Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery by Clare O'Donohue Page B

has a teasing quality” and “it’s retro but with a modern feel.”
    Erik questioned each ingredient, clearly offering one too many suggestions. I could see Walt trying to be patient, until he finally snapped. “You’re front of house, Erik. You worry about the ambience. I’ll worry about the food.”
    Ilena jumped in to defend Erik, but then Walt offered his resignation if there was no faith in his ability. Roman finally put a stop to it with a quick, “He’s the chef.” The others quickly backed down. My hopes for another on-camera outburst went unfulfilled.
    Vera just stood to the side and tried to look cheerful. At one point I saw her making a face at me, a “Have you found out anything?” face. I shook my head. I was still going over my conversation with Walt, but the more I thought about it, the less information I seemed to have. The fires, at Walt’s restaurant and at Roman’s years ago, might be important, or they could be a coincidence. Walt’s nervousness about the subject might mean something, or it could just be a star chef wanting to say good things about his boss. This whole place might be a front for some underworld business of Roman’s, I suddenly realized. That excited me for a moment. It would certainly be a more interesting episode if they were really a criminal enterprise, and more palatable if the annoying personalities were just put on to hide the truth.
    But as I looked around the room, at this cluster of mismatched snobs, I decided I wouldn’t get that lucky.
    After the tasting was over, Roman started to walk out.
    “You still have a mic on,” I called after Roman. Victor was texting someone on his phone, paying no attention.
    “Can I take this off?” Roman looked at me. “I have to make a call.”
    “We still have stuff to shoot,” I told him. “But it’s wireless, so Victor can turn it off for now.”
    Finally Victor snapped to attention, but then got flustered turning off the mic. Roman looked put out for the entire twenty seconds it took for Victor to finish. Then he left the restaurant, dialing as he walked out.
    “Charming guy,” I said to Vera.
    “He’s just stressed. He’s got about a dozen deals going on at once.”
    We watched out the window as Roman paced up and down, having a quiet but obviously angry conversation with whomever was on the other end.
    “You think he’s the type to make threatening phone calls?” I asked.
    “One of the first things he told me is that he doesn’t like to lose,” Vera said. “He said he’ll do anything rather than let it happen.”
    I looked back at Ilena, chatting with Erik and Walt. “I wonder what he’s afraid he’ll lose?”

Seventeen
    T he investors had a meeting they didn’t want on tape, so I reluctantly agreed to get lost for a half hour. Andres, Victor, and I shot some exteriors of the building, a crumbling art deco structure made all the more depressing by the brown of midwinter. Then, just to keep ourselves busy, we got some footage of the neighborhood, an area known as the South Loop. Once the city’s vice district, it’s an up-and-coming neighborhood that attracts young professionals but isn’t, at least not yet, the center of fun for the high-end gossip pages crowd Club Car was aiming to get.
    “I wonder why they chose here?” I said to Andres as we ducked into a local coffee shop.
    “Who cares? These people are brats.” He put the camera on the seat next to him and ordered black coffee for himself and green tea for Victor, who was outside checking his phone messages.
    “Hot chocolate for me,” I said to the waitress. “And three slices of apple pie.” Once she left with our order, I turned to Andres. “We need something sweet to balance out what a grouch you’ve become.”
    “Not me. Him.”
    Just as Andres spoke, Victor walked in. “What did I do now?”
    “Sit down,” I told him. “And tell me what’s going on, so you two can kiss and make up. It’s hard enough spending time with