Rached hummed encouragingly, and I said, “He wants to have dinner tomorrow.”
“That’s nice,” Rachel said.
“I suppose. Although I don’t know. Maybe I should prioritize Nick Costanza, now that we have a paying client?”
“You can’t watch him twenty-four/seven,” Rachel said, “especially now that he’s made you. And you do need to eat.”
I did. But?—
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Jaime?” Rachel asked, apropos of nothing at all.
I tried to tell myself that she hadn’t meant anything by it, and shook my head. “Not since the Newsome case.”
Her eyebrows arched. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“That was weeks ago.”
“He doesn’t owe any of us to show up regularly,” I said. “Especially given how he feels about PIs.”
She didn’t answer, and I added, “The only reason I saw him more frequently back then, was because Harold died. Nobody’s dead now.”
“I’m sure somebody’s dead. He’s probably just working.”
He might be. In fact, he probably was. Nashville’s a big city, and there’s usually plenty for a homicide detective to do. And besides, I tended to mess up Mendoza’s life when I got involved in it, or rather, when he got involved in one of my cases. They had a tendency to devolve into something that had nothing to do with homicide. Like the financial crime that was the motive for David’s murder and the human trafficking that Steven Morton’s daughter had gotten caught up in.
But this was the longest stretch I had gone without seeing Mendoza since David died. In spite of what I sometimes was pretty sure was flirtation on his part, I couldn’t talk myself into believing he was actually interested in me when he managed to stay away from me for weeks at a time. I probably hadn’t even crossed his mind since the last time he’d seen me.
Greg, on the other hand, was interested. He’d made that obvious. And he was a perfectly acceptable option. Better than acceptable, actually. Everything I should want in a man.
I looked down at my phone and typed out a reply.
Dinner sounds great. Where and when?
The response came back almost immediately.
Fidelio’s? 6 PM?
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Fidelio’s again.
Perfect, I typed, and hit send before I could change my mind.
“Done,” I said to Rachel. “We’re having dinner at Fidelio’s tomorrow.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Fidelio’s?”
“Apparently it’s Nashville’s go-to spot for irony. Who am I to decline?”
“Well.” She smiled at me, warm and encouraging. “I hope you have a good time.”
“So do I.” I set my phone down, only to pick it up again when it rang. “This is Gina.”
“It’s me,” Zachary said.
“Yes, I know. What’s happening?”
“Nothing. I’m in position. I can see the whole shop from here. Nick’s working on a Subaru. Megan’s in the office. No one’s doing anything interesting.”
