“That’s what Mendoza told me. And yes, almost certainly. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.” If there was someone undercover at Sambuca, there would be someone undercover at the Body Shop, too, and she was the obvious suspect.
“Any idea how this all came to be?”
I did, as a matter of fact. “It seems Nick got in trouble with the mob and was forced to let them use the Body Shop in exchange. I assume either he or Sal involved the cops. As for Sambuca, I have no idea.”
The undercover operation could have started there, or it could have started at the Body Shop. If I could tail Gio Abruzzi from the Body Shop to Sambuca, anyone else could, as well.
“And now Nick’s dead.” Greg’s expression was thoughtful. “Was it the mob tying up loose ends, or was it Jacquie acting out of jealousy and rage?”
“Could have been either. Or neither.”
He glanced at me. “What does Detective Mendoza think?”
I hesitated. “Not sure he’d tell me what he really thinks, but he gave me the idea that he thought it might be Jacquie. That she made it look like a mob hit to deflect suspicion.”
Greg nodded. “What do you think?”
I thought about Jacquie’s tears, the way her face had crumpled when she heard the news. “I think if she did it, she’s a better actress than I gave her credit for. But I also think it’s possible that she’s capable of it. She’s not as fragile as she looks.”
“The ones who look fragile never are,” Greg observed. He opened his door and came around to open mine. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you. We can talk more at the table.” He took my hand as we walked down the street.
I nodded, and tried not to feel like I was walking to my doom.
Chapter Thirteen
Fidelio’s was bustling when we walked in, filled with the usual Sunday dinner crowd. The maître d’ greeted us warmly—Greg seemed to be known everywhere—and led us to a table near the back. Cozy and secluded, the romantic part of the restaurant.
He held out my chair. I was just settling onto it when I happened to notice the young couple on the other side of the dining room. A blond head and a dark close together over a shared dessert. As I watched, the man forked up a piece of cake and extended it across the table to where the woman parted surgically enhanced lips and took it off his fork.
I felt acid rise in my chest.
“Gina?” Greg’s voice came from very far away, and was somehow both wary and concerned. “What’s wrong?”
He followed my eyes across the room, and his expression changed. “Someone you know?”
“You could say that,” I said, and my voice was froggy. “That’s my stepson having dinner with his dead father’s mistress.”
Greg’s eyes widened. “That’s your stepson? And Jacquie?”
I nodded. But before I could say anything, Kenny must have felt our eyes on him because he looked up, and his gaze locked with mine. I watched his expression shift from relaxed to wary, and then he said something to Jacquie. She turned, too, following his gaze, and when she saw me, her face went pale.
“Well,” Greg said. “That’s awkward.”
That was putting it mildly.
I forced myself to look away, to focus on the menu the waiter had placed in front of me.
Not that I could read it. The words blurred together, meaningless. Good thing I’d been here enough times before to know what was available.
But even as my vision fogged and my stomach twisted, my brain was still trying to make sense of what I had seen. Kenny and Jacquie together? Here, of all places? And less than forty-eight hours after Nick had died?
No, I had to have made a mistake. There was no way I could have seen what I thought I’d seen.
I slanted another look their way, and saw that they now had their heads close together and were whispering agitatedly.
No, there was no mistake. That was my stepson Kenny and my current—former?—client. The one whose boyfriend had been shot two nights ago.
“Do you want to leave?” Greg asked softly.
