. . . 60 Hours and Counting . . .

“Another tip came in last night,” said Vasquez, handing a slip of paper to Johansen. “He’s driving Brenda Hastings’ car around. I’ve got the plates and the make here. Could you call the local station and put out a bulletin?”

“Sure thing,” said Johansen, “Brenda took a chance on an accessory charge by doing that.”

“Well, at least he has friends that believe in him,” she said.

Johansen reached over the breakfast table to take the note from her. As he took it from her, he touched her hand for a lingering moment. It was just a light touch, but it went on for just a half-second longer than necessary. She felt a flash of heat across her face, then the contact ended. Without raising her head, she slid her eyes up to look at him. He appeared intent upon the note. She frowned and briefly wondered if he was trying something new, something more subtle. She forced such thoughts from her mind and tried to focus on the situation at hand. She forked the last sausage on her grand-slam plate.

The restaurant had the haunting and somehow reassuring familiarity of that every Denny’s possessed. Overhead, sputnik-like lamps that dated from the seventies hung suspended from a ceiling that was plated with beige acoustic tiles. Booths lined the windows and the counter was manned by an army of truckers and cops. On every table the napkin-dispenser huddled-up with its team of condiments.

“I received some interesting e-mail this morning,” she began. She quickly told him about the message from Vance. She was gratified that he didn’t laugh at her for getting caught by her own game.

“Hmph,” he said, munching on one of her pieces of diagonally-cut white toast. “Sounds like he spotted us first.”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“I think we should press the wife for her help. Maybe she can talk him into giving himself up before he sinks himself more deeply into this. After all, if he’s innocent, he should give himself up.”

“It’ll only work if she thinks that we’re doing a good job of finding her kid,” said Johansen, “I get the impression that neither of them care about anything else right now.”

“Naturally enough,” she said, “but I think I can convince her.”

 “Right. In any case, it’s better than just waiting around for one of the uniforms to pick him up by chance.”

She glanced at him again. He didn’t sound overly confident in her persuasiveness. “We’ll get her to come around, it might just take a few days.”

“Right,” he repeated. “In the meantime, what about this Nogatakei guy?”

“I suppose we’ll have to check it out.”

“Huh,” he said, “so our fugitive suspect is now feeding us leads. He’s typing them, no less.”

“The irony isn’t lost on me.”

“But is this tip just a red herring? Something to keep us busy while he works his own plans?”

“That’s what we’re paid to find out,” she said, sliding out of the booth.

Johansen stood up with her and picked up the check. On the way out the waitress, a gum-snapper in her twenties, gave them an up-down glance. Vasquez grimaced, having seen it before. Everyone automatically assumed they were a couple, and invariably people thought it odd to see that one of them was a good fourteen inches taller than the other. Not to mention a good deal more pale in complexion. At least the waitress had the good grace not to smile in amusement at them.

By a long-standing agreement between the two of them, Johansen always picked up the tab when they ate together. He said it was to keep a low profile as a couple, but she always suspected that he wanted to play the male role. Recently, she had begun to suspect he wanted more of that role than she had realized.

Following his towering form through the glass doors, she recalled his light touch. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant memory.