Fifty Grand by Adrian McKinty Read Free Book Online Page B

Vieja, with spillover from Hemingway groupies at the Ambos. All the trendy people and the youngsters are farther up O’Reilly, but this is an older crowd who appreciate a good cocktail and slightly out-of-date cuisine. Almost all tourists.
    “Ok, Hector, I’m going to go for it. I’ll leave this on. If it looks like things are going bad I expect you and Sancho Panza to come charging in,” I say, and before they can give me further instructions or Díaz asks if that was a crack about his weight I remove the earpiece and push the phone away from me.
    It’s transmitting and they’re recording, so if he says anything incriminating we should have it on tape. Our boy’s pretty close to me now anyway, fussing over two foreign ladies and pushing the priciest wine on the menu. When he’s done I catch his eye.
    He shimmers across and stands next to me.
    “Yes, madam?” he says in English.
    I’m dressed like a foreigner. A white blouse, a tartan skirt, half pumps, a faux pearl necklace. I’ve even put on lipstick and eye shadow and my short hair is styled with bangs. I’m supposed to look like a Canadian businesswoman, but as soon as he speaks I realize I’m not going to play that game: teasing information out of him, flirting with him, pretending to be drunk . . . Now it all seems so tacky and pointless.
    “Yes, madam?” he says again.
    Young. Twenty-four, it said on his employment application, but I think he’s a few years younger than that. Thin, handsome, probably using this gig to make connections for the bigger and better.
    “Can I get you another mojito,
bella señorita
?” he asks and flashes a charming smile.
    “You’re the head waiter?” I ask him.
    “Well, for tonight.”
    “I’m only asking because I saw you bussing tables earlier.”
    He smiles. “When it’s like this we all have to pitch in.”
    “Take a seat,” I say.
    He smiles again. “I’m afraid that’s not permitted and even if it were, on a night like this, with the place packed to the rafters, it would simply—”
    I take out my PNR police ID and place it discreetly on the table. He looks at it, looks at me, and sits. No “What is this?” or “Are you for real?” or a glib joke about the health inspectors finally coming for the cook. No, he just sits, heavily, like his legs have given way. If my thoughts were miked up I’d be saying to Hector, “Man, take a look at his face.” His whole expression had changed as instantaneously as if he’d just been shoulder tapped in improv class. Poker’s not his game, that’s for sure.
    “Please, Detective, uhm, Mercado, uhm, can you tell me what this is about? Will this take long? I’m very busy. I have a job to do,” he whispers.
    “I’ve come to ask you about the murder of María Angela Domingo,” I tell him.
    “Never heard of her.”
    “No?”
    “No.”
    “That was the name they gave her in the morgue. Domingo, because it was a Sunday when the body was found.”
    He frowns. His foot begins to tap. There’s even sweat beading on his upper lip. Christ, what’s the matter with you? You wanna get life in prison, Felipe? Calm down. At least make it look like I’m working you a little.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, finally.
    “Don’t you?”
    “No. I don’t. And I don’t appreciate this. Who put you up to this? I suppose you’re looking to get a few drinks or something. Well, have your drink and leave. We have good relations with the police.” He gets to his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
    “Sit where you are.”
    He doesn’t move.
    “I said sit!”
    He almost jumps and then he doesn’t so much sit as collapse. Better be getting this on video, Díaz, we could use some of this stuff with the judge advocate.
    “It will only be a matter of time before we match the baby’s DNA to the DNA of your girlfriend and, of course, you,” I tell him.
    His mind is racing. He takes a drink of water.
    “Do you know the law?” I ask