Don't Blink by James Patterson, Howard Roughan

Nick.”

Chapter 36
    MY FIRST LOGICAL assumption was that slick Eddie Pinero was full of good old-fashioned Grade A bullshit. He was, after all, the high-profile head of an organized crime family, not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow. Clearly he was appealing to my journalistic instincts, hoping that he might pique my interest so I’d dig a whole lot deeper into what had happened at Lombardo’s. If he couldn’t prove his own innocence, maybe I could.
    All in all it was incredibly transparent. The problem was, it worked on me. Or, at the very least, it got me thinking. The guy had his goons basically kidnap me, but I wasn’t heading straight to the police. What was I going to do, press charges?
    Instead, like metal to a magnet, I found myself right back at Lombardo’s Steakhouse later that same day.
    I still hadn’t eaten, but a nice porterhouse was the last thing on my mind.
    No, the rumbling in my gut was the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about my originally being there to interview Dwayne Robinson. Or, I should say, everything was too right.
    Too convenient.
    That’s why I’d come back to see my new good friend — Tiffany.
    As it happened, I caught her with one foot out the door. It was half past three; lunch was over. The dining room was all but empty.
    “You got a second?” I asked. “I’m really sorry to bother you again. I’m relentless, I know.
    “Sure, what is it?”
    Only there was nothing “sure” about her response. She seemed anxious at the sight of me, even glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us.
    “Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.
    “Huh?” she said, turning back to me. “Oh … um, yeah, I’m fine.”
    I wasn’t exactly sold on that. But I pressed on.
    “I was hoping you could check something for me,” I said. “You mentioned that the day before Vincent Marcozza was murdered, Dwayne Robinson came in but never sat down. I was wondering — did Marcozza eat lunch here that day?”
    “Probably,” she answered quickly. “He practically ate lunch here every day. Sometimes dinner, too. Mr. Marcozza was a big customer.”
    “Is there a way you can check for sure? About the day before the shootings? Maybe in your reservation book?”
    Again, she seemed distracted. It was as if the question hadcaught her off guard. What gives, Tiffany? After another glance over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow her.
    We walked over to the reservation book. “That was Thursday, right?” she asked.
    I nodded and watched as she flipped back a few pages, the ruby-red nail polish on her index finger scrolling down the list of reservations for that day. Putting my upside-down reading skills to use, I kept looking for Marcozza’s name.
    But I didn’t see it. Neither did Tiffany.
    “Hmmm. I guess he wasn’t here that day,” she said. “That’s unusual for him.”
    “ Who wasn’t here what day?” came a sharp voice over Tiffany’s shoulder.

Chapter 37
    IT WAS THE manager of Lombardo’s. Jack, was it? No, Jason, I thought. Given his tone, though, his name might as well have been Mr. Royally Pissed Off. Tiffany froze at the reservation stand, like a deer in xenon headlights.
    I took that as my cue to help out. “My fault. I was just checking to see if Vincent Marcozza had eaten here the day before he was murdered. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”
    I was expecting the guy to ask me why I wanted to know that. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Reservations made by our guests are considered private. It’s restaurant policy, Mr. Daniels.”
    Jason knew my name. That was a little strange. We hadn’t officially met. Or exchanged business cards.
    “Then my apologies,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
    “Yes, but Tiffany did,” he said, turning to her.
    She raised her palms apologetically. “Jason, I know you told me —”
    He cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
    “But —”
    “Shut up!” he barked at the poor girl.