Chapter 12 #2
On the other hand, the part that was tired of being alone with my thoughts wouldn’t mind the distraction.
“That sounds great, actually.”
“Perfect. Six o’clock work for you?”
I told him it did, and he hung up with an, “I’ll see you then.”
I put the phone on the counter. Edwina had finished snarfing down her food and was now sitting at my feet, looking up at me with those big bug eyes.
“What?” I asked her.
She tilted her head.
“I know. I should have said no. But I didn’t want to sit here all day thinking about Nick and the bullet hole in his forehead.” I bent down and scratched between her ears. The tiny hairs on top of her head felt like velvet fibers underneath my fingernails.
“Besides,” I added, “Greg’s nice. I enjoy his company. There are worse people.”
Edwina’s tail wagged uncertainly, as if she wasn’t entirely convinced.
“You’re a terrible wingman,” I told her, and carried my coffee back to the bedroom to start the morning ritual.
The rest of the day passed slowly. I tried to read, but couldn’t focus.
Tried to watch TV, but everything seemed inane.
Cleaned the kitchen, for something useful to do.
It was neither fun nor glamorous, but it needed doing.
Finally, around four, I gave up and went upstairs to get ready for dinner.
Glass of wine, bubble bath, soothing music.
And a Boston Terrier standing with her feet on the edge of the tub as if she planned to join me at any moment.
When I got out, I stood in front of my closet for a good ten minutes trying to decide what to wear.
Not the leather skirt from Friday night—that was still at the dry cleaners along with the suede boots.
Not the gray dress, either—I wore that to David’s funeral.
And I’d worn the plaid for lunch with Greg and his mother last month.
Finally, I settled on dark slacks, heeled boots, and a cashmere sweater in a deep teal that I knew looked good with my hair.
I was applying lipstick when Edwina started barking. I checked my watch—five fifty-eight. Greg was early.
Or punctual, depending on how you looked at it.
He was waiting on the front porch when I opened the door, looking distinguished in dark slacks and a sweater under a wool coat. The Jaguar sat in the driveway behind him.
“You’re stunning,” he told me, and sounded like he meant it.
“Thank you.” I simpered. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He smiled and offered me his arm. “Your chariot awaits. Do you want to know where we’re going, or can I surprise you?”
I’m usually not all that keen on surprises—they have a way of blowing up in my face—but I smiled back. “I trust you.”
I had a pretty good idea where we were going, anyway. He had wanted to take me to Fidelio’s last time, until I asked him to change it to Sambuca. And fate just seems to have that sort of sense of humor, doesn’t she?
With that in mind, it was no surprise at all when Greg turned off Charlotte Avenue at 46th Avenue and headed for the Sylvan Park restaurant district.
Outside the car, renovated Victorian cottages and restored Craftsman bungalows rubbed elbows with modern infills that somehow managed not too look too awfully out of place.
We had spent the drive so far talking about Greg’s mother, and about getting to know Tara and Cressida. But now he told me, “You’re very quiet. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
I smiled automatically. “Sorry. I’m just... yes, I’m fine. There’s just a lot on my mind.”
“You can tell me about it, if you want. It’s no good, holding things in. Sometimes talking helps.”
Sometimes it did. Although—
“I’m not really holding anything in. I mean… I spoke to Mendoza yesterday, and to Rachel today. I’ve done plenty of talking. It’s just—”
I shrugged, since I couldn’t come up with the words for what it was.
“A shock,” Greg said kindly, and I nodded.
“Yes, that. And guilt, that Jacquie hired me to follow him, and he was killed on my watch.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Greg said.
“No, I know that. I wasn’t even following him on Friday night. Zachary was. I was with you. But it’s easy to feel guilty. For all of us.”
Greg nodded. “I don’t suppose it would help for me to tell you that you’re not responsible?”
It wouldn’t. Although I didn’t say so. No need to be rude, after all.
“I know I’m not responsible,” I told him instead. “The person who shot him is responsible. But I still feel bad. I mean, I had to sit there, in Jacquie’s living room, and watch her fall apart when Mendoza told her that the man she hired me to prove wasn’t cheating on her is dead.”
Greg nodded seriously. “I can see why that would be uncomfortable.”
No kidding.
He added, “This is the same Detective Mendoza who solved Harold’s murder?”
I solved Harold’s murder. But it didn’t seem like the right time to insist on that, so I nodded. “Same guy.”
“And what does he have to do with this?”
Oh. “Well, in addition to being a homicide detective, he’s working undercover at Sambuca because they, as well as the Body Shop, are involved in some sort of money laundering scheme for the mob.”
His eyebrows rose. “The mob.”
I nodded. “I can’t believe you were right about that. I could have sworn we mostly had Russian and South American organized crime here. But that aside—”
“That aside, your Detective Mendoza is working undercover at Sambuca.”
He wasn’t my Detective Mendoza, more’s the pity, but I nodded.
“I suppose you saw him there on Friday night?”
“Ran into him outside the kitchen,” I said with a grimace. “Literally.”
Greg’s lips twitched. “Yes, I remember what happened. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him.”
Same. But— “I wouldn’t have noticed him either, if it hadn’t been for that. He probably saw us in the dining room and steered clear.”
That was the only explanation for how I could have sat there for the best part of an hour and not seen him on the other side of the dining room.
“Be that as it may,” I said, changing the subject, “because that’s all Mendoza’s problem, not mine. My problem is Jacquie. Nick is dead, she’s devastated—or pretending to be; I don’t know—and I have no idea what to do about the retainer she paid me.”
Greg slanted me a look. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Keep it,” I said honestly. “We did the work. It’s not our fault he got murdered.”
“Then keep it,” Greg said.
“But it feels like I’m profiting from his death.”
“You’re profiting from your work,” Greg corrected. “Which you did before he died. You earned that money.”
We had reached the restaurant district now, and Greg maneuvered the Jaguar into a parking spot on the street just down from Fidelio’s. It was just as well. David’s brakes had been compromised in the parking lot behind the restaurant, so I had no need to park back there.
“I assume Megan is another undercover cop,” he said as he cut the engine. “You said both businesses were involved in the money laundering?”
“That’s what Mendoza told me. And yes, almost certainly. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.” If there was someone undercover at Sambuca, there would be someone undercover at the Body Shop, too, and she was the obvious suspect.
“Any idea how this all came to be?”
I did, as a matter of fact. “It seems Nick got in trouble with the mob and was forced to let them use the Body Shop in exchange. I assume either he or Sal involved the cops. As for Sambuca, I have no idea.”
The undercover operation could have started there, or it could have started at the Body Shop. If I could tail Gio Abruzzi from the Body Shop to Sambuca, anyone else could, as well.
“And now Nick’s dead.” Greg’s expression was thoughtful. “Was it the mob tying up loose ends, or was it Jacquie acting out of jealousy and rage?”
“Could have been either. Or neither.”
He glanced at me. “What does Detective Mendoza think?”
I hesitated. “Not sure he’d tell me what he really thinks, but he gave me the idea that he thought it might be Jacquie. That she made it look like a mob hit to deflect suspicion.”
Greg nodded. “What do you think?”
I thought about Jacquie’s tears, the way her face had crumpled when she heard the news. “I think if she did it, she’s a better actress than I gave her credit for. But I also think it’s possible that she’s capable of it. She’s not as fragile as she looks.”
“The ones who look fragile never are,” Greg observed. He opened his door and came around to open mine. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you. We can talk more at the table.” He took my hand as we walked down the street.
I nodded, and tried not to feel like I was walking to my doom.