wearing some sort of rappelling equipment, was scaling the glass wall as she held a bottle of wine.
“They’re known for that here,” Jeff said as if he saw that sort of thing every day.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, the hostess-a tall, painfully thin woman wearing a little slip of a dress-surveyed us with pursed lips.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables available,” she said haughtily.
I took a glance around. I saw three tables that were vacant. It was most likely our jeans and tattoos that were turning her off.
Jeff wasn’t about to be turned away, however.
“Tell the chef Jeff Coleman is here,” he snapped.
She stood there, uncertain what to do.
“Now,” Jeff growled.
She scurried off.
“Do you really know the chef?” I asked, impressed. If I’d been alone or with anyone else, I would’ve been back climbing those stairs and looking for another place to eat.
“Did all his tattoos,” Jeff said flatly.
We watched the woman rappelling down the wine case until we heard the hostess’s heels clicking on the wood floor, a fake smile spread across her face now.
“Mr. Coleman, we have a table ready right over here,” she said, picking up two menus and leading the way. When we were seated, she said in a tight voice, “Richard will be out shortly.” The chef, I guess.
I realized I was famished. So I didn’t get to see the Flamingos, but this was much better. My mouth watered as I perused the menu. Jeff reached over and took it out of my hands before I was finished, though.
“Hey!”
He put the menus down. “I know what you’ll like.”
“Really?” I asked, my back up.
He chucked. “Really,” he said. “You know, Kavanaugh, you need to lighten up.”
“I’ve got mobs chasing me, wanting my head for something I didn’t do,” I said grumpily. “I think I can be wound a little tight.”
“Which is why we need some wine.”
The waiter hovered, and Jeff ordered an Australian Malbec and a French chardonnay. And then he said, “The chef knows what I want.” The waiter nodded and shuffled off.
“I thought you didn’t like wine,” I said, still a little snippy but not quite as much.
“It’s got its place,” he said. “Now you need to call Tim and tell him what happened.”
Obediently, I pulled out my phone. The hostess gave me a dirty look. “Maybe I should take it outside,” I said, scrambling to my feet and spotting an elevator. Much better than those stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
I left him just as the waiter came with the wine. Watching Jeff Coleman taste wine was an image I figured I could live without. Too sophisticated, somehow.
Once I emerged from the elevator, I stood in the little alcove and punched in Tim’s number. This time he did pick up.
“You stole a Hummer?” he asked loudly,incredulously.
“A Hummer limo,” I corrected.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I told him about the mob of people coming after me. The broken beer bottle. The limo driver who lunged at me, and how Jeff had flipped him. I told him about the security guard locking us out after we’d seen a tall redhead. I went through the story backward, until I got to the beginning.
“You arrested Sherman Potter?” I asked. “So he really did it?”
“Where are you now?” he asked, totally ignoring me.
“Having dinner with Jeff.”
“So you steal a Hummer-excuse me, Hummer limo-and leave it at the Excalibur and then go out to dinner? You’re not having that medieval meal, are you?”
“No. We were hungry. What’s this about Sherman Potter? He killed her, right? Tell me that it’ll be in the papers and no one will come after me again about Daisy.” I really needed this to be over.
“We found his fingerprints at the scene.”
I smiled. Outwardly. A woman walking by smiled back. Maybe I’d be able to have a nice dinner after all.
“Problem is, Brett, the limo driver wants to press charges against you and Jeff. It would be better if you came in now and we could settle this.”
I didn’t want to. Turn myself in, that is. And I was pretty sure I could speak for Jeff, too.
“He came after me,” I said. “Those kids can tell you that.”
“They said you went after him.”
“You talked to them?”
“We got statements, yes. The limo driver called 911 immediately.”
This wasn’t good.
“If we come in, do you think we’ll get thrown in the slammer or will we be able to walk out after giving our own statements?” I asked.
“Thrown in the slammer?” I could hear the amusement in Tim’s voice. “Brett, if you and Jeff come in now, we can see if we can smooth this out.”
“Can we have dinner first?” I asked. “I mean, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get Jeff to agree to this so easily.”
“Get a doggie bag, Brett, and get over here.”
I closed my phone as I made my way back down the stairs, eschewing the elevator for a little more time to think about how to get Jeff out of here and over to the station. When I reached the table, the chef was sitting with Jeff, a plate full of assorted appetizers in front of them. Both looked up, smiling, when I approached. Jeff’s smile faded when he saw my expression.
I didn’t want to say anything in front of the chef, so I shook his hand and listened to his description of the appetizers. When he came to the foie gras, I pushed Tim’s admonishing voice out of my head and reached for it, savoring its smoothness and washing it down with a little Malbec. Jeff watched me with a touch of a smile at the corner of his lips. I made a face at him and finished the foie gras, noticing that he’d already had a piece.
When the chef went on to make his rounds among the other diners, I leaned forward and whispered, “We have to go to the police station.”
“Why?”
I told him about the limo driver. “Tim seems to think that we can settle this quickly, if we go right now.”
Jeff indicated the appetizers. “But we’ve just started dinner.”
“I tried that excuse, but he wasn’t buying it.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me a second. “I’ll meet you there, if you really want to go now.”
There was no use in trying to talk to him about this. I’d told Tim.
“Dinner could be at least two hours,” I said, aware that my resolve had lost a lot of steam. “I really don’t want to end up getting arrested or anything.”
Jeff grinned. “Your brother is an LVPD detective. You really think you’ll get arrested?”
I felt my face flush as anger rose in my chest. “You think that’s some sort of GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card? Having a detective for a brother? He’d be so quick to throw me in jail, you have no idea.”
Jeff’s eyes settled on my face, and I squirmed a little. Then he said, “Okay.” He motioned for the waiter. “Can you wrap up our meals for us? We have to go. Please tell the chef we’re sorry.”
The waiter looked a little flustered, but scurried off.
“Thanks,” I said softly.
