“Sure. Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says, dropping her bag on the couch. She turns to me and salutes me in grandiose fashion, a reminder of my awkward gesture last time. If it were remotely amusing, I would smile. But it isn’t, so I don’t. It’s so far from amusing that I couldn’t see amusing with a telescope. This is bad. I don’t know how else to say it, like the temperature changes when she walks in, the lights dim—something. This lady is bad news.

Not that she notices or cares what I think. She waltzes right past me and throws her arms around Jason. He seems a bit surprised by the public display of affection.

“Well, that’s my cue,” I say.

“Good luck with the trial,” Jason calls out as I walk away. I don’t bother with an answer.

49.

Jason

Sunday, July 7

The Jason Kolarich Bizarro Tour continues onward. With July 4 falling on a Thursday, most people took off Friday and made it a four-day weekend. I guess I did, too, technically, by which I mean I didn’t go in to work any of those days. But I barely left the house, afraid of encountering anybody that could end up being the next victim of “James Drinker” simply because they spoke to me and happen to be female, young, and attractive.

So Alexa picks up my dry cleaning. She shops for groceries. She even took in my car for an oil change. And she spends the night, every night.

I have to credit Alexa for the suggestion that we spend each night together so that my friend the serial killer can’t frame me for another murder. A nice chess move; we’ve blocked his king. If nothing else, it has bought me time while Joel Lightner and I try to figure out who the hell this guy is.

But tonight, I tell Alexa we’re going out to a new Greek place that everyone’s talking about. By everyone, I mean Joel Lightner, who mentioned it was popular. Alexa questions the wisdom of the decision, but doesn’t put up a fight. She’s probably feeling as cooped up as me.

So out we go, Alexa dolled up in one of her summer dresses and me looking like someone who badly needs a good meal, a haircut, and clothes that are a size smaller. The place is about as fancy as a Greek restaurant is going to get, which is to say not very fancy at all, but apparently they do some interesting things with the seafood and they have a dozen brands of ouzo and the lighting is a little darker.

We’re in the bar area, doubling as the waiting area for the packed restaurant, and I do what I do whenever I leave the house now—I look for “James.” Look without looking, trying for discretion, and not focusing too hard. Sometimes it’s easier to find something when you’re not actually looking for it, so I just try to keep my observation level as high as possible and wait to see if anything sticks out, lingering eye contact or, better yet, hastily broken eye contact, followed by defensive body language.

“James” could be here right now, in disguise or otherwise—but probably in disguise, given the security camera at the front door of the establishment. All I know for certain is he’s muscular; I don’t think he could have faked that. I don’t know if he has a big gut or if he wore something to make himself look fat. I don’t know his hair color, but assume it isn’t red, or long and curly, either. I never got a great look at his face because he was wearing those thick glasses, but still—I think if we were face-to-face, I could make him.

There must be over a hundred people packed into the bar area and overflowing into the dining area. Nobody jumps out at me at first blush.

Nobody except Joel Lightner, sitting at the bar by himself.

Alexa excuses herself to the bathroom, so I’m loitering with a cocktail and waiting for someone to give us a seat. My phone buzzes and I check it, always wondering if it’s going to be my lucky day and it’s “James” again. But it’s not. It’s Shauna, and I’m not particularly in the mood for hearing about how different I’ve become or registering the tinge of disappointment in her voice, so I let it go to voice mail.

The hostess standing behind the podium is a stunning blond woman, wearing a sleeveless black dress and wearing it very nicely. Nice tan. Nice cut to her arms. Nice smile. Nice cleavage.

“You come here often?” I ask.

She laughs. Nice laugh.

“Too often,” she says.

“What are the odds I can get moved up in line?” I ask.

“Not good.”

“What if I told you I was a lawyer?”

“Even worse, then.”

My turn to smile. “I see you have good taste.”

“Which one are you?” She looks down at the list. “Ko-LAHR-ick, right?”

“Right person, wrong pronunciation. KOH-la-rich,” I say. “Kola like the drink, rich like wealthy.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“A last name. My first is Jason.”

I pull out my wallet and remove a business card. As a rule, I hate it when people do that. I hand it over the podium to her. She takes it and reads from it. “‘Tasker and Kolarich.’ What kind of a lawyer are you?”

“A bored one.”

“Can I keep the card?” she asks, flashing a smile for the ages.

“If you didn’t, I’d be insulted.”

“Oh, there you are.” Alexa grabs hold of my arm, throwing her weight into me. “Sorry that took me so long!”

“Hey there,” I say, keeping my balance. “Alexa, this is—”

“Our hostess! It’s really super to meet you!” Her tone is less than sincere. And the look on her face is less than friendly.

The hostess isn’t sure what to make of that. She looks at me.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say. I extend my hand to shake the hostess’s. Then I steer Alexa back into the main crowd. “What the hell was that?”

“I was going to ask you the same . . . thing,” she says, slapping my chest, part playfully and part not. “Are you here with me or are you here with the hostess?” She is wearing an artificial smile, but her eyes are burning.

“Hey.” I step back from her. “I was just talking to someone while you were in the bathroom. What’s the big deal?”

“And what were you talking about? The stock market? Global warming? Or were you exchanging phone numbers?” She keeps that icy smile on her face, her eyes shooting lasers.

“If you must know,” I answer, “we were discussing the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the Middle East.”

The smile turns into a frown.

“We decided we were against it,” I add.

Still frowning.

I throw up my hands. “We were just talking.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I noticed.”

“Ko-LAHR-ick for two?” the hostess calls out, needling me. “Ko-LAIR-itch?”

“I don’t like it,” Alexa repeats before she follows a waiter into the dining room.

50.

Jason

Sunday, July 7

Once Alexa and I are seated, we order some shrimp on a sizzling plate with garlic and onions for an appetizer while we peruse the menu.

“Lawyers give out their business cards,” I say to Alexa. “That’s what they’re for.”

“I see. You did it for business,” she says, looking at the menu, her expression as hard as stone. “You think this hostess knows a bunch of criminals and she’ll refer them to you.”