to think about Letta’s stabbing in such detail and changed the subject. “Eric, the DA who was here tonight with me, thinks I should get involved,” I said, “and do some investigation on your behalf.”
“Really? Would you?”
“Maybe. But only if you’re completely honest with me.”
He leaned back in his chair and frowned, his chin tucked.
“About Letta. And you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. But I could see his grip on the wine glass tighten.
“Look, Javier. It’s, um, just that . . . well . . .”
Okay. I know it may seem weird—me having been a lawyer and all—but I was finding it difficult to interrogate Javier about his personal life. What can I say? It’s different with strangers than with people you know. And it’s not like I had ever been all that crazy about prying into the details of my client’s lives, either. But if I was going to find out what happened to Letta, I had to know what Javier’s relationship with her had been.
I spat it out. “I heard that you were in love with her.”
He didn’t say anything right away and just looked at me, lips tight. But from his sad eyes, I could tell—it was true. He had been in love with her. Oh Jesus . That sure threw a spatula in the works.
“Did you tell the cops?” I asked.
He shook his head and drank down the rest of his wine.
Great . Suppressing information, too . “Well,” I said, “they’re going to find out, you know.”
“How?” he responded. “And I don’t see why it’s important, anyway.”
“Come on, Javier. If I know, they can certainly find out. And don’t be so dense. Of course anyone who’s in love with the victim is going to be of great interest to the police. Especially if he’s hiding it.” I tapped my index finger impatiently on the table. “Did you tell her? Letta?”
“Nuh-uh. I never said anything. She was involved with Tony, so what would have been the point?”
“Yeah.”
Javier started to get up. “I should really be getting back to the kitchen.”
“Wait. Stay for another minute, can you? There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
He sat back down.
“Did Letta ever mention anything about who she wanted the restaurant to go to if she died?”
I could tell the question piqued his interest. There was a look of—what, hope?—in his eyes. “No,” he answered.
“I just asked, since I was, well, frankly flabbergasted when I read her will yesterday.” He continued to hold my gaze. “Because, uh . . . she gave it to me.”
His whole body appeared to deflate slightly, just for a moment. Could he have been expecting her to give it to him? I guess that would have made some kind of sense, his being her lieutenant, so to speak. But folks generally tend to will their possessions to family members, not business associates.
Then he seemed to catch himself. “Wow, Sally, that’s great. Congratulations.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Glad to have you as the new boss. Just don’t go changing Gauguin into a singles bar.”
“No worries on that front,” I said. “In fact, I’m going to be pretty damn dependent on you to keep it going exactly as it has been.”
“Well then, you better do your best to keep me out of jail,” he said with a grin. But I could see the fear behind the smile.
***
The next morning I woke early, brain churning. I pulled back the curtains to check on the weather. Not a cloud in the sky. A good, long bike ride was what I needed before my lunch shift at Solari’s.
I’m no Mario Cipollini, mind you (my dad’s favorite cyclist, and not just because of the shared name). But I do relish the rush of riding hard for an hour or two a few times a week. Plus, by my calculations, for every sixty minutes of cycling, I burn about six hundred calories. That’s two buttery croissants, or four bottles of Bass Ale, or a plate of my dad’s linguine with clam sauce along with a slice of crusty garlic bread.
And today I could really use some physical
“Really? Would you?”
“Maybe. But only if you’re completely honest with me.”
He leaned back in his chair and frowned, his chin tucked.
“About Letta. And you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. But I could see his grip on the wine glass tighten.
“Look, Javier. It’s, um, just that . . . well . . .”
Okay. I know it may seem weird—me having been a lawyer and all—but I was finding it difficult to interrogate Javier about his personal life. What can I say? It’s different with strangers than with people you know. And it’s not like I had ever been all that crazy about prying into the details of my client’s lives, either. But if I was going to find out what happened to Letta, I had to know what Javier’s relationship with her had been.
I spat it out. “I heard that you were in love with her.”
He didn’t say anything right away and just looked at me, lips tight. But from his sad eyes, I could tell—it was true. He had been in love with her. Oh Jesus . That sure threw a spatula in the works.
“Did you tell the cops?” I asked.
He shook his head and drank down the rest of his wine.
Great . Suppressing information, too . “Well,” I said, “they’re going to find out, you know.”
“How?” he responded. “And I don’t see why it’s important, anyway.”
“Come on, Javier. If I know, they can certainly find out. And don’t be so dense. Of course anyone who’s in love with the victim is going to be of great interest to the police. Especially if he’s hiding it.” I tapped my index finger impatiently on the table. “Did you tell her? Letta?”
“Nuh-uh. I never said anything. She was involved with Tony, so what would have been the point?”
“Yeah.”
Javier started to get up. “I should really be getting back to the kitchen.”
“Wait. Stay for another minute, can you? There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
He sat back down.
“Did Letta ever mention anything about who she wanted the restaurant to go to if she died?”
I could tell the question piqued his interest. There was a look of—what, hope?—in his eyes. “No,” he answered.
“I just asked, since I was, well, frankly flabbergasted when I read her will yesterday.” He continued to hold my gaze. “Because, uh . . . she gave it to me.”
His whole body appeared to deflate slightly, just for a moment. Could he have been expecting her to give it to him? I guess that would have made some kind of sense, his being her lieutenant, so to speak. But folks generally tend to will their possessions to family members, not business associates.
Then he seemed to catch himself. “Wow, Sally, that’s great. Congratulations.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Glad to have you as the new boss. Just don’t go changing Gauguin into a singles bar.”
“No worries on that front,” I said. “In fact, I’m going to be pretty damn dependent on you to keep it going exactly as it has been.”
“Well then, you better do your best to keep me out of jail,” he said with a grin. But I could see the fear behind the smile.
***
The next morning I woke early, brain churning. I pulled back the curtains to check on the weather. Not a cloud in the sky. A good, long bike ride was what I needed before my lunch shift at Solari’s.
I’m no Mario Cipollini, mind you (my dad’s favorite cyclist, and not just because of the shared name). But I do relish the rush of riding hard for an hour or two a few times a week. Plus, by my calculations, for every sixty minutes of cycling, I burn about six hundred calories. That’s two buttery croissants, or four bottles of Bass Ale, or a plate of my dad’s linguine with clam sauce along with a slice of crusty garlic bread.
And today I could really use some physical
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