“So did you suspect Rick Button right from the get-go?” she asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.
I was groping for a passable answer when Cheryl came to my rescue. “I hate to be a hard-ass, guys, but Zach and I have a strict rule. No cell phones and no cop talk at the dinner table.” She turned to C.J. “You, on the other hand, are encouraged to talk shop. I am totally fascinated with the psychology of being a professional gambler. When did you first know that’s what you wanted to do?”
C.J. answered the question, but Kylie got Cheryl’s message. My boyfriend suspected your boyfriend. Get over it. Case closed.
After that, the evening turned out to be a lot of fun. Paola fed us well, and Stefano treated us like rock stars. The biggest shocker of the night came just as we were about to order dessert.
Danny Corcoran and Tommy Fischer walked through the front door. I’d told them where I was having dinner, but I hadn’t expected them to hunt me down. Stefano pointed to our table, and the two of them headed straight for us.
“Sorry to bust in on you,” Danny said. “I know you guys are off the clock, but there’s something we need to tell you before you hear it on the news.”
“We tried calling,” Tommy said, “but it just kept going to voice mail.”
Cheryl’s rules of dinner etiquette claim another two victims.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Princeton Wells is dead.”
“Blown up?” Kylie said.
“Carved up,” Danny said. “Haitian style. And in case we couldn’t figure out who was behind it, his body was wrapped in a Zoe Pound flag and left in a vacant lot about three blocks from their headquarters.”
“Do they want us on the scene?”
“Not now. The Six Seven is all over it,” Tommy Fischer said. “Wells being who he is, it may float up to Red eventually, but we all know it was Malique La Grande. Proving it is a whole nother kettle of creole.”
“We may never be able to prove who killed Princeton Wells,” I said, “but we sure as hell know who didn’t kill him.”
“Geraldo Segura,” Kylie said.
“Incredible,” I said. “After all that, he didn’t kill Wells.”
“Why not?” C.J. said. “I thought he had a major vendetta.”
“He did,” Kylie said. “But when you blow someone up with a bomb, they’re dead in an instant. After twenty years in a Thai prison, I think Segura wanted Wells to die a long, slow, agonizing death. And nobody does it better than the Haitians.”
“Excuse me,” Cheryl said, “but I think it’s time we got back to the no-cop-talk-at-dinner rule. Danny, we were just about to order dessert and coffee. Would you and Tommy like to join us?”
“Life must go on, Doc,” Danny said, signaling a busboy to bring two more chairs. “And dessert is a great place to start. Let me take a look at that menu.”
And then it hit me. With Wells dead, there was no reason for Segura to stay in New York. Or in the U.S., for that matter. In fact, since he farmed out the killing, he probably left the country while Wells was still alive.
I’d have liked to share my brilliant insight with my fellow detectives, but Cheryl runs a tight dinner table. No cop talk means no cop talk.
So I lifted my wineglass and drank a silent toast to Geraldo Segura, the one who got away.