CHAPTER EIGHTEENThe bathroom was just big enough for two stalls and a small sink streaked with rust-brown stains. Leaning toward the mirror, I had the misfortune to get a good look at myself. My short auburn hair stuck out at odd angles, like I’d been in a wind tunnel. The light from a single bare bulb cast flattering raccoon shadows under my eyes.
I splashed my face with water and ran a comb through my hair. The towel dispenser was empty, so I snatched off a ribbon of toilet paper, balled it up, and dabbed my face with it.
As I picked stray bits of toilet paper from my cheeks, I tried to imagine why Gilbert Simons and the tattooed man would meet at a place like this. Mac Cassity’s concerns about Buzzy Ellis aside, this was a strange scenario. Why would someone who worked for a big-time
