the people at the Almira had been reserved, maybe ill at ease after she and Max had introduced themselves.
“Fine,” said Max. “I’ll have some orange juice.”
“You’re really boozing it up today, aren’t you?” she teased. Her colleague just shrugged.
Lina decided on a beer, paid for the drinks, and handed Max his
glass. She climbed on one of the barstools and looked around. The
place wasn’t very full yet. The young woman behind the counter had
her eyes on everything. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three.
Her skin was the color of coffee with milk. She wore her hair in cork-screw curls and had an absolutely dazzling smile. Lina gestured for
her to come over and pushed an old photo of Frank Jensen across the
counter. He had been in much better shape then.
“Sorry, have you seen this man before?” Lina asked. “These days he
looks . . . somewhat more battered.”
The young woman bent forward and looked at the photo.
73
Maria C. Poets
“This guy?” She shrugged regretfully. “Sorry, I’ve never seen him. Is he your guy? Did he walk out on you?”
Lina hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “You can say that.
I’ve got to know whether he was here on Thursday night.”
The young woman looked at Max, who was sipping on his OJ
without getting involved, and back to Lina. Her face was a veritable question mark.
“That’s my big brother,” Lina said, patting Max’s shoulder. Max
almost choked on his orange juice. The woman behind the counter
giggled.
“Do you think one of your coworkers might know the man?” Lina
asked, pointing to the photo. “Or your boss?”
“Maybe,” she said. Scanning the room, she motioned to a man
who was serving people in the garden. He was around thirty, had black hair, and moved like a dancer. His smile reached all the way to his
sideburns. The young woman whispered something and he winked at
Lina before bending toward the photo, which was still on the counter.
“So you’re looking for a man?” He had a strong accent. Portuguese
maybe. Possibly a stage accent—good for business. His eyes flashed,
and Lina had trouble suppressing the urge to show him her badge,
after all. Instead she batted her eyelashes again and, voilà, the man looked at the photo once more and finally nodded. “Yes, that guy’s
been here quite often lately, but I don’t know his name. He drinks a lot, mostly by himself, and rarely talks with other guests.” His rolling R s were impressive.
“Thursday evening?” Lina asked.
The man moved his head slowly. “I can’t say for sure.”
“Were you the only one working on Thursday?”
“No, there was also Michele. Linus, too.”
“Are they also here tonight?”
74
Dead Woods
“Michele will be here in half an hour. Linus called in sick.” The
man frowned. “You’re asking questions like the police. What did your husband do?”
“He isn’t my husband.”
His gaze wandered to Max, who lifted his glass of OJ and said,
“I’m just the big brother.”
Lina repeated her batting-eyelashes routine. “We’ll wait for
Michele, okay?”
“Sure,” said the man and left.
“So, I’m your big brother, am I?” Max said quietly. Lina knew from
his tone that he was amused.
“Should I have introduced you as my uncle?”
Max laughed, but then turned serious. “Why didn’t you say we’re
police?” he asked in a low voice. “You know we can get into trouble
for that.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“Oh,” Max said.
Lina took a long sip of beer. She sometimes found Max almost
eerie, the way he somehow seemed to know what she thought. He
didn’t have to say much. It was the way he pronounced oh and looked at Lina that made it seem like more than just one little word. She was quiet for a long time. Max finally broke the silence when he asked,
“What made you join the police?”
She had to laugh. When she lifted the beer bottle, she saw that it
was empty and ordered another one. After the young woman with the
dazzling smile placed a bottle in front of her, Lina grinned and said, “I lost a bet.”
Max thought he must not have heard her right, which didn’t hap-
pen often. “Excuse me?”
“Yep. I became a cop on a bet.”
“You’re kidding me.”
75
Maria C. Poets
Lina shook her head and took another sip of beer. “I know, no
one ever freaking buys it, but it’s true.” And she told Max about that evening eight, almost nine, years ago. It was after her kickboxing class.
She’d gone to a bar with some others from her group. “We were all in our twenties,” Lina explained. “A few of us were unemployed, a few
studied at the university without much enthusiasm, some had jobs,