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Liarson said. “You may find this offer comes at an opportune juncture.”
“You’re repeating yourself—”
“Last night’s incident aside, I mean,” Liarson said. “Our market surveys indicate Murray’s Delicatessen was an owner-driven establishment. Which is to say your uncle’s personality gave it a unique stamp of appeal—and drew its clientele. Upon his death, it instantly became a fading landmark.”
That made me bristle. “Last time I looked, your boss wasn’t privy to my cash receipts.”
“Ms. Silver, if you would please listen to me—”
“Forget it.” I’d nestled the receiver between my chin and shoulder and was waving my Pall Mall around in the air. “I think your attitude’s condescending and insulting…”
“Ms. Silver—”
I heard a beep in my ear, glanced at the telephone, and noticed a second button light up on the console. A call was coming in on another line.
Enough was enough. Disconnecting Liarson with a jab of my finger, I pushed the flashing button. “Murray’s.”
“Ms. Silver?”
Déjà vu. Or maybe not so much. I’d recognized the voice and it didn’t resemble the attorney’s a bit. “Detective McClintock?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Oh?”
“I wasn’t certain what time you’d be at the restaurant. We need to talk.”
I shoved the Pall Mall back in my mouth. His tone bothered me. It sounded…I don’t know. Loaded. But plucky native New Yorker that I was, my first instinct was to tackle whatever he had to say head-on—
Okay, I’m lying. Maybe it’s the post-traumatic stress of seeing my fraud of an ex-hub led out of our apartment in handcuffs, but dealing with the cops always makes me want to dive into a rabbit hole.
“I’m a million kinds of busy right now,” I said, figuring the same remark, more or less, had worked to put Liarson in a defensive position. “How about you call back this afternoon—?”
“I need you at the station, Ms. Silver.”
My heart knocked. “When?”
“The sooner, the better. As I said, there are things we need to discuss.”
I took a deep, long breath and almost sucked my cigarette down my windpipe. “What sort of things?”
McClintock didn’t answer. I hung on, waiting.
“Look, I’ll give you a heads-up, although I probably shouldn’t,” he finally said in a low voice. “Keep this in your pocket all right?”
Knock-knock-knock. “All right,” I said.
“The medical examiner’s turned in a preliminary lab workup,” McClintock said. “They don’t usually come this fast. But Buster Sergeant’s a VIP, and that tends to speed along the process.” His voice dropped another notch. “I’m the first to see the report and it isn’t good.”
I scanned the floor for that hole I felt like bolting into. No go. “What’s it say?”
“It indicates Sergeant was deliberately poisoned at your restaurant,” McClintock said.
“Poi—how?”
“Ms. Silver, we can discuss it when you get here. I’m right up the street. The precinct’s right in the tower at Bridgestone. Take the elevator to the third floor—”
“I know where to find it,” I said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
McClintock grunted. “I’ll be in my office,” he said.
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