“Charlotte Simpson, the girl who checked us in at the motel, says she and Tony McEnroe are seeing each other.”
Kennedy stared at him. “Now there’s a piece of information. Did she offer to alibi him?”
“No. Was she at the party? Her statement wasn’t in my stack.”
“Mine neither. But we don’t have statements from everyone at the party yet. Here we are.” Kennedy abruptly turned down a small alleyway. It smelled dank. Moss grew along the walls. They went up a short flight of stone steps, and there sat the Jade Empress.
Despite its grand name, the Jade Empress was a modest establishment. In fact, it was downright tiny. It hadn’t existed sixteen years ago; that, Jason was sure of.
There were no more than six linen-covered tables in the dining room, two of them filled with Asian patrons enjoying deliciously aromatic meals.
Jason’s stomach growled so loudly the petite hostess leading them to their table laughed.
They were seated by a window overlooking the dark alley. Kennedy’s chair squeaked loudly as he lowered his weight onto it, but that was as much about the fragility of the old furniture as Kennedy’s size. The table seemed small too, and Jason wondered if he and his dinner companion would spend their meal knocking knees. He had to swallow a smile at the thought.
He picked up the menu and studied it. The Good Fortune Special. The Little Empress Special. The Laughing Samurai Special. Safe to say there would be no genial sharing of plates and exotic flavors with Kennedy. That idea also struck Jason as funny, and he decided he must be suffering from low blood sugar.
Kennedy laid his menu aside and gazed out the window.
Jason made his selection—how could you resist something called Bang Bang Chicken?—and put his own menu down.
Kennedy’s profile did not invite conversation, so Jason studied the restaurant décor. Jewel-colored paper lanterns, oversized folding fans, and subtly tinted Sansebiao hanging scrolls that looked like they might actually be contemporary originals.
Asian art was not his area of expertise—that would be twentieth century California Impressionism—but he knew a little. Everybody on the ACT knew a little about a lot of art. And they were always learning more. With only sixteen agents to cover the entire country, they could never possibly know enough.
The waiter—short, chubby, and jovial—arrived, and they placed their orders. Jason also ordered a Tsingtao—he felt sure he was going to need a drink to get through this meal—and Kennedy ordered something called Naale Stoutbeer.
The waiter departed, and Kennedy went back to staring out the window.
It began to irk Jason.
They were never going to be pals, but did that mean they couldn’t be polite? It wasn’t like Jason had begged to be put on this case. He had been tired after Boston—his first real investigation since returning from sick leave—and had been looking forward to a few days off. It was taking him longer than he’d expected to get back to full speed, and he wasn’t sure why. He was trying to be a team player.
A concept clearly foreign to Kennedy.
Jason said, “Gervase wants to believe McEnroe is his guy. I just don’t buy it.”
Kennedy glanced his way, and Jason once again had the impression he’d been all but forgotten. Kennedy seemed to consider. “He pulled a gun on you.”
“Yes.” Jason was not likely to forget it. “I could see McEnroe killing someone by accident or lashing out with fatal consequences. I have trouble picturing him premeditating murder.”
He was surprised when Kennedy said, “I agree. If he’s our unsub, Madigan’s murder was not premeditated. It would have been an accident or a violent impulse aggravated by drugs and alcohol.”
“Gervase views McEnroe as an undesirable. That might be behind his push to have McEnroe go down for this. He’d like to get rid of McEnroe on general principles.”
“Nobody’s a model citizen one hundred percent of the time.”
The waiter brought their beers. Jason picked his glass up. “Cheers.” Kennedy eyes flickered. Jason continued, “I don’t see McEnroe as someone capable of successfully concealing his crime for any length of time. I think he’d panic. I think he’d make one dumb mistake after another.”
Kennedy’s lips curved in a wintry smile. “Probably.”
“You don’t think he’s guilty either.”
Kennedy did not agree or disagree. “I’m having trouble with the timeline. McEnroe left the Madigans’ around ten thirty. Witnesses corroborate that. And we’ve got it on record Rebecca continued to party for the next two and a half hours as though she hadn’t a care in the world. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t fuming inside and that she didn’t eventually storm over to have it out with McEnroe, but there are no calls to him on her cell phone, and there wouldn’t have been time for him to return her car to the garage before people noticed she was missing. One of the first things her friends did was check whether her car was still there.”
“Assuming the witnesses are telling the truth.”
“There’s always that.”