Last shot

Chapter 40

I said no lime." The paunchy gentleman waved off the waiter with a flare of his manicured fingers.

"I'm sorry. Let me bring you a new glass."

"Why don't you bring me a new bottle."

The kid backed up, cheeks flushed, bottle of Pellegrino tilted in both hands, still on display. Below his server's apron protruded scuffed Converse low-tops, an Ohio State Buckeye tattooed on the bare strip of ankle. "Right away."

The lingering patrons awaiting the maitre d's nod made it easy for Walker to loiter as he inventoried the waiters. He didn't exactly blend in in his father's suit jacket and a T-shirt, but a few Armenians going Miami Vice casual put him more at ease. On its framed menu, The Ivy announced itself as country cottage, but Walker thought it was to a cottage what Restoration Hardware was to Home Depot. A white picket fence hugged the perimeter of a raised patio framed with ivy. Someone had put a lot of time into the wood to make it look distressed. It wasn't too distressed, though; it looked pretty content watching the slender European types slither past in tight dresses to eat scallops among the so-called rustic antiques.

Robertson Boulevard's perennial congestion put the valet off the main street. The narrow mouth of the driveway disgorged foreign-make SUVs, each larger than the last. There was a break in cashmere, and Walker eased forward, catching the maitre d's attention.

"Excuse me, I called in earlier? My employer believes she left a purse here the night of June first?"

The maitre d's phony British accent amped up a few watts. "That's a long time ago."

"She's a very busy woman."

"No one's left a purse here."

"Maybe I should tell her to call the manager herself?"

A prissy down-the-nose glance. "June first was a"-his nail tapped a few beats on a tiny square calendar taped to the stand-"Friday. Victor works Friday nights." He whistled over the last waiter Walker had inventoried.

Victor came quickly, putting a jog into his step.

"Please see to this gentleman's questions," the maitre d' said.

Walker drew Victor away from the cluster of people. "Uptight crowd, huh?"

"You're telling me."

"I thought you were gonna pop that asshole about the lime thing."

"You saw that?" He shook his head. "I know, huh. What are you gonna do?"

"Listen, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I just moved out here from Columbus-"

"No shit? I went to school there."

"Fellow Buckeye? All right. Anyways, I been trying to make my way in journalism, freelance, but it can be tough. You know how that is."

"Hell, yeah. I'm a musician myself."

"So I'm writing a story on Vector, that biology firm. They had a dinner party here on June first?"

"Sure, I remember. They rented the whole place out." Victor nodded emphatically, thumb dusting his first two fingers. "It was a celebration. They got some patent approved or something, had people making speeches."

"I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions for my story?" Walker pulled out a photograph of Tess. "Was this woman there that night?"

"Yeah, I remember her." A smirk. "Past her prime, but still pretty smokin'. She's a photographer or former model or something."

"Is she? How do you know that?"

"Well, she got into a discussion with this other guy over here by the valet-"

"Show me."

Victor walked him a few paces down the sidewalk. "I remember because there was some kind of valet mix-up, caused a little commotion."

Walker noted a dark portal in the restaurant's side, overlooking the valet stand. "What'd the guy look like?"

"I don't really remember. I remember the chick better, right? I was circling with chardonnay, and I heard him say something about what happened in the limo at the shoot. He was sorta, I guess, apologetic without really being apologetic. I remember thinking, The problems these rich folks have, right? Like the guy probably packed Cristal instead of Dom Perignon or something."

"Did you hear anything else?"

"Naw, I was busy."

"You guys have a security camera or anything?"

"Yeah. See that little window?" He pointed, and Walker feigned surprise. "The security director keeps a valet cam, ever since some has-been TV star sued because someone stole personal photos from his glove box. They won't tell us who-part of the settlement, I guess."

"Do you think you could get ahold of the security tape for me from that night?"

"I wish I could. But no way. Especially not for press. The security director would have my ass."

"Maybe he'd let me take a look?"

"No, he's kind of a dick. Actually, scratch the 'kind of.' Plus, they store like three years of the old shit at the security company, in case a lawsuit pops up down the line. It's a hassle to retrieve it. I know because one of the valets got accused of emptying an ashtray full of change my second week. You're not gonna get old footage easy."

The maitre d's head poked above the crowd, swiveled, and found Victor. His conveyance of inconvenience was no less than epic.

"Gotta go. Sorry I couldn't be more help."

Walker smiled and returned the handshake. "You been plenty."