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“Frank. Nice spot you have here.” His gaze flicked past her to Nash.
“Thanks. This is Nash Littlefield.”
“Okay. Fix-It Brothers. You did some work for my son and daughter-in-law.”
“Jack and Grace O’Hara? Redoing a catch-all room into a nursery. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Looking forward to being a grandpa next summer. New business, right? You’re not from around here.”
“I am now, via New York. I can get you coffee, then step out.”
O’Hara studied him another moment. “She doesn’t mind you here, I don’t. I’d sure take the coffee. Strong and black.”
“Have a seat, Frank.” Sloan gestured to a chair near the fire.
“I’ll take that, too.” He sat, sighed once. “Terrance Brown.”
And Sloan shut her eyes.
“You know him?”
“Yes, he’s head chef at the Seabreeze—seafood restaurant on Main Street. I don’t know him very well. I know his girlfriend—fiancée—better. Hallie Reeder. We went to high school together. Ran track together. I’ve run into her a few times since I moved back.”
Nash brought out the coffee, then sat down beside Sloan on the sofa. “I met him, if it matters. We did some updates to the restrooms in the restaurant a few weeks ago. He brought us out some fish tacos. Asked if he could take a couple pictures of us working.”
“Sounds like what we’re learning about him. Likes to cook, likes to feed people, likes to take pictures. That’s how he got struck by lightning last June.”
“He— I didn’t know about that. I would’ve been in Annapolis.”
“Lightning hit the tree he was standing next to.”
“Side flash,” Sloan said. “Not as fatal as a direct hit, but.”
“Ms. Reeder saw it happen, called nine-one-one as she ran out. DidCPR until the ambulance got there. They zapped him. He’d been gone four, maybe five minutes. No memory of the entire day, but otherwise? A lucky son of a bitch. Until tonight.”
“Where did they grab him? The restaurant parking lot?”
“No, and we can figure why. They closed the kitchen up about ten—that’s pretty routine midweek. The witness, that’s Boone Hastings.”
“I know him. I went to school with him. He started working at the Seabreeze when we were in high school.”
“He and most of the kitchen crew left, with Brown. That’s also routine.”
“So they couldn’t take him in the parking lot. They’d have studied the routine and knew that wasn’t viable. Where?”
“Fox Run Road, about three miles from town, on his way home. The witness had a date out that way. He chatted up with some of the other crew for a few minutes after Brown drove off. Then texted the date. His guess is he couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind Brown.”
O’Hara downed some coffee. “He stopped when he saw Brown’s car, figured he’d had a breakdown. But no Brown. Keys in the ignition, phone in the holder. He looked around, called out. Then he called the girlfriend. And she called the cops.”
“Like Celia Russell,” Sloan put in as O’Hara drank more coffee. “The side of a country road, not well traveled. A route occasionally taken. And fast,” she added. “With Boone only minutes behind, they moved very fast.”
“He thinks he saw taillights. He’s shaken, but he’s pretty sure he saw taillights when he slowed down to check out Brown’s car. Son of a bitch.” O’Hara muttered it, rubbed at his tired eyes.
“They had him staked out, no question. His house, the restaurant, anywhere else he went routinely. They take time,” Sloan added. “They plan it out. No signs of struggle? He couldn’t have fought long, not within that time frame.”
“Nothing. You have to figure they staged a breakdown, van off the shoulder, one of them flagging down.”
“A man who makes you fish tacos while you’re changing out sinks won’t drive by a breakdown.” Nash held up a hand. “Sorry.”