“Sure,” Dave said.
Since my brother appeared to be in a cooperative mood, I added, “Let’s not assume anything. Can you find out if Carla has the time of death and/or found the murder weapon yet?”
Dave shook his head. “Carla hears I’m helping you and her next call is to Internal Affairs.”
“I still know some people in the Field Investigation Unit and in the coroner’s office,” Dad said. “I’ll ask around.”
“One more thing, and I guess this one’s on me,” I said. “I promised Oliver I would get him the name of Jarret’s lawyer.”
“I’ll get the lawyer’s name.” Mom narrowed her eyes. “Jarret can’t avoid me forever. I want to see if that lying, cheating dog is man enough to talk to me.”
I set my napkin on my plate, my heart swelling with parental love. “What do you say? Shall we adjourn to the Sportsmen’s Lodge for a nightcap?”
Mom sprung out of her chair. “I need a minute to freshen up.”
Dad blasted a two-finger whistle as Robin, Nick, Dave, and I stood. “Sit down. We are not going to the Sportsmen’s Lodge together. When I’m ready, I’ll go alone.”
“There’s no time, Dad. The longer we wait, the more details the bartender will forget. We’ll act like we don’t know you and watch from the side. I want to see his reaction.” Before he argued, I gave him my sweetest grin. “I want to see you at work.”
Robin snuggled under Dave’s arm. “We’ll stay here to help Viv with the dishes.”
I did a double take at Dave’s agreeable nod. Prior to dating Robin, my brother’s idea of doing the dishes was throwing his empty pizza box into the trash. What next? Sushi? Foreign movies?
Chapter Sixteen
Nick parked under the palm trees near the small, stone waterfall in the lot outside the Sportsmen’s Lodge. The bell captain opened the door. Nick and I filed down the tiled steps into the hotel, turning right toward the mahogany bar in the lounge at the west end of the lobby. A lone couple sipped cocktails at a table in the corner. Nick pulled out a stool near the end of the bar. I slid onto the seat beside him.
The barrel-shaped bartender, late sixties with a white handlebar mustache and a red bulbous nose, strolled toward us from the cash register. He winked at me then smiled. “What can I get for you folks tonight?”
“Two dry martinis, shaken to waltz time,” Nick said.
I turned, confused. “Waltz time?”
“Nick Charles, The Thin Man, 1934. The bartender knows.”
“Sure do, bud.” He looked at me and said, “Switching poison, eh?”
The bartender turned around and pulled bottles of gin and vermouth off the shelf. He set two martini glasses and poured the alcohol into a shaker. He shook slowly, gently—waltz time.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a martini.” I took a sip from the stemmed glass he set in front of me, then winced. Maybe I couldn’t remember when, but I remembered why I didn’t drink martinis. Blech.
Nick glanced over his shoulder then whispered, “Walter just came in. Here we go.”
Dad crossed the lobby and sauntered into the lounge. He stopped four stools away from us and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Hey, Nozzle, what does a guy have to do to get a drink in this dive?”
The bartender broke into a wide smile. “Walter Gordon, you old gumshoe. I thought you were dead. Where the hell have you been?”
“On the golf course, lowering my handicap. How’ve you been?”
“You know, keeping busy. Tending bar keeps me off the streets and out of jail. What can I get you tonight? Your regular?”
“Sure,” Dad said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “With a bowl of those stale peanuts and some information.”
Nozzle poured out a shot of whiskey and set it on the bar. “Information, eh? I thought you were retired.”
“I am. I’m doing some work on the side, for a pal.” Dad downed his drink and slid the shot glass across the bar. He reached into his sport coat, took out his phone, and showed Nozzle the screen. “Have you seen this woman?”
“Sure. She’s sitting at the end of the bar.”
Dad casually glanced at me, then said, “You’re slipping, Noz. That’s not her. Study the photo with your glasses on.”
Nozzle pulled specs from his pocket, took another look at the photo, gawked brazenly at me and then at the photo again. “Huh. You’re right. The one down the bar is missing the—” He curved his hands out in front of his chest.
I cupped my fingers over my face.
“They’re perfect,” Nick whispered in my ear. “Pay attention.”
“The girl in the photo has a Southern drawl, sweet as honey,” Nozzle said. “She checked in late Monday and came back down here dressed like a call girl. Skirt up to here.” He sliced his fingers across the top of his thigh. “A guy showed up for her around ten. They left together.”
“What did the man look like?” Dad said.