“A shock,” Greg said kindly, and I nodded.
“Yes, that. And guilt, that Jacquie hired me to follow him, and he was killed on my watch.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Greg said.
“No, I know that. I wasn’t even following him on Friday night. Zachary was. I was with you. But it’s easy to feel guilty. For all of us.”
Greg nodded. “I don’t suppose it would help for me to tell you that you’re not responsible?”
It wouldn’t. Although I didn’t say so. No need to be rude, after all.
“I know I’m not responsible,” I told him instead. “The person who shot him is responsible. But I still feel bad. I mean, I had to sit there, in Jacquie’s living room, and watch her fall apart when Mendoza told her that the man she hired me to prove wasn’t cheating on her is dead.”
Greg nodded seriously. “I can see why that would be uncomfortable.”
No kidding.
He added, “This is the same Detective Mendoza who solved Harold’s murder?”
I solved Harold’s murder. But it didn’t seem like the right time to insist on that, so I nodded. “Same guy.”
“And what does he have to do with this?”
Oh. “Well, in addition to being a homicide detective, he’s working undercover at Sambuca because they, as well as the Body Shop, are involved in some sort of money laundering scheme for the mob.”
His eyebrows rose. “The mob.”
I nodded. “I can’t believe you were right about that. I could have sworn we mostly had Russian and South American organized crime here. But that aside?—”
“That aside, your Detective Mendoza is working undercover at Sambuca.”
He wasn’t my Detective Mendoza, more’s the pity, but I nodded.
“I suppose you saw him there on Friday night?”
“Ran into him outside the kitchen,” I said with a grimace. “Literally.”
Greg’s lips twitched. “Yes, I remember what happened. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him.”
Same. But— “I wouldn’t have noticed him either, if it hadn’t been for that. He probably saw us in the dining room and steered clear.”
That was the only explanation for how I could have sat there for the best part of an hour and not seen him on the other side of the dining room.
“Be that as it may,” I said, changing the subject, “because that’s all Mendoza’s problem, not mine. My problem is Jacquie. Nick is dead, she’s devastated—or pretending to be; I don’t know—and I have no idea what to do about the retainer she paid me.”
Greg slanted me a look. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Keep it,” I said honestly. “We did the work. It’s not our fault he got murdered.”
“Then keep it,” Greg said.
“But it feels like I’m profiting from his death.”
“You’re profiting from your work,” Greg corrected. “Which you did before he died. You earned that money.”
We had reached the restaurant district now, and Greg maneuvered the Jaguar into a parking spot on the street just down from Fidelio’s. It was just as well. David’s brakes had been compromised in the parking lot behind the restaurant, so I had no need to park back there.
“I assume Megan is another undercover cop,” he said as he cut the engine. “You said both businesses were involved in the money laundering?”
