Free A Taste of the Nightlife by Sarah Zettel Page A

Nightlife would make a good place to dispose of Mr. Maddox’s remains.” He riffled through the papers and pulled out a stack of photographs, which he laid out in front of me. “Do you know any of these people?”
    Six strangers, four men and two women, stared back at me, each of them thoroughly pissed off at having to face a camera lens. I shook my head.
    “And Dylan Maddox had never been in your restaurant before?”
    “Usually I don’t see the customers. Robert Kemp, our maître d’, would know more, or the dining room captain, Suchai Lui.”
    “We’ve talked to them, and neither one remembers ever seeing him. Now, about your people . . .” My shoulders stiffened and O’Grady sighed. “Nobody here cares about their immigration status, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    What followed was long, but straightforward. How long had I known Suchai? Four years. He came with me from L’Aquataine when we opened Nightlife. Did I know that Nina, our weekend hostess, was being treated for recurrent possession? Yes. She saw her exorcist twice a week and wore her crucifix under her blouse so as not to disturb the customers. Had Pam Maddox ever been in Nightlife before? Sorry. I couldn’t say. What about the vampire she was with? I was really sorry, Detective, but I spend my nights in the kitchen. Did we employ a man named Taylor Watts as a bartender? Not anymore. Fired him a few weeks ago because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself and the high-priced liquor was vanishing with suspicious speed. While he was with us did I ever hear him mention an Ilona St. Claire? No, but he worked the front of the house. For the day-to-day business, that was Suchai’s territory.
    “And your brother’s?” the detective prompted.
    Yes, and my brother’s.
    O’Grady frowned at the papers and photographs as if to let them know they did not meet expectations. Then he swept them all into a pile, put the pile in the folder, put the folder on the stack.
    “Last question, Ms. Caine,” he said. “What did Anat Sevarin want last night?”
    I clenched my teeth just in time to keep completely useless exclamations from leaping out. Why would I think the police weren’t watching me?
    “He wanted to know if I’d heard anything from you about Dylan Maddox.”
    “And you told him . . . ?”
    “That you hadn’t said word one to me.” I tilted my head at him. “I don’t suppose you’d consider telling me now?”
    “Sorry.”
    “I’d settle for finding out when we can get back into Nightlife.”
    “We’re working on that, Ms. Caine,” he said with an attitude that would have made a brick wall seem like Kleenex by comparison. “You’ll be our first call.”
    I don’t like to plead. For one thing, I’m not very good at it. So I used the only weapon I had at hand. I picked up the lasagna pan and slid it across the table. “Detective O’Grady, I’ve got a walk-in with a couple thousand dollars’ worth of fresh food going to rot. I’m not asking you to let us reopen. Just let me get some of my people into the kitchen to find out what we can salvage.”
    O’Grady ran one blunt fingertip across the edge of the lasagna pan, as if he could ascertain the quality of the sauce and cheese underneath by the crinkle of the foil. “I’ll see what I can do.” His voice was studiously neutral, but his spaniel eyes softened for the first time that day.
    Never, ever underestimate the power of the killer lasagna.
    “Detective . . .” I pushed the lasagna just a little closer.
    “Was . . . was Dylan Maddox bitten? I mean, we had a lot of nightblood guests when he stormed in, and that was a really nasty fire he tried to start. . . .” I would probably go to some kind of chef’s purgatory for pointing a finger at my guests, but I did it anyway.
    Lasagna or no, Little Linus took his time deciding to answer me. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t a real bite. Our guys think whoever did it might actually have used a syringe.”
    Can you say creepy? I sure