Got Your Number

sturdy and dry-cleaner-starched. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips as he moved the saltshaker and aluminum napkin dispenser, probably looking for an ashtray. Finding none, he frowned and settled back against one of the hard wooden bench seats Rigby's teenage son's shop class had made over the summer, and opened a worn paperback. An obscure thriller that she'd already read—quite good.
    Helen reappeared at her shoulder. "New boyfriend?"
    "No."
    "Old boyfriend?"
    "No." And not at all her type—although granted, she could barely remember her type.
    "So where do you know him from?"
    Her memory for names wasn't keen, but she was certain she'd never seen this man's pensive face. And the agency always let her know when to expect a client—not that this guy looked as if he needed help from anyone. In fact, he looked about as approachable as a Doberman. He might be a reporter who'd tracked her down from that Clarion-Ledger expose of the Rescue program—one failed relocation in the hundreds she'd facilitated over the years, and she'd made the front page. Or rather, the description of her disguise had. She squinted. Frankly, though, the man didn't look like a reporter.
    Then one side of her mouth slid back in a wry frown. Of course—he was a cop, chock-full of questions for her about something or someone having to do with the Rescue program. Nervy, considering the organization would gladly dismantle if the police would do their jobs.
    "Roxy?" Helen probed.
    "I've never seen him before."
    "Want me to tell him you won't be in today?"
    "No—he'll just come back. I'll see what he wants."
    "Holler if you need backup." The older woman spoke casually as she rang up a sale, but Roxann knew Helen had noticed the handful of nervous women who had shown up with shaky kids in tow, asking to be seated in Roxann's section.
    "You running some kind of charity?" Helen had ventured once.
    "I don't know what you mean," she'd said, and Helen hadn't pressed.
    Roxann slipped around the divider, instantly bombarded by the low roar of diners talking with their mouths full. Forks clinked against stoneware plates, and glasses scraped against wooden tabletops. Zydeco music jostled out of mounted speakers in far corners.
    When she saw the man at closer range, she was tempted to keep walking—she didn't need the hassle of a cop on her back. Still, she'd danced around a herd of lawmen over the years. And in her experience, they weren't nearly as bright as they looked, although at least this one didn't move his lips while he read.
    "Good afternoon," she offered. "What can I get for you?"
    Still chewing on the unlit cigarette, the man scanned her slowly from her dubious hairstyle to her red polyester blouse and skirt to her bare legs and sensible black lace-up shoes. At his slight grimace, she bit back the retort that she had better-looking shoes at home, because she wasn't sure she did. His hair was dark auburn, as thick as a pelt, and touched with silver above his ears. His skin was tawny, his eyes brown, his lashes pale—unusual coloring for a redhead. Striking, but a scowl short of good-looking.
    He yanked out the cigarette. "You Roxann Beadleman?"
    No Saint Christopher's medal. No academy ring. No badge. Still, she'd bet a week's pay that he was a uniform. "Yes. And you are?"
    "In need of an ashtray." He spoke with enough of an accent to betray him as a home-grown Biloxi boy. He wore faded Levi's and black Tony Lama boots. The only question that remained was whether his king-cab pickup truck was a Ford or a Chevy.
    "You can’t smoke in here, sir."
    "Hell. Trying to quit anyway. How about coffee?"
    "Just coffee?"
    "Black, hi-test. And make it quick."
    Roxann bit her tongue at his tone and walked to the coffee station. She certainly wasn't in danger of the man charming information out of her.
    Rigby rounded the corner, his big face purple. "Where the heck have you been?"
    She pulled an apologetic face. "Car trouble. Sorry, it won't happen again."
    He wagged a finger. "I got girls lined up wanting to work here, Roxy. I don't have to put up with you coming in late." He looked down. "How come you're not wearing black panty hose?"
    "Rigby, it's two hundred degrees."
    His head periscoped. "The hose are part of the uniform —customers don't like bare-legged women serving them vittles!"
    She didn't dare laugh. "It won't happen again."
    "I'm warning you, the very next time—"
    "I'd better get back to my customer," she cut in, holding up the