That would go over really well with those in charge.
With a sigh, I ran my hand over my black bob and patted the ends to make sure the curl stayed in place. I had to admit, even with the scratches on my chin, I was having an excellent day in the looks department. My thick, soft, silky hair had curled to perfection and my makeup brought out the blue in my eyes. The drop waist yellow dress flattered my figure and also clashed with my black hair in a dramatic way.
As I studied my reflection, I decided I had two objectives for the evening: first, find out his name and remember the dang thing, and second, uncover why the FBI was interested in my neighbor's death. I didn't want to diminish Charles' early demise, but I didn't see it as being important enough for the FBI to bring out an investigator from Texas.
A knock sounded at the door promptly at six. I grabbed my crutches and hurried over to answer it. Mr. Coffee grinned at me from the threshold.
Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a tan trench coat with a matching fedora, he reminded me of the spies on television. Except he may be a little more handsome.
“Are you ready, or should I run down and tell the cab we'll be a minute or two?”
“I'm all set,” I said, grabbing my gray overcoat and matching purse from the back of the kitchen chair.
“Excellent,” he replied, helping me to slip into my coat. “I bribed a kid with a nickel to hold the elevator for us.”
“How thoughtful,” I said, smiling and meeting his gaze. “That thing takes forever.”
“I figured as much. They always do in these old buildings.”
Thankfully, I'd worn low heels to help keep my balance and prevent my chin from hitting any more floors.
Mr. Coffee stayed by my side as we made our way down the hallway to the boy leaning on the elevator door to prop it open. A cute little towheaded fella, about ten years old, who I recognized from a family living on the first floor.
“Thanks, kid,” Mr. Coffee said, flipping him the coin. “Appreciate your help.”
As we rode down to the main floor, I tried to think of a way I could broach the subject of me not remembering his name without sounding too ridiculous. I decided the direct approach would be best, even though it was probably the most absurd tactic.
“I have something quite embarrassing to ask you,” I said, turning to him.
“There aren't any bad questions, Patty. What do you want to know?”
“What is your name?”
He stared at me a moment, his gaze narrowed as if he was trying to figure out if I was being honest. “Bill Hart.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing up at the numbers. With how slow the elevator traveled, one would think we had far more than three floors to descend. “I could only recall the nickname I gave you.”
“Mr. Coffee?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Pursing my lips together, I lifted my chin and tried to remain dignified even though I felt like a silly little girl as he chuckled at my side.
“Just for future reference, it's probably not a good idea to accept a dinner date from a man whose name you don't remember,” he said.
“Duly noted, Bill. Duly noted.”
The doors slid open and we stepped out into the lobby. I glanced over at Nice Bill and smiled. With a grin, he opened the front door, from where I spotted the waiting cab at the curb.
“Where are we going?” I asked once we were situated. It had started to rain and the ping, ping, ping of the drops on the roof made for quite the racket.
“A steakhouse just down the street here. Have you ever been there?”
I shook my head. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to afford a meal at that place on my salary, nor had anyone I'd dated.
“My colleagues told me it's quite good,” Bill continued. “That's one thing I miss when I'm away from home—a good steak.”
The cab pulled over and Bill helped me from the backseat. The rain fell, and neither of us had bothered to bring an umbrella. Hopefully my eyeliner would stay in place and my hair wouldn't become too much of a mess.
Once inside, he removed his coat, helped me out of mine, and gave both to the woman at the coat check. He sighed as we were seated, as if relieved we'd finally made it to our destination.
White tablecloths covered every table and the lighting was quite dim. Definitely a restaurant for lovers, and I suddenly felt very out of place dining with Special Agent Bill Hart. I'd just learned his name, so I hoped he didn't think he'd be coming home with me after our meal.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“A glass of white wine would be lovely.”
I marveled at the menu as the waiter came over and Bill ordered for us. Five dollars and ninety-five cents for a steak and potato! A pound of meat at the grocery store was right around ninety cents! A high-end eating establishment, indeed.
“Do you take all the people involved in your investigations to such nice restaurants?” I asked after we'd placed our orders and our drinks arrived.
“Only the pretty ones,” he said with a wink, then sipped his gin and tonic.
My cheeks heated as I drank my wine. Admittedly, I loved compliments so I took a moment to bathe in his. “Tell me about yourself, Special Agent Bill Hart from Texas.”
“Born and bred there,” he said. “On a farm just outside Dallas.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Two of each. I'm the oldest.”
“And why did you want to become an FBI agent?”
“Well, I used to play cops and robbers when I was little. I hated being the robber. My whole life, I've wanted to catch the bad guys, so the FBI seemed the best way to do it.”
“Why not a police officer?” I asked.
“I shot for the stars,” he replied. “I
