“I’m sorry, Billy, sorry I hurt Bridget, sorry I let you down,” Juan Lorinda said with what appeared to be sincerity. We were in my office at the restaurant several hours shy of the time Juan was hoping to be shaking and stirring his first cocktails of the evening at the bar downstairs. He’d certainly prepped for the job. His cheeks were clean of stubble, his brown eyes bright and imploring. His hair was freshly cut close to the scalp. His shirt was starched and a brilliant white; the pleats of his black trousers were razor-sharp. I caught the scent of bay rum in the air.
It had been two weeks since he’d slapped my waitress and his former girlfriend, Bridget Innes. He’d said he wanted to “spend some time getting my head back on straight” before returning to work. The two weeks had been his annual paid vacation. If he took a third, he’d be on his own.
“You sure you’re ready?” I asked. “As much as our customers might enjoy a little violence with their pear martinis, I don’t want any more of it.”
“I … I know. It was … It won’t happen again.”
“Bridget gave me her version of the situation. I never did hear yours.”
He cleared his throat and sat straighter in the chair. “No big story. I jus’ had feelings for her. I have feelings for her. But she don’t have the same feelings for me anymore. She’s makin’ it with some other dude. And I know I got to get past that.”
“Identifying the problem is a good first step,” I said. “But I want you to be straight with me. And yourself. Getting past a busted romance can take a while.”
“I’m ready, Billy. I really wanna work, to keep busy. That way, I don’t think about … you know.”
Like most recovering romantics, I was familiar with what he was going through. But unlike most of us, he wanted to do it in my bar. “What happens tonight when Bridget comes in with her first drink order?”
He took a deep breath. “I suck it up and fill the order,” he said. “The next time, and the next, and the next, it’ll get easier.”
“And when you start feeling sorry for yourself, or you see her being nice to a customer? You call her a puta again?”
“No, sir,” he said. “I got control now. I can do this, Billy. I’ll be strong. I’ve handled worse things.”
Indeed he had.
“Okay, Juan, let’s see how it goes,” I said, and watched him make his exit with the awkward lurch of a man whose right leg was metal from the thigh down.
A few minutes later, with nothing on my mind except the profit-and-loss numbers dancing across my computer monitor and the haunting melody of Billy Strayhorn’s “Waters of March” on my iPod, I looked up in surprise to see Cassandra standing a few feet from my desk with two burly strangers.
I blacked out the monitor screen and popped out the ear buds in time to hear her say, “… detectives Joshua Solomon and Norman Butker.”
Solomon was in his late forties, a few inches shorter than his partner, with a gray bulldog face and full lips that looked incomplete without a chewed cigar. Near his right eye was a scar containing black specks that might have been the result of gunpowder burns. He was wearing a dark-brown leather driving jacket over his shirt and tie.
Butker, a decade or more younger, was a black man with an un-pruned mustache, matching eyebrows, and a scalp full of shiny, curly hair. He was wearing a dark suit that fit him well. He stayed a half-step back from Solomon, clearly identifying Solomon as the alpha dog of the partnership.
The alpha dog flashed his badge but showed no interest in any pleasantry like shaking hands, so I remained seated. I assumed that their visit had been prompted by the Juan-Bridget spat, but I couldn’t imagine who’d made the complaint. I put a curious look on my face and asked, “Detectives, what can I do for you?”
“We’ve got some questions about you and your restaurant here,” Solomon said matter-of-factly.
I felt a twinge of annoyance but kept my face blank. “Don’t tell me they’ve passed a law against serving gourmet meals?” I asked.
“Interesting you should bring up your meals,” Solomon said. “We’re not the Food Police, Mr. Blessing. We’re from Homicide West.”
“Who’s dead?” I asked, Juan and Bridget still on my mind.
Solomon looked at Cassandra and said, “Thanks for your help, honey. We can take it from here.”
“Ms. Shaw is my trusted assistant, detective,” I said quickly, before Cassandra had a chance to respond. “I’d like her to hear whatever you have to say.” One of the life lessons I’ve learned is that when conversing with homicide detectives, it’s always a good idea to have a witness who’s not on their team.
Solomon shrugged and said, “We understand you were an associate of one Rudyard M. Gallagher?”
“Were?”
“Yeah. That association went past tense last night when somebody murdered Mr. Gallagher.”
No matter how hard you try to remain cool, there are times when you just can’t keep your jaw from dropping.
“When did you see him last?” Solomon asked.
“He wasn’t at work this morning.” I paused to think. “Yesterday, I guess. Around ten or so.”
“Ten at night?” Butker asked.
“No. In the morning, just after our show went off the air. When did it hap—?”
“You didn’t see him last night?” Solomon interrupted me to ask.
“He wasn’t in this restaurant last night?” Butker asked.
“That I don’t know,” I said. “If he was, I didn’t see him. Cassandra?”
She shook her head no. “He comes in … came in from time to time,” she said. “But not last night.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Blessing?” Butker asked. “Between six and, let’s say, midnight?”
“Here. I was in the building from about four p.m., when I got back from various errands. I was downstairs or in this office until about ten-thirty, when I went to bed. I’m on television very early in the morning.”
Solomon turned to Cassandra. “That about right?”
She nodded. I could tell by her frown that she was still simmering from his referring to her as “honey.”
“You testify to that?” Solomon asked her.
“Hang on for a minute,” I said. “I’m a suspect?”
“Like they say in every crappy cop show on the TV, we’re just trying to eliminate everybody we can,” Solomon said. “So, ma’am, was Mr. Blessing in this building between six and midnight?”
“Yes. I did not actually see him go to sleep, but I can and will testify that I did not see him leave the building during the hours you mentioned.”
“How’d Rudy die?” I asked.
“He was …” Butker began, but stopped when the alpha dog nearly bit him.
“How would you have killed him, Mr. Blessing?” Solomon asked.
“I don’t kill people,” I said. “Murder’s a crime and a sin.”
“Good answer,” Solomon said. “Oh, I almost forgot to mention: We’re closing your restaurant down, as of now.”
“What are you talking about?”
He pulled a folded sheet of paper from an inside breast pocket of his jacket and dropped it on my desk. “This is a warrant for us to search the building, stem to stern,” Solomon said.
“Why, in God’s name?”
“Because, according to Mr. Gallagher’s fiancée, you and he weren’t exactly the best of friends. And according to the plastic carryout containers at his condo, which is where a cleaning lady found his body this afternoon, he was probably poisoned by food from this joint.”