BooksBarbecue
Back The Newcomer Save as PDF
Chapters (71)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. Epilogue
  68. Acknowledgments
  69. Also by Mary Kay Andrews
  70. About the Author
  71. Newsletter Sign-up

“I’ll have the pasta with bolognese and a house salad with vinaigrette dressing. No black olives, okay?”

“Never.”

He came back with the wine and a setting of flatware, and she was taking her first sip when the door opened. Joe DeCurtis stood there for a moment, looking around. He spotted her and walked over.

“Eating alone?”

She nodded.

“Me too. Mind if I join you?”

“Okay by me,” Vikki said.

The bartender was back. “Hey Joe, what’s shakin’?”

“Nothing much. What’s the special tonight?”

“Baked snapper. Just came off the boat this afternoon. Sautéed zucchini and tomatoes, and gnocchi. Sound good?”

“Perfect. And a glass of the Barolo I like in the meantime, okay?”

Vikki raised an eyebrow. “Barolo. I don’t know too many cops who know anything about wine. I’m impressed.”

“I wasn’t always a cop. I worked for a wine distributorship for a year or so, after college.”

“Good for you.”

The waiter brought his wine; he sniffed, tasted it, then nodded his approval. “I take it you didn’t hear from Wingfield today?”

“No.” She frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either. Did you reach out to that detective back in New York?”

“Yeah. He said he’d show up at Wingfield’s place first thing in the morning and rattle his cage. Nothing else I can do, right?”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“How’s Letty holding up? She looked pretty tense this morning.”

“‘Tense’ is one word for it,” Joe said.

“You two have something going on?”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Not as far as she’s concerned. I like her, but she says she wants to keep it strictly professional. Probably just as well.”

The bartender slid a napkin-wrapped basket of warm breadsticks in front of them.

“Tell me about Evan Wingfield,” he said, as she broke one of the sticks in two and slathered butter on it.

“He’s not your typical entitled asshole. He grew up in New Jersey, upper-middle-class family, but not rich, got a business degree from Rutgers, moved to the city, and by the time he was twenty-two, he’d borrowed enough money from his grandfather to buy his first apartment. He lies about his background, by the way,” Vikki Hill said. “Tells people he’s Ivy League, inherited money, blah, blah. It’s all bullshit.”

Joe swirled the wine in his glass. “How’d he get rich so fast?”

“He’s smart. He got a job working for a bottom-feeder real estate investor, and that guy taught him some stuff, eventually began loaning him money to make his own deals. When the real estate market tanked in 2007, he scooped up several distressed properties.” Agent Hill nibbled at her breadstick. “And he’s so crooked, if he ate a nail, he’d shit a corkscrew.”