Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

Tommy had said, “Ahhh. I can’t talk now, Justine. How about dinner?”

She’d had to say okay, and added that Private would pick up the tab.

Now they were at Providence, one of the top restaurants in the country, a modern place, elegant but not sexy. That’s why Justine had chosen it. She wanted Tommy to feel flattered and well treated, without giving him any false signals. He’d hit on her before.

They were at a table in the corner, candlelight flickering, wineglasses in their hands. Providence was known for its fine seafood. Even red-meat lovers agreed that wild salmon with thin shavings of mushrooms could taste far better than steak.

Tommy was having a sirloin and apparently enjoying it. He sat back in his chair and looked at Justine, smiling as he chewed.

Justine sipped her wine, struck once again that Tommy looked exactly like Jack. He had the same dark blond hair and hazel eyes, identical build and posture—but in all the ways that counted, Tommy was precisely Jack’s opposite.

Where Jack was altruistic, Tommy was craven. Where Jack would give a person his full attention and really listen, Tommy would fix his eyes on you and try to manipulate you, find weaknesses to use against you.

He said, “I don’t know how much I can tell you about Danny Whitman. He was a weird little dude. And we weren’t buddies. Why do you want to know?”

“He’s a client.”

“Does Jack know that we’re having dinner?”

“He will when I put in my expense report.”

Tommy laughed, and Justine waited him out. Then she asked again, “Why was Danny Whitman at Blue Skies?”

“Depression, I think. He looked depressed, but he could have been there for other reasons. He saw his shrink and he kept to himself.”

“But you talked with him?”

“Jeez, Justine. We didn’t open up our hearts,” Tommy said. “Celebrities, you know. They keep to themselves if they’ve had enough experience with people selling their stories to the tabs. And now my turn. How is Jack? I haven’t heard anything since he went off to jail.”

“He’s out now.”

“Why do you think he killed Colleen?”

“Come on, Tommy. You know he didn’t kill her.”

“No, Justine, you come on. I think he did it.”

“He had no reason to do it. None.”

“Maybe he just snapped. You don’t know that Jack has a temper? I tell you from firsthand experience, he can throw a punch that cracks your jaw in three places.”

Tommy took off his jacket, made a production of rolling up his right sleeve. He showed Justine an old scar about five inches long, just above his elbow.

“This is from the time he broke my arm,” Tommy said, “over who got to ride in the front seat.”

Tommy was vile. She hated him. She knew to keep her thoughts to herself, but he’d given her an opening, so she took it.

She smiled and said, “I hope that really hurt.”

“Man, you still love the guy.”

Justine signaled to the waiter for the check.

“Anything else I can help you with?” Tommy asked. He was smirking.

“Sure, leave Jack’s clients alone. And confess to the police that you murdered Colleen or that you had her killed.”

“I can’t do that, sweetie. I can’t confess to something I didn’t do, just to make you happy. But I would do a lot of other things to make you happy. How about letting me take you out on what’s referred to as a ‘real date.’ ”