Page 9 of Nobody's Hero

Reynolds cut into the rich yellow yolk and spread it over his steak. Hobbs looked away.

‘Allergy?’

‘Something like that,’ Hobbs said, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

‘Too bad,’ Reynolds said. ‘Eggs are in a whole bunch of stuff.’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘Name’s Hank Reynolds.’

‘Stillwell Hobbs.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

They shook hands.

‘Damn shame about the eggs, Stillwell,’ Reynolds said. ‘I was about to ask if you’d join me in a whiskey sour. Heard this place does the best in the northwest.’

‘They do, Hank,’ Hobbs said. ‘And I’m fine with egg whites, it’s the yolks I have a problem with.’

‘Let’s do it,’ Reynolds said. He held up his hand and caught the attention of a young server. ‘Two whiskey sours for me and my friend, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Sure,’ the server said. She had random tattoos on her arms, like she’d been playing paintball while wearing a sleeveless top, and a lumpy birthmark on the side of her face. It was in the shape of Italy. ‘I guess you guys won’t want to see the wine list?’

‘Just the whiskey sour for me,’ Reynolds said.

‘Same,’ Hobbs added.

‘Can you pass me your wineglass, sir?’ the server said to Reynolds. ‘Save me reaching across you.’

Reynolds did as he was asked, and the server walked off to place their order at the bar.

‘Apart from great steaks, what brings you to Coos County, Hank?’ Hobbs asked.

‘Work,’ Reynolds replied.

‘And looking like you do, it must be agriculture or fishing?’

Reynolds shook his head. ‘Boring government job. But every now and then I’m allowed out of the office. I get to make sure everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to be doing. What about you, Stillwell?’

Hobbs paused. ‘I guess I’m a problem solver.’

‘And what problems do you solve?’ Reynolds said, spearing an asparagus tip with the end of his fork.

‘Whatever needs solving.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It has its moments.’

After five minutes their whiskey sours arrived, and the two men settled into an easy conversation. It was as if they’d known each other for years.

The server’s name was Harper Nash, and she knew exactly who both men were. Stillwell Hobbs was her father, and Hank Reynolds was the problem they’d been hired to solve. She’d taken a server’s job at the restaurant a fortnight earlier and her references were impeccable. They were also completely fabricated. That didn’t matter, though. By the time anyone in the restaurant’s HR department thought to check, she’d have handed in her notice and disappeared.

She held Reynolds’s wineglass by its stem and placed it into a paper bag. She told her shift supervisor she was going on her break, then left the restaurant through the kitchen. Two minutes later she was in the lobby of the Gobblers Knob Hotel. It was the same hotel Reynolds was staying in. No one gave her a second look. She was a guest there as well. If anyone wondered how someone on a server’s salary could afford to live in a hotel, they didn’t ask. Harper was one of those people who fitted in.

‘Yo, Harper,’ the concierge shouted. ‘You heading over to Sally’s later?’