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.

“We don’t have Coke,” Iris said.

“Okay, Pepsi, then.”

“No Pepsi. We only serve Millie Cola.”

“Millie Cola? Lou, what is this place?”

“A place that only serves Millie Cola,” he said. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Okay, one Millie Cola and one glass of ice water on the side,” Dennis said.

Iris scowled and wrote on her pad. “And how would you like your cheeseburger?”

“With cheese,” Dennis said.

Another scowl.

Lou went for the Cobb salad and an iced tea.

“So … how ya you doing?” Dennis asked once their cadaverous server had moved on.

“You mean about John Meacham?” Lou asked, as usual having no problems reading the man.

“Your brother called. He said he suspected you might have had something to do with Meacham through your work. Apparently, the papers said he was an alcoholic and had been involved with a group like yours in D.C.”

“Graham could have called and just asked me. I’m in his speed dial.”

“Have they mentioned your name?”

“Not yet.”