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I made a fusty professorish, “Hmm.”
He gave that appealing half-grin. “Although, I have to tell you, my boss disapproves of your decision to attend the conference. He said he assumed you had better sense.”
“I know that’s supposed to be a crushing criticism, but I have zero interest in what your boss thinks.”
Rory gave a funny laugh.
“And by the way, it’s a vigil, not a conference.”
“You could have fooled me.”
Fair enough. Before I could respond, the restaurant beeper went off, and we turned and headed back to Kathy’s Korner.
The restaurant was even more crowded by then, and they were in the process of giving our table away when we reached the hostess station, out of breath and adamant wehadto have breakfast. I half expected Rory to flash his badge, but summoning the full weight of the federal government proved unnecessary.
We were led by a slightly exasperated waitress through the sea of chairs and tables and milling people to a wooden booth by a large window overlooking the snowy highway. A huge stone fireplace burned cheerily at the far end of the room, and the comforting smells of fresh coffee and homemade bread filled the room.
Menus were delivered with an air oflet that be a lesson to you!and for the next minute or two Rory and I devoted ourselves to the all-absorbing task of figuring out what we were going to eat. I was surprised to find I was actually hungry—starving, in fact. But then it had been almost twenty-four hours since my last meal.
The busboy arrived with coffee. Rory ordered MUD\WTR, which went over about as you would expect. He tried for matcha coffee, chicory coffee, and eventually took mercy on the poor kid and ordered Earl Grey.
“I guess you don’t get out of the office much,” I commented.
“Are you kidding? I live out of my suitcase.”
“I’ve heard rent’s pretty high in DC.”
He grinned. “True. But I live in Stafford.”
“If you say so.”
As I flipped through page after gravy-stained page, I sucked in a breath of wonder. “They have chicken fried steak!”
Rory was amused. “That stuff will kill you.”
“It might be worth it. Homemade biscuits and gravy, chicken fried steak? Enough said.” I closed my menu.
Rory continued to peruse the pages. I gazed out the window for a minute or two, but then I got that itchy awareness at the back of my neck, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar this weekend. The feeling someone’s watching you. I glanced around the packed room, and eventually spotted a stout man in a too-small fedora at a long, crowded table against the far wall.
Our eyes met, and the man in the fedora looked away. He made some laughing comment to his companions. Several people glanced our way, and the entire table began to buzz.
I glanced at Rory, who was studying me. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Peter Weber’s here with his fan boys.”
“Ah.” He glanced past me, leaned back against the wall of the booth. “This should be interesting.”
“What should?”
No need for Rory to reply. The next moment, Weber had reached our booth.
Chapter Seven
“Doctor Brennan?” Peter Weber inquired.
Weber was in his forties. Medium height, chunky, and a bit florid-faced. He had small dark eyes like a watchful mouse and a scruffy blond beard.
I rose, offered my hand. “It’s not Doctor. Just call me Skylar. And you, of course, are Peter Weber.”
