The Burning Plain: A Henry Rios Novel (The Henry Rios Mysteries Book 6) by Michael Nava & Michael Nava

Author:Michael Nava & Michael Nava [Nava, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Persigo Press
Published: 2020-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Bob Travis agreed to meet me for dinner to discuss the developments in his case. That evening I drove into West Hollywood, to a restaurant called the French Marketplace which occupied the bottom floor and terrace of a faux New Orleans mansion; painted brick, green shutters and fancy ironwork. The terrace fronted Santa Monica Boulevard. Wrought-iron tables were lined in two rows, one against the wall and the other against the railing, a narrow aisle between them for pumped-up waiters in skin-tight black trousers and little red aprons to deliver big plates of bad food to an equally pumped-up male clientele. The smells of grease and designer cologne hung in the stale air as I came up the steps to the restaurant and scanned the terrace for Travis.

I was cruised in a bored sort of way by a streaked blond picking slices of mandarin orange out of his Chinese chicken salad. Behind me, a bus rumbled by, spraying exhaust. A thin, handsome waiter with a French accent offered to seat me, but then Travis came out of the building. His clothes, a yellow knit jersey and tight, faded jeans, seemed chosen to advertise his progress at the gym. He looked relaxed and happy, and I saw he was, in fact, if not the great beauty to which he aspired, a pleasant-looking man with a firm jaw and gentle eyes. Had he been straight, he would’ve been a suburban dad with wife, kids, dog and Volvo. Instead, he was stuffed into clothes that were too young for him. He probably thought the fashion statement he was making was “Look at me,” but to me his appearance called out “Find me.”

“Mr. Rios,” he said. “I had to make a call.” He pointed to a table that held a glass of iced tea and crumpled napkin. “I’m over there.”

We passed the blond who had made a little pile of orange slices on his bread plate and was now removing slivers of almonds from his salad. At the table, we perused oversize menus on which most of the items were prefaced with either “blackened” or “Cajun.”

“I wanted to bring you up to speed on the case,” I said, after the French waiter took our orders. I told him about my review of the evidence and my meeting with Odell and Serena Dance. I explained that I had agreed to submit him to a lineup. A furrow deepened in his forehead between his eyes.

“A lineup? Won’t that incriminate me?”

“No, it’ll eliminate you as a suspect,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“Aren’t you?” I asked, studying him. “I mean, if you weren’t behind the wheel of the car when those two men got in, the witnesses won’t pick you out. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed quickly. “This is all kind of scary to me. Before this, the only trouble I ever had with the police was speeding tickets.”

Our food came. A stream of grease oozed from his hamburger, congealing on the plate. My grilled cheese sandwich was burned.

“I don’t understand how this place stays in business,” I said.

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