Probably not. Although I wasn’t quite ready to admit it. “Just tell me what’s going on, and I’ll stay away on my own.”
He snorted. “That’ll be a first.”
“No, it won’t. I have no interest in interfering with a police investigation. It’s got to do with the guy in the Porsche, right?”
“What guy in what Porsche? Gio Abruzzi?”
“Early forties,” I said, even as I memorized the name, “black hair, olive skin, expensive suit, leather briefcase. Drives a vintage Porsche registered to some LLC out of Syracuse. New York, I suppose, unless there’s a Syracuse, Tennessee, I’m unfamiliar with.”
Mendoza nodded. “Sounds like Gio. How did you discover him?”
“I followed him from the Body Shop to Sambuca earlier today,” I said.
Mendoza didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he let his breath out in a huff. “For fuck’s sake.”
I blinked. That’s language I don’t usually hear from him. “What?”
He shook his head. “I should have known better than to think leaving you alone would save me trouble.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He narrowed his back. “What do you think it means? I knew you were camped out across the street from the Body Shop and I left you there, because I thought it would be easier than having to deal with you.”
“That’s not very nice,” I told him. “And how would you know that I was camped out—as you say—across the street from the Body Shop, anyway?”
And then the shoe dropped, and I added, “Wait. Are you camped out somewhere watching the Body Shop, too?”
If so, we could watch the Body Shop together. It would make the time go faster, and I’d certainly enjoy the company.
But—
“I’m not,” Mendoza said. “There’s no need to watch the Body Shop. Nothing’s going on there.”
“There’s plenty going on there. Everyone who works there looks like they’re waiting for the guillotine to drop.”
“That’s because it’s about to,” Mendoza said.
“Is it really? In what way?” Was it something I needed to know so I could tell Jacquie about it, if it would affect Nick?
He eyed me critically. “I still don’t understand how you got mixed up in all this.”
“I don’t really understand what I got mixed up in,” I admitted. “But it isn’t complicated. Jacquie hired me.”
“Jacquie?”
“Demetros,” I reminded him. “The twit David was sleeping with when he died.”
Mendoza’s lips twitched. “What would make you agree to go to work for your late husband’s mistress? Hasn’t she done enough damage?”
Yes, thank you. “I felt sorry for her,” I said. “And she offered me money.”
“Sure.” He sounded… it was either amused or cynical. Or somewhere in-between. “And what did she hire you to do?”
“She thinks her boyfriend’s cheating on her. He works at the Body Shop.”
“I know he does,” Mendoza nodded. “He isn’t.”
“Cheating? I didn’t think he was.”
