“Right! What are you working on in Chicago? Is it for the FBI or research for a new book?”
She tried to smile again but it felt like a wince; she wondered what it looked like.
“You’ve been so gracious,” she said, “and I don’t mean to be rude… but, really, that’s something I can’t talk about.”
Vincent patted the air. “It’s okay, it’s okay… business is business. I understand. The feds get nutzoid about leaks.”
“…Thanks for not pressing.”
“No problem.” Then he leaned in. “But tell me — is it this serial killer thing? The bones at the Biograph?”
Somehow Brennan willed her mouth not to drop open.
She had thought that no one outside of the Booth/Brennan circle knew about the case; but once the Chicago police were in on it, she should have known nothing would remain secret. Too many people were involved for it to stay quiet.
At least the media didn’t seem to have it yet.
But Vincent Gianelli did.
“You don’t have to answer,” Vincent said. “I just figured, with your background? You’d be in on that.”
A waiter approached, short, in his early twenties, with swept-back black hair. Like the rest of the wait staff and Lisa the bartender, he wore a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks.
“This is Hector,” Vincent said. “He’s our best. He’ll be your server.”
The young, Hispanic-looking waiter smiled and placed Brennan’s glass of wine from the bar on the table. The glass had been refilled.
Despite all this hospitality, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask Vincent to join her — she really didn’t feel she had the interrogative skills to pump the man about the missing Musetti without giving herself away.
Besides, Vincent was taking his leave, finally.
“I really do love your writing,” he said. “It’s so true to life…. If you need anything while you’re in thearea, don’t hesitate to call.”
Brennan nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Gianelli.”
“Vincent. Please. Make it Vincent.”
“Thank you, Vincent.”
“You’re very welcome, Temperance.”
As he turned and strode away, Vincent Gianelli seemed very pleased with himself.
Brennan couldn’t tell if the mobbed-up restaurateur really was a big fan, or if he was pumping her for information. He seemed to know what was going on in this city even before the media, so the fact that she was working on a case with Booth might well have been known to him.
On the other hand, she wasn’t working on the Gianelli/Musetti case against his family, so what was Brennan to him?
Hector handed her a menu.
“I’ll give you a minute to make your selection,” Hector said, and disappeared.
When the waiter returned, Brennan made her choice, then nursed the second glass of wine until her food arrived. She ate quickly, and really enjoyed the meal — gangsters or not, the Gianellis knew how to run a restaurant.
As the waiter refilled her cup for a final after-dinner coffee, Brennan asked for the bill.
“On the house,” Hector said.
“No, I could never…”
Hector waved a hand. “Mr. Gianelli said you would say that. He said to tell you this is standard procedure for celebrities who join our Wall of Fame.”
“And did he tell you I would very likely insist on paying no matter what you or he said?”
With a sideways smile, Hector said, “Yes, he did — pretty much word for word.”
Brennan assumed she was supposed to find that charming; she did not.
“Hector, please get me the check.”
The waiter shook his head. “Normally at Siracusa, the customer is always right; but I learned a long time ago that here? Mr. Gianelli’s wishes are my wishes.”
“Hec-tor….”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Brennan — I don’t have it.”
“Then get me Mr. Gianelli.”
“I can’t, ma’am. He’s left for the evening.”
Nonetheless, Brennan tossed two twenties on the table. Perhaps Hector would end up with a hell of a tip, but Brennan could not allow herself to be comped for dinner by the likes of Vincent Gianelli.
She sat in the car, cooling down as she read the map by the light on the ceiling, and picked a route back to the hotel.
As her fingers touched the ignition key, Brennan thought about everything she knew about the mob, the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra; she read mostly nonfiction and had taken in her share of true crime.
But she also thought about The Godfather, one of the handful of movies she’d bothered to see in her life.
Remembering the scene where Michael’s Italian wife got blown up when she started a car, Brennan felt a momentary chill.
Then she smiled at herself in her rearview mirror, and mouthed, “Silly.”
Anyway, she wasn’t working on anything mob-related, though, was she? That was Booth’s domain.
She had tried to help him out a little by talking to Musetti’s girlfriend (though he’d be irritated with her for that). And — just as Booth had told her it would — that had pretty much been a fool’s errand.
She turned the key and the Crown Vic roared to life, and she said to herself in the mirror, “See — we didn’t blow up.”
She swung out of the parking lot, drove a block, got on the expressway, and headed east.
The night was dark but cloudless, with lots of stars and a very white half-moon. Obeying the speed limit, Brennan drove along, enjoying the solitude and freedom.
Although she worked with a good-sized staff at the Jeffersonian, Brennan was basically a loner, and the last few days she had found herself surrounded by other people at every turn.
It felt good just to be alone for a while.
Every now and then a car would pass her, but for this time of night, traffic was scant. When the white SUV pulled up behind her, Brennan noticed but paid little attention. She assumed it would pass her soon enough.
It didn’t.
After a mile or so, she began to get anxious, and was reaching for her cell phone to call Booth when, finally, the SUV pulled around her and passed.
She shook her head and sighed.
This whole thing was starting to get to her.
Two days of excavating the victims of a decades-busy serial killer, then “relaxing” by hanging out with a slick, sick gangster at his restaurant… well. No wonder she was exhausted, physically and mentally.
She knew all she needed was a good night’s sleep. But she’d wait till she was in bed at the hotel, and not behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, before getting started….
The rest of the trip was uneventful and she turned the car into the hotel garage, grateful the end of this long day was finally in sight. She had found her way home all by herself, which would have no doubt wounded Booth’s pride, and was now ready to take a shower and get to bed.
She pulled the Crown Vic into a parking spot in the hotel’s parking ramp, got out, and locked the vehicle with the remote on her keys.
Trudging up the level to the elevator at the far end, her purse swung over her shoulder, she passed parked cars on either side of the aisle. As she neared the end, she glimpsed a white SUV.
She stopped and stared at it, fighting the urge to go look in the windows.
Sure, it reminded her of the one that had spooked her on the freeway; but white SUVs were hardly uncommon….
Brennan was walking past the rear of the vehicle when the back door flew open.
Instinctively she threw up her arms, which kept the door from hitting her in the face, but it came at her with such force, she was knocked off balance anyway, and almost went down, staggering back. Her purse flew off her shoulder, skidding under a car behind her.