Mindless of the milling crowd, Dennis embraced his older son with a frontal Heimlich maneuver that would have dislodged a T-bone from the throat of a grizzly bear.

“Food here any good?” he asked, ignoring the menu Lou had handed him.

“They have everything here, Dad.”

“Burgers?”

“If you’d look at the menu, you’d see there’s a whole page devoted to burgers.”

“It’s like the size of the phone book. Besides, why do I need a menu when I have a doctor here to look at it for me? What about just a plain old cheeseburger? They have any of those? You know I don’t like any of that fancy crap on my cheeseburgers.”

“They have cheeseburgers, Dad. Bacon cheeseburgers, too.”

“Probably comes with an avocado on it.”

“Come on,” Lou said, taking his father’s tattooed, solidly muscled arm. “Let’s go sit down.”

The lunch crowd continued filing in around them to be quickly tended to by a team of pretty, chipper hostesses. There were plenty of available booth seats around the wall encompassing the main dining room, and a number of empty tables as well. But Dennis, as Lou knew he would, made a beeline for the counter seating, insisting as always that he liked being up high, and that the swivel action of the stools benefited his arthritic hip.

The counter, like the rest of the massive dining area, was well worn—possibly by design, Lou reflected, or possibly because of the difficulty in catering to “everybody” while keeping the place buff. Varnish was worn away in some spots, and the brass fixtures were short a good polishing. Still, the overall effect was an inviting charm and warmth. As if to underscore the motto of the place, the walls and wooden pilasters featured autographed photos of celebrities and politicians, usually paired with a perpetually beaming Millie—the quintessential grandmother. Lou recognized two former Virginia governors, several players from the Redskins, Nationals, and Wizards, as well as a rapper whom Emily adored but Renee despised.

As they made their way to the counter, Lou caught snippets of conversation from the expanding sea of patrons. Nearly everything he heard dealt with the Meacham murders.

Lou and Dennis grabbed adjacent stools, sandwiching themselves between two much older gentleman, each of whom appeared to be dining alone. The wall facing them opened on the kitchen, where perhaps a dozen white-uniformed cooks and chefs of various kinds were picking up steam for the lunchtime rush ahead. Flames, fueled by dripping grease, danced in the background, creating sizzling steaks that Lou could smell. The culinary ballet was impressive, and for a time, father and son watched, mesmerized. The stainless steel counters just opposite the grill were lined with cutting boards, large mixing bowls, and trays of vegetables. Movement … sound … aroma …

Cue the cash registers.

It was good to see Dennis immersed in something other than the wall-mounted TVs at his beloved Wave Runner.

The narrow passage between the counter and the kitchen was patrolled by a tall, gaunt waitress with crow’s-feet eyes and tousled red hair the same height as her head. Her name tag read IRIS. Nothing about her personality explained why she was working with the public. Not surprisingly, Dennis ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.