The restaurant wasn't open, the sign said four o'clock. Ray drove around back where a worker was picking up trash around the dirt parking lot. He said of course he knows Norma Martin-she owns the place.
Ray's phone buzzed, a text message, 'im at ambassador arms 701 dont tell'.
Very good, he had left a message for Tammy, and now he gets a text back. Seems she's willing to talk.
The Jardin Café and Norma could wait. He hurried back into town, asked directions and found the Ambassador Arms: seven floors of apartments converted to condominiums in an upscale, oak-tree-lined neighborhood. The imposing over-done architecture was now out of style, still the charm was timeless and now priceless. Tammy must have something going for her to find refuge in this part of town.
The street door was unlocked and the inner lobby door locked as expected. He stood reading the Owner Directory, feeling conspicuous even though no one was in sight. This wasn't the sort of building to wander around in, knocking on doors and asking about some woman he had never met. The directory listed #701 to A. Towson. Ray pushed the button, heard the door buzz and was in.
He stepped off the carpeted elevator onto the gleaming restored wood flooring of a wide hallway with mahogany paneled walls and costly framed mirrors. His first impression was of a renovated mansion. This was the top floor and he noticed just one other unit. Before he could knock, the door to 701 opened and facing him was an older man, tall with broad shoulders like a college athlete. Ray guessed that with the gray hair at the temples he was in his sixties. He wore jeans and a loose dress shirt with rolled up sleeves.
The man said, "I was expecting-."
"Sorry to interrupt your morning." Ray stood there feeling stupid with no idea who the man was and no idea what to say next. He didn't dare to explain the situation and decided it wasn't wise to mention Tammy's name at this point. Perhaps she was inside.
The man's face relaxed with recognition. "You're that new guy in town. I was expecting a reporter, come in."
Expecting a reporter? Perhaps about the rape or the murder? Ray's mind raced trying to think of where they might have met.
"Let's go in the kitchen. Still some coffee left. We've met remember? I'm Al Towson. Your name again?"
"Ray Reid. Coffee sounds good, thanks." He followed the man across the living room with its high-coved ceiling, hardwood floors dotted with antique, oriental rugs and heavy furniture pieces in glowing woods. He glanced around, taking in the elegance. He recognized one of the paintings on the wall. He couldn't think of the artist.