"You Toby?” Gage asked the twenty-five-year-old steaming milk behind the granite counter at Ground Up Coffee Shop.
“That’s me,” Toby answered, looking up at Gage. “Is this about the car accident? I talked to the adjuster yesterday.”
Gage shook his head. “A customer.” He pointed toward the front window. “And about something that happened down the street.”
“Sure. I got a break in ten. You want something to drink?”
“Decaf.”
“Cappuccino? Espresso? Mocha Macchiato?”
“Just a decaf coffee.”
Toby grinned. “You must be from out of town.”
“Thirty years ago.”
Toby waved off Gage’s money and said he’d bring the coffee to his table.
Gage grabbed a New York Times strung on a three-foot wooden dowel from a wall mount, then took the rear table in the narrow cafe. A few minutes later, Toby delivered the coffee and sat down.
“So what’s up, Decaf?”
Gage pulled a photo of Charlie Palmer from his suit pocket.
“You remember a cop coming in here a few months ago asking about this guy?”
Toby took the photo. “Sure. Different picture, but I think it’s the same guy. Got shot or something, right?”
“Yeah.”
Toby set it down. “He doing okay?”
“He didn’t make it.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Toby paused and shook his head, then pointed at Gage’s coffee. “You want sugar or something?”
“No thanks.”
Gage took a confirmatory sip.
“What’s your part in this?” Toby asked.
“I’m a private investigator.”
Gage handed him a business card.
“Graham Gage,” Toby said, reading it line by line. “I heard of you. This guy’s family must have big, big bucks.”
“Not so big.”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m happy to help out. No charge.”
Toby inspected Gage’s face. “How come you don’t look like a PI?”
“How is one supposed to look?”
“You know, grizzled. And not so tall. You look like a guy who thinks for a living, not somebody who mixes it up in back alleys.”
“Mixes it up with whom?”
Toby shrugged. “The bad guys, I guess.”
Gage smiled. “I’ll go look for some after we’re done and let you know how it turns out.”
Toby picked up the photo again. “I think this is the same guy who was in here, but I’m not sure.” He rocked his head side to side. “Maybe I’m just remembering the other photo.”
“Assuming it was him, was he alone?”
“Assuming it was him, no. I was thinking about it a while back. I have a really vague recollection Mr. Comb-Over was with him. A white guy, early sixties, gray hair-what there was of it.”
“Has he been here more than once?”
“Yeah. You don’t forget a hair felony like that.” Toby rested his palm on top of his head, then waved his fingers. “The kind that flaps in the wind.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last week. That’s what got me thinking. I’m off Tuesday and Wednesday, so it must’ve been Thursday or Friday… I think Friday.”
“Driving or walking?”
Toby turned and squinted toward the front window. “Driving. He needed change for the meter. An early eighties Toyota Corona.”
“You know your Toyotas. They haven’t imported that model for over two decades.”
“My dad owned one for like twenty years. I’ll never forget it.” Toby grinned. “It was the first place I got laid. Except Dad’s was white. Comb-Over’s was brown.”
“Anything distinctive?”
“Just what you’d expect with a car that old. Faded.” Toby closed his eyes. “No hubcaps.” He opened them again. “At least on the passenger side.”
“What about the plate? Regular or personalized?”
“Don’t know.” Toby pointed at a parking space directly in front of the store window. “He had that spot. All I could see was the side of the car.”
“Can you get it for me if he comes by?”
“I’ll call you right when he walks in the door. But…” Apprehension clouded Toby’s face. “But he’s not the shooter is he? I don’t want-”
“No, he’s just the beginning of the trail.”
Toby held up Gage’s business card. “You want me to tell him to call you if he comes in?”
Gage shook his head. “I think I’d rather he doesn’t know I’m working on this. It’ll give me a chance to deal with him fresh.”