Ring In the Dead by J. A. Jance Read Free Book Online Page A

like about other ­people inside the organization, but outsiders aren’t allowed the same privilege. I wasn’t about to badmouth Lieutenant Tatum or what he was doing.
    â€œInternal Affairs is handling the investigation,” I said evenly.
    â€œYes, I know, and you can take it from me that Lieutenant Gary Tatum is an arrogant asshole,” Bob Murray responded. “He came in here for a steak once and sent it back to the kitchen because he said it was too tough to eat. I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
    That made me laugh outright. The Doghouse menu says right there in black and white that the tenderness of steaks can’t be guaranteed.
    â€œSo he thought you were what, the Canlis?” I asked.
    â€œDo you want to be cute or do you want me to talk to you?” Bob growled.
    â€œTalk to me,” I said. “What have you got?”
    â€œI was talking to my produce guy the other day,” he told me. “He says the same thing that happened to Lulu has been happening to a lot of ­people in different restaurants all over town. Two guys come in, order, eat, and then do the old dine-­and-­dash bit. One minute they’re there. The next minute they’re gone without a trace and their bill is still on the table. Nobody ever sees ’em drive off in a vehicle. They just disappear into thin air.”
    â€œA tall guy and a short guy?” I asked.
    â€œFrom what he told me, the tall guy is always there—­the one with the light-­colored hair. The problem is, he doesn’t always seem to hang out with the same guy.”
    â€œSo the second guy varies?”
    â€œThat’s my understanding,” Bob said.
    â€œHas the produce guy talked to Lieutenant Tatum?”
    â€œNot to my knowledge,” Murray said. “Listen, this is my produce guy. I’m the one he talks to.”
    â€œAnd these other dine-­and-­dash incidents,” I said. “Has anyone ever reported it?”
    â€œProbably not. Guys like me don’t want to get involved in all that police report crap, and we don’t want the names of our restaurants showing up in local police blotters that may be sent along to the media. They figure it’s like shoplifting—­it’s all part of the cost of doing business.”
    â€œIt is shoplifting,” I corrected. “What they’re lifting is your food.”
    â€œYes, but the amounts are small enough that it doesn’t make sense to make a huge issue of it. Lulu, may she rest in peace, was a hothead, and she always raised absolute hell about it. That’s how come she chased those guys out into the parking lot, acting like the price of their meal was going to come out of her hide. I’ve never once dinged one of my servers because somebody skipped. It’s not the waitress’s fault if the customer turns out to be a dick, pardon the expression. Why should they take a hit for it?”
    Lots of ­people call detectives dicks. I try not to take it personally.
    â€œWould your produce guy talk to me?” I asked.
    â€œIn a heartbeat,” Bob Murray said. “Be here tomorrow morning at ten, and I’ll see to it.”
    The next morning at ten o’clock sharp, I entered the Doghouse for the first time since the shooting. The booth where the two killers had sat that fateful afternoon had an OCCUPIED sign on it even though the only thing there was a collection of wilting bouquets, their bedraggled flowers dripping dead petals. Around that small sad memorial, the rest of the Doghouse bustled with business as usual.
    Bob Murray met me at the host station and escorted me to a seat at the far end of the counter. “As soon as Alfonso gets here, I’ll send him your way.”
    I was halfway through a plate of ham and eggs when a smallish Mexican man slipped quietly onto the stool beside me.
    â€œYou the detective?” he asked.
    I held out my hand. “J. P.