Page 67 of The Alibi Club

Jamie tried to comfort him. “Chef Pascal, we ate everything you served us, and no one else is dead.”

“Zat is a small comfort, danke schön.” Chef Pascal’s shoulders sagged.

He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, closely followed by the sommelier. Justin ambled back to commandeer his small bar, obviously sensing cocktails were in order. Amber scurried away without explanation. The singles were settling in for what looked like a long night.

As the SWAT team completed their forensic tasks, Jamie looked around for Cliff. He was still nowhere to be found. She wandered over to the bar and heard someone say in a hushed voice say, “Psst. Hey.”

She turned and saw a SWAT team member discreetly waving her over. Unnerved but unsure how to proceed, she tentatively waved back. Then the guy took off his goggles and said, “Jamie, it’s me, Jon Robey.”

Flooded with relief that a SWAT team member was not in fact hitting on her, she said, “Oh, Jon, hi. I didn’t know you worked SWAT.”

“Oh, I’m still doing my thing on Vice, but I do SWAT on a freelance basis for the fun of it. Lets me use my tactical training in real-life situations. Plus, I get to handle this baby.” He held up his AR-15 semiautomatic weapon.

“Ah, yes. The chosen weapon of America’s school shooters,” Jamie cracked.

Jon grinned and said, “Not on my watch.”

She and Jon Robey had been newbies together. During her first year working at the LA Superior Court, Jon was an eager rookie, looking for all the action, chomping at the bit to be a hero. She was still cutting her teeth on psychos that were brought in by Vice. They met when they were both on the team that successfully nabbed a sleezy con man who killed his mark in a fit of rage in the middle of a night club. She and Jon struck up a friendship right away after he’d seen her deconstruct criminal behavior firsthand and had backed her theory to the detective in charge. The mutual respect had bonded them as friends ever since. To see him again was a bittersweet reminder of the exciting life and career she had left behind. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“What are you doing now?” Jon asked. “I want all the juicy details.”

“I’m consulting, mostly.” Purposely opaque, Jamie didn’t think it important to tell him she was unemployed. Even less important that she had been a psychologist to C-suite narcissists. “I’m not quite at liberty to say.”

“Oooh, cagey. I hope it’s on some top-secret case from the FBI, like hunting down the next BTK killer.”

If only. She had to change the subject. “So, between us, what’s going on out there? Is it a mad bomber?”

He leaned in and whispered, “We’re not sure. Might be, but the explosions didn’t have the hallmarks of your typical detonated bomb. Seems to me they would have, or rather should have, been much bigger. Whatever this was, it knocked out the power for six whole blocks. Southern Cal Ed is on its way now.”

Jamie thought about this a moment and something jogged loose in her brain. She turned to him and whispered, “Keep me updated, okay?”

“You bet. Who knows, you might help us figure out who’s behind it all.” Jon Robey gave her a boyish grin and then bounced over to the dead body of Nigel Spokes.

Maybe, she thought.

Ten minutes later, the body of Nigel Spokes was strapped to his chair and carried across the dining area by the SWAT team members toward the back of the restaurant. His wife appeared inconsolable and remained mute, as Detective Roverson began asking her a few questions. She seemed to nod blankly but nothing more.

Jamie was just about to go on a search when Cliff appeared stealth-like right next to her with two glasses of wine. “Since we don’t have Xanax, I thought this might help.”

Jamie took the glass of wine and filled him in. “A lot has happened while you were away. It seems Nigel is being moved to the freezer to preserve evidence, all our phones are useless, we’re trapped here for the foreseeable future, and Chef Pascal has killed at least one diner before tonight.” Jamie said this all flatly.

“On purpose?” Cliff asked.

“Shellfish allergy.”

“Ah.” He considered this for a moment, took a sip of his wine, and asked, “How long was I gone?”

“About twenty minutes.” Jamie tilted her wondering head. “Where were you? I was looking for you.” She grew quiet and observed.

Cliff remained calm but his eyes darted back and forth. “The lock on the men’s bathroom jammed. I was trapped in there until the waitress came to let me out.” He took of long sip of his wine and looked around the room.

He’s lying. She looked at him closer, focusing on his temple. “Did you cut yourself?” Jamie raised her finger to the wound and inspected the side of his head. She saw a small drop of dried blood and bruising was starting. Cliff brought up his hand to touch it and brushed her hand away.

“Hit my head on the towel dispenser in a fit of panic. Not a fan of small spaces.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Ah. Those towel dispensers can be nasty.” Something was way off. She wavered, casting doubt over the entire idea of Cliff, which started to drain all the color out of the dream. She didn’t trust her instincts when it came to her heart. Didn’t have faith that her gift could suss out a liar, a cheater, a scumbag. Maybe too much initial spark had blinded her to Cliff’s shortcomings.

She took a sip of wine. “Looks like we’re going to be here for awhile.”