Of course not."
"Then what's to tell?" I said.
I moved around her desk, opened the drawer, and took out the little black book. "I'm going to hang on to this," I said.
"W-why?"
"I wouldn't want it burned," I said. "If the DA and the police havetheir way and I wind up defending my life, it'll be something we can throw at the jury to confuse them."
"I don't believe it will come to that, Billy, but if it does, I'll be in your corner."
"Good to know," I said, slipping the book into my pocket.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
When I arrived at the Bistro, my new BFFs from the media were snarling and snapping at me like a pack of rabid dogs and I had Milk-Bones in my pockets. In their midst, I spied a reluctant Worldwide Broadcasting cameraman in khaki who actually was a friend. Phil Bruno was one of the guys you wanted on your team--smart, inventive, even-tempered, who always knew precisely how to get the best shot.
I waved him in, prompting even louder howls from the rest of the pack.
"Sorry about this, Billy," Phil said as I led him through the restaurant in its second day of commercial inactivity. "I wanted to call you to tell you I'd been assigned to get footage for tonight's evening news, but the new honchette, Trina, said no calls. She believes in the confrontational approach, even when it comes to friends and coworkers."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Shoot whatever interiors you need. But do me a favor: Keep what's about to take place out of the frame."
My reference was to Solomon and Butker, who were heading our way from the rear of the building.
"It wasn't your rat poison that was used on Gallagher," Solomon said, ignoring Phil.
"Then why are you people still here?"
"We're back to square one, Blessing," the detective said, with a grin that wrinkled his face, hiding some of the black scar. "This time we're looking for ... What is it, Butker?"
"Benzethonium chloride," his bored partner replied. "A detergent used to clean cooking equipment, among other things. Very toxic."
"My guess is: If we use it, it'll be right in the open with the other detergents," I said.
"Nothing's ever that simple," Solomon said. "Your help says they only use standard stuff. But if they did use the benzo-whatever on your ovens, then I guess you wouldn't have used it on your pal Gallagher. Anyway, it's gonna take us all day at least, pokin' around. So many hidey-holes. And you never know, we might just turn up something else that'll hook you up to the murder."
With a sinking feeling, I realized I had Rudy's little black book in my pocket. That's all the connection Solomon would need. Keeping a poker face, I asked, "I don't suppose you left one of your officers here last night?"
"No. Why?"
"A guy with a cop suit was seen on the premises."
"Seen by who?"
"Me."
"What bullshit story are you leading up to, Blessing? This 'policeman' tell you he killed Gallagher? Something like that?"
"No," I said.
"Then what
was
he doing here? Fill me in. I love stories."
I knew it would be a mistake to bring up the incident to Solomon. Telling him why the fake cop had dropped by would be futile. Or worse. Either he wouldn't believe me or, if he did, he'd assume I really had taken something from Gallagher's apartment and initiate an even more detailed search. He might even find the little black book I had in my pocket. And that would be a Go Directly to Jail card.
"You're too clever for me, Detective," I said. "Forget I mentioned it."
Solomon stared at me. "Now you're starting to piss me off. Was there somebody here impersonating one of my men or not?"
"Maybe it was just a bad dream."
"Well, if you change your mind again, I'll be around, seeing if the benzo-whatever turns up."
"I suppose this means the restaurant will be dark another night."
"Afraid so, chef," Solomon said.
"Some of the food will be going bad. I can't refreeze it."
"Butker and I and the other officers would be happy to help you out with that. I saw some mighty fine porterhouse back
"Then what's to tell?" I said.
I moved around her desk, opened the drawer, and took out the little black book. "I'm going to hang on to this," I said.
"W-why?"
"I wouldn't want it burned," I said. "If the DA and the police havetheir way and I wind up defending my life, it'll be something we can throw at the jury to confuse them."
"I don't believe it will come to that, Billy, but if it does, I'll be in your corner."
"Good to know," I said, slipping the book into my pocket.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
When I arrived at the Bistro, my new BFFs from the media were snarling and snapping at me like a pack of rabid dogs and I had Milk-Bones in my pockets. In their midst, I spied a reluctant Worldwide Broadcasting cameraman in khaki who actually was a friend. Phil Bruno was one of the guys you wanted on your team--smart, inventive, even-tempered, who always knew precisely how to get the best shot.
I waved him in, prompting even louder howls from the rest of the pack.
"Sorry about this, Billy," Phil said as I led him through the restaurant in its second day of commercial inactivity. "I wanted to call you to tell you I'd been assigned to get footage for tonight's evening news, but the new honchette, Trina, said no calls. She believes in the confrontational approach, even when it comes to friends and coworkers."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Shoot whatever interiors you need. But do me a favor: Keep what's about to take place out of the frame."
My reference was to Solomon and Butker, who were heading our way from the rear of the building.
"It wasn't your rat poison that was used on Gallagher," Solomon said, ignoring Phil.
"Then why are you people still here?"
"We're back to square one, Blessing," the detective said, with a grin that wrinkled his face, hiding some of the black scar. "This time we're looking for ... What is it, Butker?"
"Benzethonium chloride," his bored partner replied. "A detergent used to clean cooking equipment, among other things. Very toxic."
"My guess is: If we use it, it'll be right in the open with the other detergents," I said.
"Nothing's ever that simple," Solomon said. "Your help says they only use standard stuff. But if they did use the benzo-whatever on your ovens, then I guess you wouldn't have used it on your pal Gallagher. Anyway, it's gonna take us all day at least, pokin' around. So many hidey-holes. And you never know, we might just turn up something else that'll hook you up to the murder."
With a sinking feeling, I realized I had Rudy's little black book in my pocket. That's all the connection Solomon would need. Keeping a poker face, I asked, "I don't suppose you left one of your officers here last night?"
"No. Why?"
"A guy with a cop suit was seen on the premises."
"Seen by who?"
"Me."
"What bullshit story are you leading up to, Blessing? This 'policeman' tell you he killed Gallagher? Something like that?"
"No," I said.
"Then what
was
he doing here? Fill me in. I love stories."
I knew it would be a mistake to bring up the incident to Solomon. Telling him why the fake cop had dropped by would be futile. Or worse. Either he wouldn't believe me or, if he did, he'd assume I really had taken something from Gallagher's apartment and initiate an even more detailed search. He might even find the little black book I had in my pocket. And that would be a Go Directly to Jail card.
"You're too clever for me, Detective," I said. "Forget I mentioned it."
Solomon stared at me. "Now you're starting to piss me off. Was there somebody here impersonating one of my men or not?"
"Maybe it was just a bad dream."
"Well, if you change your mind again, I'll be around, seeing if the benzo-whatever turns up."
"I suppose this means the restaurant will be dark another night."
"Afraid so, chef," Solomon said.
"Some of the food will be going bad. I can't refreeze it."
"Butker and I and the other officers would be happy to help you out with that. I saw some mighty fine porterhouse back
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