"Buon giorno, Marla," he greeted the plump waitress.

"Detective Arturo, back so soon? Your friend, il professore, isn't here. And who is this?" Marla teased, giving Bruenner an approving look.

"Natalie Bruenner, FBI, ma'am."

"Natale?" Marla repeated, pronouncing it "nah-TAL-lee."

Bruenner tried correcting Marla on pronouncing her name NAT-ah-lee, but wasn't having much success. She finally gave up and let Marla take their orders. Lance couldn't help smirking as he slid into a booth.

"What's so funny?" Bruenner grouched when Marla wandered off to the back to get their drinks.

"Your name," Lance replied bluntly, still smirking. "In Italian, Natale means 'Christmas.' It's the Italian equivalent of Noël."

"So, you know Italian as well as French," she remarked sarcastically. "Trying to show off?"

"I studied French in high school and Italian in college."

Thankfully, Marla returned with their drinks (sweet tea for him and Coke for her) and to take their orders before Bruenner could start interrogating him about his school days. Lance ordered a meatball calzone while Bruenner ordered a big greasy cheeseburger with fries.

"Look, Bruenner," he said, trying to play peacemaker. "I want to find Sarah as much as you do."

"No, you don't," she retorted sharply. "I've spent the last two years of my life working on this. Two years of following leads, hitting dead ends, having to tell her parents, 'no, I haven't found her, yet.' Now, I'm practically back to square one. I have nothing to go on except whoever shot Johnson."

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, trying to brush away the persistent pre-Immortal tickle. He kept trying to tell himself it wasn't his place to tell her about her fate, besides it wasn't exactly the right time, anyway.

"Tell you what, after lunch we'll go back to the station, and see if anything's turned up with that APB I put out last night."

Bruenner looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you being so agreeable all of a sudden?"

Lance mumbled something as he took a drink from his glass.

"What was that?"

"You're right," he grumbled. Bruenner blinked in surprise. "Fighting isn't going to find Sarah."

Bruenner narrowed her eyes at him warily. "It was Interpol wasn't it? You're hiding something."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why would a law-abiding detective be afraid of Interpol?"

"Bruenner," he growled warningly.

"What could Detective Michael Lance Arturo possibly be hiding?"

"I said drop it."

Again, Marla saved the day by depositing their food on the table. Maybe he should tell Bruenner the truth about herself. Maybe then she'd quit being such a pain in the ass about finding out about him. It was just on the tip of his tongue to say something when Bruenner spoke first.

"How do you want to work on these trucks? Split up, cover more ground?"

As appealing as a Bruenner-free afternoon sounded, he shook his head. If one of those owners knew anything about Sarah, she needed to be there. He'd never hear the end of it if she wasn't.

"We'll talk to six," Lance answered after washing down a bite of calzone.

"Weren't there seven?"

"Yeah, but it'll take the rest of the afternoon tracking down those six," he replied. "Seven is way the hell up in the hills. Best to drive out there in the morning."

Bruenner nodded, popping a french fry into her mouth.

"I see you drove down," Lance remarked, trying to make small talk, and at least attempt to be civil.

Bruenner's eyes practically glowed. "Yeah, I did. Couldn't resist."

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Let's see, my choices were either go through the hassle that is airport security, baggage claim and sitting next to some schmuck who won't shut up about something or other, or drive, see something of the countryside whilst driving down some pretty fun back-roads. Gee, I wonder."

He had to admit, she had a point. He'd ridden some of those same roads on either his Harley or in his Jeep.

"If you like back-roads, just wait until tomorrow," Lance replied.

"Why?"

"Number seven. I know the guy. Lives up an old logging trail. We'll have to take my Jeep. A Crown Vic wouldn't get two miles down that road."