clad women already on the stage and weaving through the tables of the restaurant and bar, so the brush-off was mitigated. Slightly.
They were all jammed together in an entry with four thousand of their closest friends, most of whom would certainly get a table before they did, since they had arrived first. Magozzi cozied up to Roadrunner, who was painfully shy at confronting strangers one-on-one, and yet totally comfortable in crowds where he wasn't likely to be singled out. 'I don't get it, Roadrunner. Mr. Foodie at a restaurant that doesn't take reservations? What happened to the chef's-table treatment? Where are the minions kneeling at our feet with caviar and foie gras?'
Roadrunner was resplendent and clearly tickled to be out of jeans and back to normal in navy-blue Lycra. 'Actually, we've never been here before. The food could suck, but Harley promised John belly dancers.'
Magozzi looked at him. 'John? Would that be Special Agent John Smith of the FBI? Mr. Straight and Narrow?'
Roadrunner chuckled. 'He's not so bad. And he's probably never seen a belly dancer up close and personal. It was more of a threat than a promise.'
'Terrific. Happy to hear you're all bonding with your old enemies. But the thing is, there isn't a woman in the world, I don't care what she can do with her belly, that's going to risk coming close to Smith with Grace hanging on to his arm like that.'
Roadrunner glanced over at the twosome, heads tipped together as they tried to talk over the din. 'They cooked together and have been pretty chummy ever since. I think Grace likes him, and you know her, she doesn't like anybody. Kind of a happy moment to see her moving beyond the tight circle, isn't it? Like she's letting go of something.'
Magozzi glowered. 'It's just so goddamn precious it makes me want to puke. I mean, he's good at his job, and he kind of grows on you, but the guy's a million years old.'
Roadrunner gave him an alarmed look. 'Jeez, Magozzi, I didn't mean she liked him like
'Uh-huh. Whatever. All I care about is when we're going to get to eat. I'm starving.'
'The hostess said half an hour after Harley tucked a wad of bills in her halter top. We're supposed to wait in the bar.'
'So where the hell is the bar? Maybe they've got pretzels.'
Roadrunner pointed the way, but stayed in the entry, watching the dancers.
They didn't have pretzels in the little room with its wormwood bar and blue mystery bottles reflecting in a mirror, but they were developing a very healthy respect for Gino, who had no compunction whatsoever about flashing his badge and demanding any kind of food that wouldn't eat him first. Magozzi came up next to his partner and clapped his hand on his shoulder.
'Thank God. Reinforcements,' Gino said. 'What kind of place is this, Leo? They got dancers with little jiggly bellies they sure as hell didn't get here, 'cause there's no food and I'm about to eat my hand. Now, I don't mind showing my face at a farewell dinner for Smith, but for Chrissake I'm not sleeping with the guy, so there'd better be something to eat.'
'Tell me about it. Six o'clock, latest Mom ever had dinner on the table, and Pop nearly had apoplexy. I'm telling you, the world is going to hell when dinnertime jumps past when the kids go to bed.'
Gino nodded a chin starting to bristle this many hours past the last shave. 'Let us become inebriated as quickly as possible, and toast the days when you ate supper and still had time for baseball in the corner lot before dark. Do you realize it's past nine?'
'I do.'
The bartender brought out a plate of tiny little meatballs on a stick propped on a bowl of white stuff with green flecks and set it in front of Gino with an arrogant flourish. 'Sir,' he said snippily.
Gino scowled down at the meager offering and opened his sportcoat to show his gun. 'Listen, you little puke. I am
MPD Homicide and today I have saved the world. These are not meatballs. They're dots on a toothpick. Now get your ass back to the kitchen and try harder.'
The barkeep had a lot of white around his dark eyes when he opened them that wide and backed away.
Surprisingly, it was relatively quiet in the little room off the entry. Most of the patrons collected their drinks and carried them out to the main room so they could watch the belly dancers.
'Detectives.'
Magozzi jumped at the voice behind him and the hand on his shoulder, and spun to see Special Agent John Smith, who had been standing too goddamn close to Grace.
'I want you to know it has been a privilege and an honor to watch real law enforcement at work, and I thank you both for the opportunity to witness it. And Detective Magozzi, you are the most fortunate of men. You have the affection of a most extraordinary woman, which is in itself the accomplishment of a lifetime.'
Magozzi felt like a cartoon character with his mouth hanging open like that, and all he could do was nod like one of those stupid plastic birds on the glassy edge of a killer tropical drink. Happily, the bartender returned at that moment with a meat platter of giant meatballs and a gravy boat of the white stuff with green flecks. Gino dug in without breathing.
'Okay, guys, I don't know what the hell this is, but it ain't bad. Barkeep, you're the man. Give us three big ones of whatever alcohol goes with this stuff.'
The bartender, probably remembering his glimpse of Gino's weapon, almost bowed. 'It's lamb kabobs, sir, with cucumber sauce, most frequently accompanied with ouzo.'
'Well, it's friggin' excellent, is what it is. Bring us some of that oo-stuff to go with it.'
Magozzi had his hand around a narrow glass of the oo-stuff when his cell vibrated against his hip. He flipped it open, frowned at the readout, and waited for the caller to identify himself.
When you were a cop and got a call from an unfamiliar number on your personal cell, you didn't say anything until you knew who was on the other end. A county deputy in Alexandria had made that mistake five years ago while he was running regular rounds of the local bars, checking for underage drinkers. He answered his cell with his name, and a drunken ex-con with a grudge, a snoutful, and a long memory for the name of the cop who had put him in Stillwater promptly shot him in the back. The drunken shooter got twenty years and the deputy got a bagpipe funeral.
'Good evening, Detective Magozzi. This is Judge James Bukowski.'
That made Magozzi unhappy. The man was getting intrusive, taking advantage. 'How'd you get this number, Judge?'
He heard the judge sigh just before a belly dancer literally bellied up to the bar next to John and jingled her bells and clicked her little metal clackers at him. Magozzi backed away a few paces.
'How I got your private number is irrelevant, Detective.
Please pretend for a moment that I might be a man with something important to say, and listen very carefully. We don't have much time.'
'I'm listening.'
Would you mind giving me your approximate location?'
'St. Paul. Downtown.'
'Thank you. Unhappily, it is a bit farther away than I'd anticipated, so I will have to be brief.'
'Music to my ears, Judge.'
'I am quite certain it is. Are you familiar with the Woodland Hills Country Club Golf Course?'
'Just off Minnehaha, right?'
'That is correct. The man who killed Alan Sommers - the River Bride, as the media refers to him - will be meeting me on the eighteenth green in a very short time.'
Magozzi rolled his eyes and put his forefinger on the cell cover to flip it closed. 'Excellent. Have him give me a call in the morning, will you?'
'Alan Sommers died at 11:17 according to the knock-off Rolex he was wearing. The watch face was broken in the struggle.'
Magozzi's hand tightened on the phone and he felt the slip of sweat under his fingers. No one knew that. Just him, Gino, and Anant. They'd bagged the watch and held it back. 'Jesus,' he murmured.
