Chapter Twenty Harriet
Chapter Twenty
Harriet
Kozel’s waiting in the foyer of Piccolo when I walk in the door. He’s wearing jeans and a light gray sweater I swear he had back in high school.
“Harriet, good to see you,” he says, going in for a hug before awkwardly switching to a handshake when I don’t move. “I think our table is ready if you are?”
“Sure.”
We follow the hostess to a table tucked into the far back corner. I’ve been dreading this dinner, but seeing Sara in jail today reminded me what really matters. This isn’t about what happened back in high school. If Kozel will tell me anything that could help her, I need it.
Plus, it hasn’t even been seventy-two hours, and Frankie’s already on my back asking for a progress report. I spent a large part of the afternoon working on the piece but only managed to eke out a rough opening paragraph:
Murder in Paradise
Logan Island, NJ, a tight-knit community of 1,500 full-time residents, was rocked last week when one of its prominent residents, George George—a former Manhattan real estate mogul—was found stabbed to death on the private beach outside his home.
The police were quick to arrest local chef Sara Allbright, claiming the murder was an act of revenge.
It’s not great. Dry. Boring. Regurgitating facts that have already been reported numerous times. Which is all the more reason I have to get through this meal without punching my ex-boyfriend in the face—which will take every ounce of my self-restraint.
I slide into the chair across from him.
“I have to admit, Harriet. After the other day, I was surprised to hear from you,” Kozel says as he picks up his menu.
“What?” I say, feigning shock. “Why?”
He gives me a skeptical look. “You didn’t exactly seem thrilled when we ran into each other. But regardless, I’m glad you texted me. I would love to explain why I did what I did after high school—”
“What are you having?” I interrupt. What a self-centered prick, thinking I even care about that. It’s been eight years! I’m over it.
I mean, have I wondered late at night when I can’t sleep why my first real boyfriend turned out to be such a dickhead? Sure.
But do I want to talk about it? With him? Nope. No, I do not. I want to pump him for information and get the hell out of here.
Kozel tries again. “Harriet, could I—”
I glare at him over the top of my menu. “No.”
He rubs a hand over his scruff. “You’re exactly the same, you know that?”
He is such an ass. I am absolutely not the same. I’m much more bitter and broken.
“I lived in New York for almost eight years, Kozel. You think that didn’t change me?”
He shrugs and snaps his menu shut. “What brought you back here anyway?”
“Life” is all I’m willing to say.
He pauses, water glass halfway to his lips. “Wow, Harriet. So illuminating.”
“What brought you back?” I shoot back, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t ask him any personal questions. “After you left like you did, I didn’t think you’d ever come back, but I guess I was wrong. About a lot of things.”
“As I said, I would like to explain that if you’ll let me.”
“No, thank you,” I reply.
“But you just asked—”
“Yeah, sorry.” I wave a hand. “I forgot—I don’t care why you’re back. It was a hundred years ago.”
He shifts in his seat. “All right. Fair enough. I suppose I deserve that. But I’d still like to—”
I interrupt again. “What I’d like is to hear about your work as a police detective.”
“My work as—” He frowns. “Harriet, if this is about your stepfather, we’re working hard to get his killer behind bars. Permanently. Her arraignment is in a couple days. It’s a start. You have to be patient.”
“Did you guys look at anyone else before filing charges against her?”
“Anyone else?” He sounds confused.
“Well, as you probably know, someone overheard George having an argument in the basement shortly before he was killed, but Sara says she never left the kitchen.”
He narrows his eyes. “When did you—Are you writing something about this?”
I’m stunned into silence. How did he guess that? I was going to tell him—obviously I was going to tell him, or our conversation wouldn’t be on the record—but I had planned to ease him into the idea of it. Maybe slip it into conversation after getting him nice and drunk.
“Possibly?” I hedge.
A bread basket arrives, and we both fall silent. Distraction by carbs. Thank god.
As soon as we’re alone, Kozel starts interrogating me.
“Harriet. Is this why you asked me to dinner? Because of an article? I believe in the free press, of course I do, but…aren’t you a little too close to it?
Either way,” he continues, “as I am sure you’re aware, I’m not at liberty to talk about the case.
Not even with you,” he adds as I open my mouth to argue.
“Plus, what are you even planning to write about that hasn’t already been covered thoroughly by local media? ”
“I’m…I’m just writing about what happened,” I say feebly.
He raises a single skeptical brow. I used to be so jealous that he could do that. Right now, though, I want to shave it off his face.
“George used to live up in the city,” I tell him. “He’s a known entity. Plus, my editor likes the personal connection. And also…”
Do I go there? Do I dare say Also, I don’t think Sara’s guilty? Also, did you even look at other suspects? Also, are you a corrupt cop?
Maybe not that last one.
The waiter arrives to take our drink order and saves me from having to finish my sentence.
“A glass of pinot noir, thanks,” Kozel says. “Harriet?”
If he won’t ask my questions sober…
I pick up the wine list.
“Why don’t we get a bottle?”
He shrugs. “Sure, why not? It’s a special occasion of sorts. A bottle of the pinot okay?”
I nod. A bottle of grain alcohol would be fine by me so long as it got him talking.
He puts in the order.
An hour later, his cheeks are flushed, and he’s started to slur his words.
He’s had far more than half the bottle. I’ve been topping up his drink whenever he’s distracted—a frequent occurrence.
An extraordinary number of people have stopped by our table to talk to him, and we’ve barely had a moment alone.
He’s been asked about everything from a broken stoplight off Main Street to whether George’s murder was actually a mob hit.
“Sorry for all the interruptions,” Kozel says after his old high school football coach walks away.
He just spent five minutes asking for advice about a speeding ticket.
“Now you know why I don’t spend much time on the island.
Once I started working at the sheriff’s department, people started hitting me up for favors.
” He throws back the rest of his wine and sets his glass down.
“On that note, I gotta get going. Early morning tomorrow.”
Shit. Dinner’s over, and I haven’t even had a chance to bring up Sara’s case again. If he leaves now, this will have been a huge waste of time.
I smile. “Or we could get another drink?”
“I’d love to another time, but I really do need to get going.”
I brace myself for what I’m about to say. The very thing I’ve been trying to avoid. “I’ll let you explain. Why you, you know, left. Back then.” My stomach churns at the thought.
He pauses. “Really? Without interrupting or making snide asides?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“Promise?”
I struggle to keep my eyes from rolling backward into my head. “Yes.”
He grins. “Okay. One more drink.”