Free Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery by Clare O'Donohue Page B

hires you. So, what you do reflects on me.” Before he could protest, or break down in tears, I continued. “And usually that’s a good thing, because you’re the best sound guy in the business.”
    Andres took a step forward. “Not lately.”
    I cut in before things got worse. “I think we’ve made our point.” I glanced at Andres, who didn’t seem satisfied, but there was nothing else I could say. I leaned in and kissed Victor on the cheek. “If something’s going on you want to talk about, I’m here.”
    “Thanks, Kate,” he said in a stage whisper. “I’m good. But it’s nice to have at least one friend I can count on.”
    Andres shook his head. “I tried talking to him, Kate. You know I tried. He’s got his head up his ass about that band of his.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Victor shouted.
    “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” I walked toward my car and left the two men arguing by the truck.

Fifteen
    T he next day, I sat in a comfortable chair amid the still-halted construction of the Club Car restaurant, conducting interview after interview. It was hard to tell them apart. Ilena, Roman, and Doug all said the exact same thing, each using the words “hip” and “exclusive” with the same inflection, in that rehearsed, talking-points way of political pundits on Sunday morning talk shows.
    Vera’s interview was the only exception. She talked about the restaurant the way someone else might talk about a lover, with giggly enthusiasm and unbridled optimism. Only she seemed to see the place as something other than an extension of her ego. In that moment I hoped Doug had been telling the truth: The phone calls to Vera were from a crazy old girlfriend who hoped to break them up. Looking at Doug it was hard to imagine he inspired that kind of passion, but then I never knew what anyone saw in anyone.
    After the sit-down interviews, we broke for lunch. Ilena had arranged for a buffet from some Greek fusion restaurant. She told me it was “the best Greek food you will taste in your life, outside of Santorini.” I’ve never been to Greece, but based on how good the food was, my guess was she was right.
    “This is such a treat for us, to have you here, telling our story,” Ilena told me as we ate. “It was so unexpected that anyone would be interested in our little restaurant.”
    “I was under the impression you arranged it with a friend at the Business Channel.”
    “I made a call,” she admitted. “But I didn’t expect to be chosen.”
    “They must have thought the place would be something special,” I said. No sense in becoming enemies this early in the shoot. There was plenty of time for that when I was in editing.
    We ate in silence for a few minutes. I watched her watch Roman as he strutted around the place, arguing with Erik about what the waitstaff should wear. Erik had special-ordered uniforms—black pants andshort-waisted white coats with black ties, something he’d seen in 1930s movies. Roman thought the white coats would be too hard to keep clean. He said it was a waste of money. A dull subject, but the two men were quite heated about it. At one point Roman grabbed Erik’s shirt and pushed him against the wall.
    I turned to Andres, but he was one step ahead of me. He’d picked up the camera and had it pointed toward the men. Victor was right behind him, holding the boom mic safely out of reach of the argument but close enough to get the words clearly on tape.
    “Listen, you little fucker!” Roman screamed. “I decide what happens in this place, not some nobody.”
    “I am a partner too,” Erik said. The smooth arrogance had been replaced by a stammer, but it was gutsy of him to stand up to someone twice his size. Though, in all fairness, he wasn’t actually standing. He was sort of dangling, a few inches off the ground, held up by Roman’s massive fist. Both Doug and Vera jumped up to intervene, eventually pulling the men apart. Roman stormed off and Doug went after him,