by Ali Brandon
Darla held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. He was photographing all the people going into the porn shop and then blackmailing them?”
“Good try, but you’re not thinking like a true bottom-feeder. Turns out Benedetto had modified one of the video booths in the porn shop with a couple of strategic holes in the wall. That way, he could be in there pretending to watch movies, but the whole time he was secretly using his own video camera to record the action that went on in the room next to his.”
“That’s disgusting!”
Reese grinned. “Hey, it gets better. He owned one of those members-only porn websites. He was posting his home movies there and making a nice chunk of change doing it. Ferguson found out and was pretty ticked . . . but not because of any violations of privacy for his customers. He thought that since it was his place, he should be getting a cut of the action.”
“Ugh, bottom-feeder is right,” Darla said with a disgusted snort. “I’m seriously considering running background checks on all my customers after this. So what about Barry and Curt’s brownstone? What happens to it now?”
“That’ll be up to the courts . . . and by the time they figure it out, chances are the city will have already condemned the place and razed it.”
“I hope so,” was Darla’s fervent reply. Knowing that the place where two people had died—the same place from which she had barely escaped with her life—might one day be someone’s home or place of business was a chilling thought, indeed.
“And what about the scrap thieves?” she wanted to know. “It’s good to know they’re not the ones out there murdering people, but it would be nice to know that it’s safe to leave my nice metal fixtures where they are outside.”
“As a matter of fact, we haven’t had any more theft complaints since we arrested Mr. Eisen,” Reese said with a shrug. “It might be pure coincidence; maybe the gang found another neighborhood with better pickings and moved on. Or maybe that whole stolen scrap metal thing was another little side business that Eisen and his building inspector buddy had going. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I find out anything on that.”
With the subject of murders and scrap thieves exhausted for the moment, an awkward silence fell between them. She abruptly found herself wishing for a customer to conveniently drop in and dispel the mood. When that didn’t happen, she began, “So—”
“So—” Reese said at the same time and then broke off at the same moment that she did.
Darla smiled. “Let’s try again. You first.”
“I was going to say, so, that’s all I have,” Reese told her with a shrug. “You?”
“Pretty much the same.”
The awkward silence fell again. Then Reese said, “Actually, there is just one more thing.”
“Isn’t that what Columbo used to say?” she asked with a small smile. Then, at his questioning look—surely he wasn’t so young that he’d never heard of the quirky television detective before—she shook her head and added, “Never mind. What’s the one more thing?”
“I thought”—he paused for a breath—“well, since I kind of barged in on your dinner the other night at your apartment, I thought I could take you out after work, if you were up to it.”
“You mean, like a couple of friends going out?” she carefully asked.
He gave a quick nod. “Sure . . . I mean, like you said . . . a couple of friends.”
“That would be fun. But not Greek food, if you don’t mind,” she hurried to clarify.
He looked perplexed but agreed. “No Greek. I was thinking we stick with good old Italian, if that’s okay by you.”
“It’s okay by me. Shall we say seven-ish?”
“It’s a date! Well, it is, but it’s technically not . . . oh hell, you know what I mean,” he answered and beat a hasty exit to the door. “See you later, Red . . . I mean, Darla.”
“Red’s okay,” she heard herself saying, but by then the bells on the door were already jingling behind him.
She smiled a little and then glanced over at Hamlet, who had slept through the entire exchange—or, at least, had pretended to. She saw that both green eyes were open now and watching her. Her smile broadened, and she reached over to scratch him under the chin.
“What do you think, Hammy? He says it’s not a date. Should I believe him?” Then, when Hamlet made no reply, she persisted, “How about this? Blink once for yes, and twice for no.”
She didn’t really expect an answer to that one, either. And so she was surprised when the cat slowly blinked once.
Yes, believe him, it’s not a date.
And then a second time.
No, it is a date!
And then a third time?
Darla frowned. “Three blinks? What the heck is that supposed to mean? The only choices are yes, no . . . or,” her smile returned, “aha, your vote is a maybe. Well, so is mine.”
Then she noticed Mary Ann’s casserole dish, which she’d forgotten was still sitting on the counter near the register.
“Green bean casserole, not exactly my favorite,” she admitted. “Guess you were right on the money with this one, too. But I don’t want to hurt Mary Ann’s feelings.” Then, remembering Robert’s reaction to it, she went on, “However, I think this dish would make a nice little welcome-to-the-new-apartment meal for Robert tonight. What do you say?”
Hamlet stared back at her with unblinking emerald eyes for a long moment.
And then he winked.
* * *
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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ali Brandon
DOUBLE BOOKED FOR DEATH
A NOVEL WAY TO DIE