Liver Let Die (17 page)

Hating that it was the only plausible explanation, Jordan nodded. “Who else?”

“I don’t know, but for now, Jordan, I’d keep my distance from him.” Quincy patted her shoulder.

Shrugging out of his reach, she tried to return his smile but only managed a smirk. Knowing she should be thanking him for protecting her, she tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling she got when he was around.

Jerking her body toward the door when there was a sudden knock, Jordan quickly turned back and made eye contact with Quincy. In that split second the man became her guardian angel when he pushed past her and walked to the door. She moved up behind him, hoping it wasn’t the police back for another go-round about the knife.

She was surprised to see Roger Mason standing in the hallway when Quincy opened the door. She couldn’t help but notice the look that passed between the two men. At the potluck dinner last week Quincy had said he didn’t know Mason personally, but that look said otherwise. She wondered if the Longhorn Prime Rib owner had an appetite for gambling.

“Miss McAllister,” Mason started. “May I come in and talk with you for a minute?”

Jordan hesitated, wondering why he was here. The last critique she’d written of his restaurant had been a good one. She’d raved about the Rattlesnake Pasta and the phenomenal service she’d received.

“Call me Jordan,” she said, swooping her hand in a come-on-in gesture. “Sorry, my couch is not in the best of condition.” She motioned to the duct-taped cushions.

The man had the good grace not to flinch when he glanced that way. Instead, he moved closer to her, checking his watch. “I only have a few minutes. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

Suddenly, Jordan remembered her manners. “Mr. Mason, do you know Quincy Dozerly? He’s my lawyer.” She had almost bitten her tongue to keep from saying it.

Mason shook hands with Dozerly before turning back to Jordan. For an instant, she was mesmerized by the restaurant owner’s dark, smoky eyes and the faint whiff of a citrus aftershave.

“Call me Roger, Quincy.”

“I’ll leave you two alone to discuss whatever it is Roger came by to talk about,” Dozerly said, again making direct eye contact with the man. Something about the way the lawyer said his first name indicated they knew each other better than they pretended. “Jordan, don’t answer any questions without me if the police come back.” He opened the door with a final glance at the newcomer.

Then he was gone, leaving her with Roger and with a more then nervous feeling about being alone with the welldressed man, who even now had on a navy blue suit and tie in the middle of the afternoon. For once, she wished Dozerly had stuck around a little longer.

“What do you want to talk to me about?”

Mason took a minute to scan her apartment, probably thinking it was a closet compared to his own. “I think it’s time we talked about your first visit to the restaurant.”

Jordan gave him a confused look. “My first visit?”

“I know about the foie gras that ended up in your purse.”

She gasped, realizing J. T. must have sold her out. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I thought I was ordering chicken.”

His eyes seemed to bore a hole into her before he spoke once again. “Did you and J. T. have a thing going on?”

Again she inhaled noisily. “Why in the world would you ask that? I only met him that night, not that it’s any of your business.” She knew her green eyes must be tipping him off to her anger. Where did he get off coming into her house and asking personal questions?

He stared for a full minute before a smile tipped the corners of his lips. “So you only met him that night?”

“Yes.” She walked to the door. “I think it might be a good idea if you left. I’ve just had a grueling interrogation by the police. I don’t need another one.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, his voice hinting he wasn’t just blowing smoke. “I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot with you. Actually, I came over to ask you something, and before I get your answer, I had to know if anything was going on between you and my waiter.”

“There wasn’t,” she reassured him. “Look, Mr. Mason, I’m exhausted. I would appreciate it if you’d ask me whatever it is you came for, then go.”

“Roger,” he reminded her.

“Okay, Roger, can you get to the point?”

He scanned her apartment once again before his eyes settled back on hers. “Looks like you could use some new furniture around here,” he said. “Money a bit tight?”

She sighed, exasperated. How many different ways could she tell this man he was out of line and no longer welcome in her apartment?

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He picked at an imaginary speck on his sleeve with a perfectly manicured finger before glancing back up. “You did a great job on the article about the restaurant in this week’s
Globe
. I like your style, Jordan, very much.”

“Thank you.” She inched closer to the door. “Is that what you came by to tell me?”

For the first time, a smile covered his entire face, and he shook his head. “I came by to offer you a job.”

CHAPTER 13

“A job?” Jordan repeated. “What could I possibly do for you?”

Mason pointed to the small kitchen table. “Do you mind if we sit and discuss this?”

Shaking her head, she led him to the table. When they were both seated, Mason reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“I pay an advertising firm in Dallas to write ads for my restaurant.” He shoved the paper toward her. “Nothing fancy, just basic ad copy.”

Jordan skimmed the papers before shrugging. “Looks like they do a good job.”

“They do,” he agreed. “But after reading your exposé about the ducks, which by the way, I’m still investigating, and your second critique of the restaurant, I had this brilliant idea. Think how much better it would be if I had the ad copy done closer to home.” He paused, studying her face. “Who better to write it than the one person who seems to have created a fan base overnight? Rumor has it the newspaper’s circulation has nearly doubled since you took over the Kitchen Kupboard.”

“Doubled is a gross exaggeration, Mr. M—Roger,” Jordan said, secretly wishing it was true.

“Nonetheless, you can’t argue with your increased popularity since you started writing the column.”

“I’m really not interested in changing jobs,” Jordan blurted, fighting to hold back a yawn. She’d been up since the yappy dog next door had decided to serenade the world at five in the morning. She’d hoped to catch a power nap before
Castle
came on at eight.

“No one’s asking you to. You could write the copy from your apartment and e-mail it to me once a week. You’d earn enough money to lighten your financial responsibilities.”

Jordan’s first instinct was to chastise him for butting into her business, but then she reconsidered his offer. A little extra money would be a welcome addition to her bankroll or lack thereof. Plus, it would give her something to occupy her free time and keep her mind off other problems, mainly J. T.’s murder and more recently, the phone call from Brett.

But could she work for a man who imported foie gras knowing the history behind it?

“Do you still serve foie gras at Longhorn?”

She watched his eyes harden.

“There’s no way I could do that after your report, Jordan. I’ve taken it off the menu temporarily until we can verify your story with our supplier in Canada.”

Score one for the good guys!

“I’ll have to think about this, Roger. I’d need to talk to my editor.”

“Why would he discourage you from making extra money doing a few hours of work in your spare time? You won’t be reviewing my restaurant again now that we’ve been open for a few weeks.” Mason stood and walked out of the kitchen, turning a complete circle to take in the entire living room.

Jordan followed, letting her eyes stray in the same path as his.

Why is he so interested in my walls?
An uncomfortable feeling swirled in her stomach.

She walked to the door and opened it. “I’ve had a hard day, Roger. Give me some time to mull this over, and I’ll get back with you in a few days.”

He stared for a few seconds as if trying to figure out why she wasn’t all over his offer. “Don’t take too long, Jordan.” He walked past her out the door. “I’d hate to see you get hurt because you waited too long to come to me,” he added over his shoulder as he walked down the hall toward the front of the building.

With the door closed behind her, Jordan leaned into it and blew out a breath.

He’d hate to see her get hurt? That sounded more like a thinly veiled threat than a business offer.

She shook her head, scolding herself for being so paranoid. It must be all those cop shows she watched. Settling in front of the TV, she turned the channel and smiled when Castle’s adorable face covered the screen.

A writer solving murders. Now, that was a novel idea.

Alex finished off the taco and threw the wrapper on the passenger’s-side floorboard. Picking up his binoculars, he scanned the front entrance of Empire Apartments. Ever since Dumb and Dumber, the names he’d chosen for the two local cops, had entered the building, his mind had been in overdrive wondering why.

He’d stopped at Mi Quesadilla on his way home, hoping to catch a quick bite before curling up in front of the television. After an earlier phone call to his boss admitting he’d made no progress so far, all he wanted to do was chill. He’d agreed to step up the game if only to appease his boss.

When he saw the police cars racing down Main Street toward Empire Apartments, he’d followed, parking far enough away to observe what was going on without being made. Usually cops charging into a building with a piece of paper in their hands meant a warrant. He didn’t know if Jordan’s apartment was the one being searched, but after the weird incident with the knife he’d found behind her toaster the other day, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if it was.

He remembered the way her facial expression had turned to panic when he’d questioned her about the knife rack. Things would go south in a hurry if the cops found out Ray had hidden it. The last thing he needed was having Jordan hauled off to jail before he could find out how involved she really was in all this.

A maroon Cadillac Seville caught his attention when it pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment. Slumping forward for a better look, he saw a man run from the car and head up the steps. Though he didn’t get a good look, Alex was pretty sure it was the lawyer he’d met at the bar Friday night. Instinct told him this wasn’t a social visit. Someone inside needed his services.

He hoped it wasn’t Jordan.

Settling back in the seat, anticipating a long wait, Alex thought of ways he could up the pace on all this. With nothing solid to give him, he knew his boss wouldn’t wait patiently much longer.

After the police left, he decided to hang around and see if Dozerly left, too. That would tell him if the lawyer was there for business or pleasure, remembering the way his hands were all over Rosie at the bar. He straightened up and focused the binoculars on a black Audi A8 that pulled in behind the Caddy. The curb outside the apartment was getting crowded in a hurry.

Holy crap!
he mouthed, recognizing Roger Mason walking up to the brownstone.

What is he doing here in a hundred-grand car like that?

His sudden move closer to the windshield had his stomach rumbling, and he wished he hadn’t inhaled that last taco. Relief would have to wait until he got home and could take some antacids because things had suddenly gotten very interesting here. His mind raced, considering all the possible explanations why the owner of Longhorn Prime Rib would pay a visit to Jordan only minutes after the police had served a warrant.

That’s if Mason was actually here to see her and if it really was her apartment the police had searched.

Whatever it was, something was definitely going down.

His hope that Jordan wasn’t involved was fading as fast as his initial impression that she was your average girl next door. There was nothing average about her. He’d have to find some way to break her shell to pick out the information he needed. There was no doubt he would eventually, no matter what he had to do, but time was getting critical.

He trained his binoculars on the window to the left side of the main entrance, knowing that was her apartment. Wishing he were a fly on her wall, he sighed, resigning himself to the fact he’d have to wait for the police report to satisfy his curiosity.

By Thursday, Jordan was getting desperate. She had to come up with a good recipe for Tuesday’s edition. After scanning the Internet, she decided to try a taco bake. How hard could that be? You fry up ground beef, throw in a little RO*TEL and veggies, and voilà!

Then she remembered her last attempt at cooking. She’d tried a simple grilled cheese sandwich, a staple from her childhood. After calling her mother to get the recipe, she’d hopped in her car and rushed to the grocery store for the ingredients.