broker to the left and a defunct tanning salon to the right. The sign for Easy Tan was still mounted above the front window, but the space itself was empty.
The front window of Angie’s was unadorned except for a layer of grunge that had gathered on the inside over years of disinterest, blurring the view. The only thing that could be made out was the neon “Open” sign, but even that had a hazy, ethereal cast to it.
As Quinn opened the front door, they were assaulted by the odor of garlic and tomato sauce—but cheap, like out of a can.
“I think I lost my appetite,” Nate said.
The promise of a less than stellar experience conveyed by the exterior continued inside. Almost all expense had been spared on the decor. A row of high-backed booths lined the walls on both sides, with an additional set running down the center of the room. The seats and backrests appeared to be covered in brown vinyl that was no doubt some amateur designer’s idea of faux leather.
The main dining room was empty. No customers. No employees.
Quinn pointed to a booth halfway down the left side. They walked over and sat, Quinn taking the side with the view of the front door.
Almost a full minute passed before they heard footsteps approaching from the back of the restaurant. Soon a woman wearing a flower pattern dress and a red apron was standing at the end of their table. She was at least in her mid-sixties, Quinn guessed. And the smile she wore looked like it came more from habit than from pleasure.
“Thought I heard someone come in,” she said. “Did you get menus?”
“No,” Nate said.
“Two seconds,” the woman said.
She walked over to a small counter next to the front door and picked up two menus off a large stack.
Once she had handed them out, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink first?”
“You have Moretti?” Quinn asked.
“Should have a few bottles left.”
“Same for me,” Nate said.
“I’ll be right back.” She left the way she had come.
Quinn moved his menu to the side without even looking at it.
“I guess I could get the spaghetti Bolognese,” Nate said, studying his menu. “They can’t mess that up too much, can they?”
The sound of the traffic outside increased briefly as the front door opened. Quinn shot a glance over, then stood a moment later when Orlando reached the table. Nate jumped up as soon as he realized who it was and gave her a hug.
“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I wish I could have been there this afternoon, but I was put on babysitting duty.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She looked at Quinn. “You send her off?”
“All done.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
Quinn moved out of the way so she could sit on his side of the booth.
“You’re going to make me sit on the inside?” she asked.
