information that could be quite damaging to Robie.
Robie cleared the police barrier and was immediately engulfed by reporters. He looked at none of them, made no attempt to answer their shouted questions. He pushed mikes and notepads out of his face and kept going until he reached the three street people.
“You hungry?” he asked.
The s’mores fellow, wild-eyed and looking as though reason had left him long ago, nodded and laughed. “Always hungry.”
At least he can understand me, thought Robie. He eyed the other two. One was a woman, small, bloated, blackened by the street. Her garbage bag bulged with blankets and what looked to be recycled trash. She might have been twenty, she might have been fifty, Robie couldn’t tell under the layers of grime. “You hungry?”
She just looked at him. Unlike S’mores, she apparently didn’t understand English.
He led them farther away from the sea of reporters and then glanced at the third person. She looked more promising. About forty, she did not have years on the street grafted onto her. And there was both intelligence and terror behind her eyes. Robie wondered if the recent economic crisis had left her as one of the new millions who were once working- or middle-class, but now were neither. “Can I get you something to eat?”
She took a step back, clutched the canvas bag. It was monogrammed. That was another clue as to her background. Longtime homeless did not have such bags. Over the years they rotted away or were stolen.
She shook her head. Robie understood her trepidation. The next thing he did would confirm his suspicions of her.
He took out his badge and held it up. “I’m a federal agent.”
The woman stepped closer to him, looked relieved. S’mores’s grin faded. The other woman just stood there, looking out at a reality that had clearly left her behind.
Robie had his answer. Recent homeless still respected authority. They in fact craved the law and order they had recently left for the anarchy that awaited them on the concrete. People long on the streets, after years of being told to move, get off their ass, clean up their crap, get the hell out of here because they were not wanted, did not. They feared and loathed the badge.
To S’mores Robie said, “There’s a café down this way. I’m going to get you some food and bring it back. For her too,” he added, indicating the woman who stared off at nothing. “Will you wait until I get back?”
S’mores slowly nodded, looking suspicious. Robie took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the man for reassurance. “You want coffee, sandwich?”
“Yeah,” said S’mores.
“And her?” Robie said, pointing to the other woman.
“Yeah,” said S’mores.
Robie turned to the third homeless person. “Will you come with me to the café? And wait there while I get their food?”
“Am I in trouble?” she asked. Now she did sound like a longtime streeter.
“No, not at all. Were you here the night that bus blew up?”
S’mores tapped his chest and said, “Me.”
Robie almost said, “I know,” but caught himself. S’mores was actually starting to concern him. He sounded reasonably sane.
If he remembers seeing me?
“Have any other agents talked to you?” asked Robie, looking at the three.
S’mores glanced away when the sounds of a siren started up. He pulled his lips back. He looked like he was snarling. Then he started to howl along with the sirens.
“We all were there,” the second woman said. “But we left after it happened. I don’t think the police are aware that we saw anything.”
Robie focused on her. “What’s your name?”
“Diana.”
“Your last name?”
The fear sprang up again in her features.
Robie said quietly, “Diana, you’re not in any trouble. I promise you. We’re just trying to find out who blew up the bus and I’d like to ask you some questions. That’s all.”
“My last name is Jordison.”
S’mores gabbed his arm. “Hot eats?”
“Coming up.” Robie escorted Jordison to the café. When they walked in, the man behind the counter started to shoo Jordison away, but Robie flashed his badge. “She stays,” he said.
The man backed off and Robie seated Jordison at a table in the rear. “Order anything you want,” he said, handing her a menu from a stack on the next table.
He walked up to the counter and said, “I need some food to go.” He placed the order. While it was being prepared he sat down across from Jordison. A young waitress came over to take their orders.
Robie said, “Just coffee.” He glanced at Jordison.
She flushed and looked unsure of herself. Robie wondered how long it had been since she had ordered anything in a restaurant. A simple process for most people, it was astonishing how quickly simple processes became complex when you slept in alleys, parks, or over steam grates and gathered your daily bread from trash cans.
Robie pointed to an item on the menu. “The American has just about everything: eggs, toast, bacon, grits, coffee, juice. How about that one? Eggs scrambled? Orange juice?”
She looked like she could use a boost of vitamin C and protein.
Jordison nodded meekly and handed the menu back to the waitress, who seemed disinclined to accept it.
Robie looked at her. “My friend will have the American,” he said. “And could you please bring the coffee and juice out now? Thanks.”
The waitress walked off to fill the order. She brought back the coffees and juice. Robie drank his black, but Jordison doused hers with cream and several sugars. He noted that she slipped most of the sugar packets into her pocket. He looked over and saw the owner giving him the high sign and pointing to two bags he was holding and a carrier with two coffees riding in it.
Robie said, “I’m going to take the food to the other two and then I’ll be right back, okay?”
Jordison nodded but wouldn’t meet his eye.
Robie paid the check, grabbed the bags, and headed out.
CHAPTER
49
WHEN ROBIE GOT BACK to S’mores and the other woman, a male reporter he’d seen earlier was circling the pair like a shark after shipwreck survivors.
The reporter looked at Robie. “Playing the Good Samaritan?” he asked, eyeing the bags and beverages.
“Your tax dollars at work,” replied Robie. He handed one bag and coffee each to S’mores and the woman. The latter snagged her food and coffee, grabbed her plastic bags, and disappeared down the street. Robie let her go because he didn’t think she would be able to tell him anything.
S’mores stood there sipping his coffee.
The reporter said, “Can you answer a few questions for me, uh, Agent…?”
Robie hooked S’mores by the arm and walked off.
The reporter called after him, “I’ll take that as a ‘no comment.’ ”
When they had reached the next intersection Robie said, “Tell me what you saw the night the bus blew up.”
S’mores had opened the bag and dug greedily into the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. He crammed a handful of hash browns into his mouth and chomped down.
“Take it slow, friend,” said Robie. “Don’t want to choke.”
The man swallowed, took a slurp of coffee, and shrugged. “What you want?”
“Everything you saw or heard.”
S’mores took another, smaller bite of his sandwich. “Boom,” he said. “Fire. Holy shit.”
He took another sip of coffee.