But what on earth was the man who had been a homicide detective three weeks ago doing, slinging pasta in an Italian restaurant?
Had he been fired from his job? Had he quit? Had he done something during the Newsome investigation that he shouldn’t have, and someone had found out?
And more to the point, was it my fault?
He had occasionally bent the rules for me before, when he ought to have believed me guilty of something or other. I couldn’t remember anything like that happening during the Newsome mess, but that didn’t necessarily mean that nothing had. Mendoza was more aware of the rules than I was.
Although if I had gotten him fired, the least he could have done was tell me so.
Hell, if I’d gotten him fired, I would have hired him in a heartbeat. Working for Fidelity Investigations had to be better than working here.
Or maybe not. Mendoza had a particular dislike for private investigators. His ex-wife had hired one (to prove Mendoza was cheating) and then married him (the PI), so maybe he truly would prefer serving pasta to snooty strangers to throwing down with Zachary, Rachel, and me.
And again, what right did I have to call myself a PI if I hadn’t noticed him until we literally came face to face? Had I really been so wrapped up in Greg (and in justice to it, the Branzino), that I had overlooked the fact that Jaime Mendoza was waiting tables twenty feet away from me? It didn’t say much for my powers of observation, if that was the case.
* * *
When I made it back to the table, the tiramisu had arrived, along with two small cups of espresso.
“What happened?” Greg asked as I slid back into my seat, a bit more wet and bedraggled than I had left. There was still a slight whiff of lemon-butter sauce emanating from my feet.
“Ran into one of the waiters.” I managed a smile. “Literally. Ended up with shrimp and mushrooms all over me. And him, too.”
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “Nothing that won’t wash out.” I hoped.
He nodded and seemed to take my word for it. “You have to try this.” He pushed the tiramisu toward me. “It’s the best I’ve had outside of Italy.”
I forced any and all thoughts of Mendoza out of my head and lifted my fork. I didn’t even look for the detective-slash-waiter for the rest of the meal, just in case it would make Greg notice him, too. Mendoza had been the homicide detective in charge of Harold’s case, and he isn’t the type you forget once you’ve seen him.
So I kept my attention firmly on Greg as we shared the dessert and the espresso, and while we made small talk about books and travel and Nashville’s restaurant scene. When the waiter—not Mendoza—finally brought the check, Greg insisted on paying despite my half-hearted offer to split it. “I invited you, Gina.”
“It was my request that we change the venue,” I pointed out. While Fidelio’s isn’t cheap, it isn’t Sambuca, so he must have ended up spending more than he’d planned.
He shook his head. “Insulting me isn’t going to work. I can well afford dinner, thank you.”
He pulled out an American Express Black Card and handed it to the waiter, who smirked and walked off with it.
“Touché,” I said, and Greg smirked, too.
* * *
The drive back to Hillwood passed quickly, filled with small talk about nothing in particular. When we pulled into the driveway Greg was telling me about a research trip he was planning to Scotland, and we ended up parked in front of the house for a minute while he finished what sounded like the introduction to inviting me to accompany him. By then, I was only half-listening because I was pretty sure something was wrong.
Everything looked OK. The driveway was empty. The porch light was on, and so was the light in the kitchen. I could see it glow from inside the house. Edwina’s food and water dishes are back there, and so is one of her doggie beds.
But Edwina wasn’t at the door.
I can always hear her when I pull up outside—the frantic scrabbling of paws on hardwood, the high-pitched yipping that meant she knew I was home and why wasn’t I inside already? Boston Terriers aren’t exactly quiet dogs, and Edwina was less quiet than most.
But now there was nothing. No sound at all from inside the house.
“Gina?” Greg’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Is everything all right?”
I realized I was clutching my handbag tightly enough that the seams dug into my skin . “It’s probably nothing.”
I couldn’t even make myself believe it, and it must have been obvious, because Greg’s brows drew together. “Doesn’t look like nothing. What is it?”
