today like you’re on speaking terms with Lopez again. Am I right?”
“Yes . . .” Well, for the moment, though it might not last. I met Lucky’s gaze and realized why he was asking. “
Oh.
You want me to pepper Lopez with questions about Quinn.”
Max said gently, “If it wouldn’t be too awkward for you, Esther, it could be useful. Detective Quinn’s professional partner—a person who spends a lot of time in our quarry’s company—is our most likely source of information until we can think of something more inventive.”
Thinking of my smash-and-grab last night to steal Lopez’s deadly fortune cookie, I said, “I’m not so sure Lopez will be forthcoming, but I’ll figure out something.” If Quinn was a danger to Lopez, then I was going to find out, one way or another, whether Lopez was speaking to me or not.
“And I will pursue inquiries about Mr. Capuzzo,” said Max.
“Where will you start?” Nathan asked—a little anxiously, I thought.
“The widow,” Max replied. “I shall visit her under the guise of discussing the details of her late husband’s upcoming wake.”
“Oh.” Nathan looked sad for a moment. I supposed he was thinking wistfully about the large Capuzzo family who had some money and were easy to work with. And also thinking about how they might abandon their sentimental attachment to this funeral home after meeting Max.
“I’ll go with you, Doc,” said Lucky.
“Oh?” Now Nathan looked alarmed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Alberto? The Capuzzos might recognize your name.”
“Hmm. Good point.” Lucky nodded. But Nathan’s relief was short-lived. “I’ll use a fake name. Do you think I should wear a disguise?”
“No,” I said quickly, recalling Lucky’s brief masquerade as Sugarplum, one of Santa’s elves, when we were investigating the mystical mayhem at Fenster & Co. during the holidays. I had seldom seen anything more tragic than Lucky in that disguise, and I shunned anything that might keep the memory alive—such as another disguise.
“Yeah, you’re right, kid,” he said. “My face ain’t famous.”
“Actually, it is,” I said, “but only in very specific venues.”
Nathan cleared his throat. John looked at Nelli, who lay snoozing quietly on the floor at Max’s feet.
Lucky said, “So a phony name is all I need to go undercover with the doc.”
“Oh, good,” Nathan said in a thin voice, his expression strained.
Well, he had wanted our help. He had no one to blame but himself.
“So we’re goin’ to pump the widow for info about Capuzzo, while posing as associates of Antonelli’s Funeral Home.”
“It’s a fine plan,” Nathan said wanly.
Lucky looked at me. “And you’ll pump Lopez about Quinn.”
I nodded, feeling a little wan myself.
Max said to the Chens, “Be sure to notify us if anything else alarming occurs.”
“We will,” said John. “I have to admit, I’m looking forward to getting Mr. Capuzzo out of here.”
I rose to my feet. “Well, it’s been a long day for all of us.”
“It’s a New Year I’ll certainly never forget,” said Nathan, also rising.
As we all left the office and headed toward the building exit, John took my elbow and guided me out of earshot of the three older men, who were chatting about the fire at Yee & Sons, Max’s sooty appearance, and the fact that Nelli was probably hungry by now.
“It
has
been a long day,” John said to me in a low voice, “but I’m kind of keyed up. I don’t suppose you’d like to go somewhere and . . . just talk for a while? We could get a drink or something to eat . . .”
Since I had a shrewd suspicion that he wanted to talk about me and Lopez—or maybe about me and him—I was relieved to have a good excuse for declining. “I’m sorry, John, I can’t. Max has had an exhausting day, including being caught in that fire at the Yees’ store. He’s older than he looks, and I think he’s running on fumes by now. I want to get him