Liver Let Die (8 page)

Ordinarily, she expected several phone conversations before going out with a guy. That way she could pick up on whether he was a racist, all about himself, or simply a wellclothed jerk. Something about Alex blew all her caution out the window. “I’d like that.”

She was rewarded with another dazzing display of perfect white teeth.

“What about tomorrow night? I could pick you up after work, and we could ride around while you show me the town before I buy you that dinner.”

Her face fell. “Can’t tomorrow. I’m on assignment.”

“Can we at least have dinner?”

She shook her head. “Dinner is the assignment. I’m doing another report on the food at Longhorn Prime Rib.”

As if a lightbulb had gone off in his head, Alex stared for a moment. “Jordan McAllister. I knew that sounded familiar. You wrote about the foie gras, didn’t you?”

“That would be me,” she admitted, wondering what side of the fence he was on about the issue.

“Good job, by the way. Do you eat there often?”

“Who can afford to?” She stopped herself before mentioning J. T. “I have to get back. You know how to find me.” She scooted under his arm while he held the door open. Something told her not to, but she couldn’t resist another quick glance before she headed for the office. He smiled back.

A block away, she paused. Was someone watching her? Turning to look in all directions and not seeing anything out of the ordinary, she passed it off as wishful thinking. The man was hot, and it wouldn’t be all that bad if he was watching.

That Rattlesnake Pasta had darn well better be worth my giving up dinner with Mr. Hot Bod.

As she neared the office, she chanced one final glance over her shoulder, and was disappointed when she didn’t see him. Just in case he was watching, she added a wiggle to her walk.

CHAPTER 6

Alex Montgomery settled back in his chair, hands behind his head, studying the image on his computer screen. He’d had a gut feeling the girl was somehow involved when he’d initially seen her at Longhorn Prime Rib. When his police scanner had first squawked the news of the murder at Empire Apartments, he’d hightailed it over and watched from down the street as the cops investigated. Having already checked out Jordan McAllister, he knew this was where she lived. Now all he needed to do was make the connection.

He’d driven by the apartment early the next day on a hunch and had seen Ray Varga hurrying from the building with something in his hands.

Since he’d checked out all Jordan’s friends, he knew Varga was a retired cop. Something about the way he’d acted made him forget about watching Jordan and he’d followed Varga instead. He’d been surprised at how easy it had been, thinking either the guy knew he was being followed—any ex-cop worth his salt could spot a tail—or the old man’s skills had seriously deteriorated with age.

Maybe he’d been so intent on hiding whatever it was in his hands he hadn’t paid attention. And what was important enough to take to a storage unit at ten in the morning?

Getting his hands on the video from the storage security cameras had been tricky, but he hoped it was worth the effort. He leaned in for a closer look, which clearly showed Ray looking over his shoulder before opening the unit. He’d been around long enough to recognize this as a red flag that something shady or illegal was about to happen.

A coincidence that Ray was hiding something only a few hours after a dead body had been found at his apartment building?

Alex thought not. Even if he believed in coincidences—which he didn’t—this one was too obvious.

He thought back to earlier today when he’d followed Jordan to the Mexican restaurant. Sitting across the room from her at the steak house, he’d had no idea her eyes were that green or that her hair sparkled like diamonds dancing across a calm lake on a moonlit night.

Not until he’d stood behind her and she’d turned to make fun of his pickup line. He’d almost gotten tonguetied himself watching her perfectly shaped lips forming the words meant to put him in his place.

Lavender. He’d never smell the flower again without thinking of the way the fragrance had drifted from her hair and tickled his nose even before she spoke to him.

Under different circumstances, Jordan McAllister was the kind of girl he gravitated toward. Not too skinny, and from the way she’d chowed down on the Mexican food, not the least bit concerned about being paper thin. Guessing she was athletic, he remembered her calves, the muscles perfectly honed.

For a second, an image of her five-eightish frame in stilettos took over his brain until he quickly wiped that visual away. The last thing he needed was to get distracted from the real reason he was in Ranchero.

Yes, the girl was definitely a runner, he decided. The only thing fighting that wholesome, girl-next-door persona was the mass of wild red hair that fell into her face when she laughed. Another picture, this time a wild animal complete with reddish coat and glow-in-the-dark eyes, flashed in his mind, and he wondered which Jordan McAllister she really was.

Secretly, he hoped for the animal.

Exhaling noisily, he enlarged the picture on his computer screen, but that only distorted it. Grabbing a magnifying lens from the desk drawer and moving it over the screen, he concentrated on what Ray Varga had in his hands. Was that a block of something?

Son of a . . .

The retired cop was carrying a knife rack, and it looked like at least one knife was missing. The police had questioned everyone at Empire Apartments, but they’d concentrated mainly on the girl since the dead guy was found with her name in his shirt pocket. This photo of Varga didn’t make sense unless he was the killer and was hiding evidence.

Alex moved the mouse and another image filled the screen. A picture of Jason Spencer sprawled on the tilecovered floor. Suddenly, it hit him like a two-ton brick building.

What if Ray Varga wasn’t hiding evidence for himself? As if someone had just sucker punched him in the stomach, Alex doubled over. What if he was hiding it for the girl?

Now he had his connection.

Jordan pulled around back at Longhorn Prime Rib, unwilling once again to fork out five bucks for the valet. From the looks of the parking lot, the place was rocking. Fortunately, her six-year-old Camry, a graduation gift from her parents, could squeeze into spots bigger cars dared not go.

By the time she reached the front door, she’d made a decision to use the valet the next time she came, no matter what the cost. The smile she flashed at the doorman faded when she saw the standing-room-only crowd. No surprise, she thought, noticing there were almost as many people waiting as were seated in the bustling room.

“Jordan McAllister,” she said, scanning the waiting area for an empty seat, anticipating at least an hour’s wait.

The maître d’ picked up a menu. “Your table’s ready, Ms. McAllister.”

Feeling the glare of every envious diner in the waiting area, Jordan was pleasantly surprised when he seated her at a table by the window with an awesome view of Lake Texoma. Even though the lake was several miles away, she could see the last bit of afternoon offering a stunning display of shimmering light across the calm water as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Apparently, her status had risen in the world, or more likely, the owner was pulling out all stops to get a better review this time.

“Will you have a cocktail or a glass of wine before dinner?”

“I’ll have a glass of that excellent Viognier you recommended the last time, please.”

In record time a young man appeared with the wine. “I’m Kenneth. I’ll be your waiter tonight.” Jordan recognized him from her last visit. He’d been laughing with J. T. by the bar. Assuming they were friends, maybe he could answer some questions.

Shooting a quick look around the restaurant, she wondered who all these people were. They didn’t look like Ranchero’s down-to-earth residents, who were too thrifty to spend their hard-earned cash on an overpriced meal. One lady two tables over was even wearing a sweater with what looked like a mink collar. Unless it was fake, she was definitely not a local.

Jordan moved on with her scan, locking eyes with a man sitting alone several tables over.

Ducky! She recognized him as the guy who always ordered foie gras, the one who had been rude to the bartender. She wondered if he’d read her review in Saturday’s paper. Probably not, or he wouldn’t be smiling at her right now.

She nodded then quickly looked away. Something about him creeped her out.

“Mr. Mason said I’m to treat you like a VIP,” Kenneth said. “Can I bring you an appetizer to start?”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, Kenneth, but VIP has never been one of them,” Jordan said with a laugh. What was it about this place? This guy was almost as hot as J. T. Was Longhorn Prime Rib Ranchero’s version of a Hooters for women?

She caught a whiff of his musky cologne. “Did Mr. Mason mention the chef is preparing a special chicken dish for me?”

“Rattlesnake Pasta,” Kenneth replied. “I’m anxious to taste that myself.”

“It’s not really rattlesnake, right?” Jordan asked, needing reassurance her editor wasn’t pulling a fast one on her.

A smile turned up the waiter’s lips. “It could be,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “But that would add another twenty bucks to the price.” When her face dropped, he added, “Don’t worry. It’s actually spicy Cajun chicken.”

Jordan let out an audible sigh of relief. “Okay, then I’m ready when you are. And Kenneth, would you bring a Strawberry-Mandarin Salad, too?”

“Good choice.”

He left her briefly, returning with the salad and a basket of bread minutes later. Jordan reached for a slice as soon as he was gone, remembering how good it was. All she’d had for lunch was an order of fries, purposely saving her appetite for the free dinner.

Her skin crawled as if all eyes were on her. There was nothing more conspicuous than a woman dining alone, she thought. She decided to concentrate on the people around her while slowly munching the slice of bread. Why did women hate eating alone at a restaurant when men obviously didn’t have a problem with it? There were at least four tables with single men, none of whom looked the least bit uncomfortable. Her eyes connected again with Ducky’s, and again she quickly looked away.

“Here it is,” Kenneth said, setting the steaming dish in front of her. “I have to admit the chef fixed a small plate for me in the kitchen. I only had time to grab a quick bite, but enough to know it’s delicious.”

“I hope so, Kenneth. Thanks.”

Picking up her fork, Jordan moved the food around on her plate. It looked yummy enough, and she was starving. She put a piece of the meat in her mouth, chewing cautiously. It definitely tasted like chicken, but she’d never tasted rattlesnake. It didn’t help that weird delicacies were often described with the cliché “tastes just like chicken.”

She never really got that. If it tasted like chicken, why not just eat chicken and let the frogs keep their legs?

She poked at the lightly coated vegetables before trying them. Still crisp, they complemented the bite-sized pieces of chicken that nearly melted in her mouth, and before long, two-thirds of the entrée was gone.

“What do you think?” Kenneth asked, setting another glass of wine on the table. “Compliments of Mr. Mason,” he explained when Jordan gave him a questioning look.

She thought everything was compliments of Mr. Mason, but she was too embarrassed to ask. It could get ugly if Kenneth handed her a huge bill. Why hadn’t she verified that before she inhaled the pasta dish?

“Thanks. Give the chef my compliments. This meal was definitely four stars.”

“Did you leave room for dessert?”

At the thought of the Chocolate Decadence Cake, Jordan’s mouth began to water. Embarrassing or not, she had to know if she’d have to give up eating until next week to pay for all this abundance. “Were you told I’m writing a review on this meal, Kenneth?” When he nodded, she continued, “And were you also told this meal is gratis?”

He laughed out loud. “No worries. You’re a VIP, remember? Mr. Mason said I’m not even allowed to accept a tip from you.”

She’d have liked to think she had enough integrity not to be swayed by the owner’s obvious attempt to guarantee a good review, but she wouldn’t bet her life on it. She could get used to fancy food that tasted like this and the special treatment that went with it in a hurry.

“In that case, I’ll have a piece of the Chocolate Decadence Cake, please. And Kenneth . . .” She lowered her voice, deciding to skip the rest of the small talk and jump right in. “Did you know J. T. was coming to see me after work the night he was killed?”

After a quick glance over both shoulders, the waiter leaned closer and lowered his voice. “J. T. and I weren’t good friends. I wasn’t aware you had a relationship with him.”

“I didn’t really,” Jordan said. “But he was killed in my apartment building. I’m trying to figure out what he wanted to talk to me about so late.”

Kenneth shuffled his feet, stealing another glance toward the kitchen. “I don’t know, but he was upset before he left. He’d received several phone calls and even went out in the back alley once to talk when the boss shot him one of his looks.”