Lisa Scottoline - Dead Ringer

“No. You been watching Oprah again?” Sam’s eyes narrowed as a busboy materialized, put two empty coffee cups in front of them, and poured coffee with his other hand. He didn’t have a name on his white jacket, which didn’t look as surgical as the waiter’s.

Bennie didn’t wait for him to stop pouring. “Excuse me, did you work last night?’

“No, I don’t work dinner,” he said, and gestured toward the wall, where the painted faces of a local bank president and an Eagles cheerleader smiled down at the sugar caddy. “Sugar’s over there, and I’ll bring your cream. The dessert tray will be over shortly.”

“No dessert for me, thanks,” Bennie said, taking her napkin from her lap and getting up from the table. “Be right back, Sam.”

“Is this where you pretend you’re going to the bathroom, but you take a detour on the way to the front desk?”

Bennie smiled. “Gimme five minutes.”

“I’ll order the key lime pie and enjoy the view.” Sam looked crankily out the window at David, then back at Bennie. “Just remember, ‘Who guards the guards?’”

But Bennie didn’t have the time to answer.

She had to conduct the cross-examination du jour.

Sir, may I speak to you a minute?” Bennie gestured from the back of the crowd to the busy maitre d’, who stood behind the paneled lectern like a hyperactive law professor. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was gesturing simultaneously to three hungry groups complaining to be seated.

“Steingard party, we’ll be right with you. Just five minutes.” The maitre d’ snapped his head to the left, then smoothed his hair back into its moussed helmet. “Ms. Pecora, Lorraine Pecora, please, it’s only five minutes, I promise. Mr. Kranyak, Joe Kranyak, your table is ready. Please follow James, right over there.”

“Sir, please!” Bennie said again, threading through the restless crowd to the lectern, where she grabbed the wooden lip and hung like a little kid over the large reservations book. “I just have a quick question.”

“Do you have a reservation?” The maitre d’ looked at her with a pat smile.

“No, I mean, yes, I’ve already eaten. I was just wondering, were you on duty last night for dinner?”

“Yes, I was.” The maitre d’s attention was immediately distracted by a man behind her. “Mr. Toomey, how wonderful to see you again. And how is your lovely wife? Recuperating, I hope?”

“Sends her love,” boomed the man. Bennie could feel him try to press past her to the lectern, but she sidestepped and blocked him.

“Excuse me, sir, this is important.” Bennie got right in the maitre d’s face, which was easy because they were the same height and she could be incredibly pushy. “Do you recall seeing two men at dinner last night, named Robert St. Amien and Herman Mayer?”

“Please, in one minute.” The maitre d’ flashed her the one-minute sign, then waved hello over her shoulder. “Lustig, Gail Lustig, your table is ready. Please, follow Adriana, she’ll take you.”

“What about me?” said another woman, flanking Bennie. “My name is Deb Haggerty, and I had a reservation.”

“Ms. Haggerty, your table is being set as we speak.” The maitre d’ hurried around the side of the lectern to speak to the woman while Bennie eavesdropped. “I’ll escort you there myself right now, and dessert is on the house.”

“Thanks, I accept,” the woman said, but Bennie couldn’t be bought with mere saturated fats, not that anybody was trying. She had bigger game in mind than cheesecake.

She gave up on the maitre d’ for the moment and took advantage of his absence to peek over the lectern at the reservation book. The book was as huge as the lectern top itself, and glowed like gold under a dim yellow lamp that curved over its pages. Names filled the lines on the page, and next to them was a row of circled numbers, presumably indicating the number in each party. Beside that were all sorts of scribbled notations in pen and pencil. But the page showed reservations for tonight, not last night.

Bennie reached over quickly and turned the page back to last night, then began reading upside down, which was a special skill she’d honed at Grun amp; Chase. No young associate survived in a large firm unless she learned to read upside down, most useful during evaluation time or whenever sheer nosiness struck. She skipped down to seven o’clock and read the names, going backward and upside down. It made her dizzy, but when she reached 6:45, the entry read: Mayer, 2.

“May I help you?” the maitre d’ asked, clearing his throat the way only maitre d’s can.

“Yes, please. I see that Herman Mayer was here last night for dinner.”

“I don’t know Mr. Mayer,” the maitre d’ said, but his brow was furrowed and he took Bennie by the arm, away from the crowd at the lectern. “I’d be happy to briefly talk with you here,” he said, his voice low. “I have already discussed this matter with the police.”

“Good. So Detective Needleman did speak with you?”

“Yes, he verified that the Mayer party dined with us last night. Mr. Mayer, and Mr. St. Amien.”

“Did he talk with the waiter who waited on the Mayer party?” Bennie didn’t exactly represent that she was with the police department, and he was too eager to get back to the lectern anyway. Cranky people were beginning to wave him over.

“He asked to, but Dante was the waiter and he came in late today. A doctor’s appointment.”

“Which one is Dante? I need to speak with him.”

“Please, don’t keep him long. That’s him.” The maitre d’ pointed at a short young man darting among the tables with a huge tray of full plates balanced high above his shoulder.

“Thank you, I’ll be quick,” Bennie said, and the maitre d’ returned to his post while she took off after Dante. Even with a tray of porterhouse steaks, three-pound lobsters, and chateaubriand beef for two, the energetic waiter threaded his way through the crowded tables, past the bathrooms to the stuffed booths lining the far side of the room. Bennie waited for him to unload the lunches and make his move toward the kitchen, to block his return. He could serve, but he couldn’t hide.

Dante finished at the booth, stopped to chat up an older man at one of the other tables, then hustled toward the kitchen with his empty tray. When he realized that Bennie stood directly in his path, he said, “The ladies’ room is right behind you.”

“Excuse me, Dante, this is police business,” Bennie said in a low tone. Well, it is police business. It’s just that a lawyer is doing it. “I understand you waited on Herman Mayer and Robert St. Amien last night.”

“Yeah, I did.” Dante straightened up. He couldn’t have been twenty-one, and he had the thick neck and polite manner of a high school wrestler. “I mean, yes. Yes, sir. Ma’am.”

“Do you recall the dinner?”

“Yeah, yes . Too bad about that Belgium guy, who got stabbed.”

“St. Amien was French,” Bennie corrected automatically. A waiter scurried around them to the kitchen, and she took Dante’s arm and edged him out of the way, toward the wall. “Anyway, what do you recall about it? Anything weird?”

“No.”

“Did they fight at all. Argue?”

“No.”

“How did they act?”

“Normal, no fighting. Just talked, you know, quietly. Sounded like business every time I went over. Nothing special, that way.” Dante flipped his tray under his arm like a notebook. “What I remember is the tip. The dude who paid, Mayer? He only left ten percent. They didn’t even drink much. Only the other guy, the dude who got killed, he had wine. Knew his wines, too.”