Free Don't Blink by James Patterson, Howard Roughan Page B

That probably explained why he hadn’t left behind a suicide note.
    One mystery down, perhaps.
    Another still unresolved.
    What the hell had Dwayne wanted to tell me?
    Weirdly, I felt as though I was also hiding some kind of secret. Courtney was the only other person who knew aboutthe late phone call Dwayne had made to me the night he killed himself.
    But as secrets go, mine was minor league. Dwayne’s was a whole lot bigger, and he’d just taken it to the grave.
    I walked back to my car, an old Saab 9000 Turbo — my one “extravagance,” if you can call it that, in a city dominated by subways, taxis, and crosswalks.
    Closing up my umbrella and sliding behind the wheel, I kept replaying that last conversation with Dwayne in my head. I wondered if I was overlooking something, if there was an important clue I wasn’t catching.
    Nothing came to mind yet. Or maybe my memory was a poor substitute for a tape recorder. What I wouldn’t give to have a recording of that last phone call with him.
    I was about to turn the key in the ignition when my phone rang.
    I glanced at the caller ID.
    Now, I’m not a big believer in the notion that nothing happens by accident, but for sheer timing this was stretching the boundaries of coincidence. It was spooky, actually.
    The caller ID said “Lombardo’s Steakhouse.”

Chapter 28
    “HI, I’M LOOKING for Tiffany.” I said this to the man with the reservation book standing behind the podium at Lombardo’s. I thought I recognized him, but it took me a few seconds to be sure.
    Of course. He was the manager. I remembered seeing Detective Ford interviewing him on the afternoon of the murders.
    “She’ll be right back — she’s seating someone,” he said, barely looking up at me. He was average height and build, his tone sprinkled with an air of superiority that presumably came with the job. “Are you the man with the jacket?” he asked.
    Actually, I was the man without the jacket.
    Although not for long.
    Before I could answer, I heard a voice over the manager’s shoulder. “You made it,” she said.
    She remembered me. I certainly remembered her. “Tiffany,” I said, extending my hand. “Like the pretty blue box.”
    She smiled. Great smile, too. “Hi, Mr. Daniels,” she said.
    “Please, it’s Nick.”
    I followed Tiffany to the coat-check room opposite the bar area. “Your jacket’s over here,” she said with a glance back at me. “We kept it nice and safe for you.”
    I nodded. “Listen, I appreciate your calling me. I didn’t even realize I’d left it here.”
    “Pretty understandable, given the confusion that day.” She stopped on a dime, turning to me. “ Confusion . That word doesn’t really capture it, does it?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    Tiffany shook her head. “You know, I was going to quit this job the next day. Go back to Indiana where I’m from. I even discussed it with Jason.”
    “Jason?”
    “The guy you talked to at the desk. The manager.”
    “What did he tell you?”
    “That this was New York, and I should just suck it up, and I would if I belonged here.”
    “What a sweetheart.”
    “I know, tell me about it,” she said. “Then again, look around at the crowd of ghouls. I don’t know whether to be amazed or really depressed.”
    I could see what she meant. Lombardo’s Steakhouse was even more crowded than usual, if that was possible. Call it the perverse logic of hipness, especially in Manhattan and, I would guess, LA. After serving as the backdrop to three vicious murders, the joint actually gained in popularity.
    Tiffany continued on to the coat-check room, grabbing my jacket. “Here you go,” she said. “It is yours, right?”
    “Yep, that’s it, all right.” A leather car coat I had gotten for a near steal years back at a Barneys outlet sale.
    As I folded it over my forearm, something occurred to me. “Tiffany, how did you know this was mine?” It was a good question, I thought. It’s not as if I had my name sewn