The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 9

  Our waitress showed up then, dressed in black pants, a turquoise blouse, and a white apron—the last two trimmed in black-and-white checkers. Her white name tag identified her as Ashley. She was as adorable as her retro outfit, with a high ponytail, rosy cheeks, and rosebud lips.

  “Doctor Coccia!” she greeted him in a chirpy voice. “So nice to see you again. You’re getting to be a regular here.”

  “Why not? Can’t beat the food . . . or the service,” he responded with a smile.

  I suffered a pang of jealousy. Not “he belongs to me” jealousy, but “it’s our first date, darn it, don’t rock the boat” jealousy. All right, I might have been a little paranoid; I’d once gone out with a guy from an online dating site who spent most of the evening ogling our waitress, making it clear that he’d rather be with her than with me. Would Mark turn out to be that kind of jerk?

  Ashley took our nonalcoholic drink orders and talked us into a hummus dip with pita wedges as a shared appetizer. After I ordered a dinner-sized Caesar salad and Mark requested the spinach pie, the waitress she kept asking sweetly if there was anything else at all she could get for us (or at least Mark, I thought). But whether she was just hoping for a generous tip or really flirting, he remained oblivious, and once she had left, his vivid blue eyes zeroed back in on me.

  He asked, “So what does Cassie stand for? Cassandra?”

  I nodded. “A strange name for an Irish girl, maybe, but it was my grandmother’s.”

  “It’s originally Greek, I think,” he said, still studying me. “Cassandra was a prophetess . . . a wise woman.”

  “Not so sure that applies!” I laughed. The offhanded compliment flustered me, and I deliberately shifted to a more neutral subject. “Do you eat here often?”

  “Lately I have been. Whenever I get stuck late at the clinic and haven’t stocked my refrigerator in a while.”

  Sounded like a lonely bachelor problem. My hopes rose.

  “In situations like that, I tend to mooch off Dawn,” I admitted. “Her shop has a freezer full of health foods, and she also can whip up a nutritious, politically correct, and tasty meal in record time. She really came through for me the night after I found DeLeuw’s body, when I was too shaky to even boil water.”

  Mark’s straight dark brows drew together in sympathy. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. I guess you were questioned by the cops and everything?”

  Our appetizer came, and while we scooped up the garlicky hummus with our pita wedges, I recounted the whole ordeal.

  “The weird thing is,” I said, “when I went to the viewing, people there seemed almost cold about George’s death. His ex-wife . . . well, maybe that’s not so surprising. But also his sister, his assistant, his coworkers. I didn’t see anyone cry except his housekeeper! Makes me wonder if any of them hated him enough to have killed him . . . or arranged for him to be killed.”

  “I guess it’s possible. Someone could have disliked him and thought they had a lot to gain from an inheritance. On the other hand, it might just have been a stranger looking for something to steal.”

  “Have to be pretty desperate and stupid, though, wouldn’t he? In the middle of the day, with the owner and two of his staff on the property?”

  Mark shrugged. “Drug addicts do some crazy things. At veterinary school, we had people try to steal ketamine, morphine. . . sometimes while a vet was right in the next room!”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that too.” By way of explanation, I quickly added, “I worked as a vet tech for a couple of years.”

  “No kidding.” His eyes sparked, as if he might consider hiring me. “Why did you stop?”

  Before I could respond, the perky waitress brought our dinners. We’d just started on them when a man of about seventy, in a plaid shirt and well-worn jeans, stopped by our table. His faced appeared creased with worry as he stooped to address Mark.

  “Dr. Coccia . . . really sorry to bother you while you’re eating.”

  “That’s all right, Pete. What’s up?”

  “I was gonna call your clinic, but it’s closed now, and then I saw you here.... My dog, Honey, ain’t doing so good.”

  “She’s the retriever, right? What’s wrong?”

  Pete went into a recital of the elderly dog’s past visits to the clinic for various ailments. “Now she wants to go out—y’know—all the time. Like, almost every hour. If nobody’s home, she has an accident ’cause she can’t hold it. An’ this afternoon my wife got upset ’cause the pee was kinda bloody. She thought maybe we should take her to that twenty-four-hour emergency clinic on the highway, but it’s so expensive. . . .”

  Mark nodded. “It’s probably not that kind of an emergency. Knowing Honey’s history, it could be just a urinary tract infection. Can you bring her in tomorrow around eleven? We’re pretty booked, but I can fit you in then. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” The lines of Pete’s face lifted a bit in relief, and for the first time he glanced at me. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No problem,” I told him, appreciating Mark’s patience. When the man had left, I told Mark, “And I thought only human doctors got asked for medical advice while they were out to dinner.”

  Mark shook his head. “That doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. His dog is nine—old for a big breed—but he and his wife are very attached to her. Not the most pleasant subject for dinnertime, though.”

  “Luckily, I’m also used to dealing with animals who sometimes have ‘accidents.’ ” We went back to our meals, and I picked up the former thread of our conversation. “You asked me why I quit being a tech. The truth is, I burnt out fast. So many of the animals we saw were beyond saving—too badly neglected or abused. It felt good when we could actually help one or two, but I was losing my faith in human nature.” I tried to lighten the mood. “I always got compliments on my grooming skills, though, so I decided to concentrate on those. At least these days most of my customers really care about their pets, and giving a cat a bad haircut doesn’t have life-or-death consequences. With short-term boarding, too, I don’t have to handle a lot of health crises.”

  Mark focused on me again. “So the next natural question is, why just cats?”

  I laughed. “I love all animals, but cats have special needs. Often, they don’t do well in a place that also boards dogs. The odors and barking can make them nervous.”

  “True. We have that problem at the clinic, even with the ones that just have to stay a few days for observation.”

  “I’m sure you also know that cats are harder to groom. Some really hate being restrained and can put up a heck of a fight. When I learned that a lot of groomers refuse to deal with cats at all, I knew I’d found my niche.”

  “Cats are tougher than most people realize,” Mark agreed, with a smile. “They may be small, but they move fast and those little claws can slash like razors. I give you credit—you’re a brave woman!”

  Though he said it in a half-teasing way, the compliment almost embarrassed me. “You’re the brave one. You hung in there, where I couldn’t.” I told him about the sad old man I’d seen on my last visit to the clinic, the little collar sticking out of his pocket as he settled up his bill. “You deal with the really hard stuff.”

  Ashley took away our empty plates, and since Mark and I were on a conversational roll, we both ordered coffee. I heard my cell phone vibrate faintly in my purse, but doubted it was anything that couldn’t wait. After our coffees came, along with the check, I asked Mark how he’d decided to become a veterinarian.

  “My dad was an orthopedic surgeon,” he said. “When I started bringing home injured birds, and stray cats and dogs with various problems, my folks indulged me. They figured someday I’d go into medicine too. But even after I grew up, I liked doctoring animals more than people. They don’t argue with you or lie to you or make excuses . . . even though their owners sometimes do.”

  I twisted my mouth at the memories. “Yeah, that’s the part that alway
s got to me.”

  “Though I have to say, most people are really grateful when you’re able to help their pets. And even the animals seem to appreciate it.”

  Dr. Coccia was far more than just a pretty face, I decided. He was smart, funny, and kind. And it was a rare experience for me to be able to talk shop with someone who really understood my unusual line of work.

  I might have been wearing some type of moony expression, because he dropped his gaze to the check and pulled it toward him.

  “Really, I should treat,” I volunteered, “since I suggested dinner.”

  “Did you? I thought we both came up with the idea at about the same time.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out a few bills for the tip. “How about I take care of this, and maybe you can get the next one?”

  Next one, eh? I liked the sound of that. “Fair enough.”

  Mark clasped his hands on the table and shifted to a more serious tone. “I should tell you, Cassie, that I’m just out of a long relationship. As in, we broke up a couple of weeks ago. And I don’t know your situation—maybe you’re involved with somebody. . . .”

  “Not at the moment,” I told him smoothly. He didn’t have to know that “the moment” encompassed the past six months since I’d call it quits with Andy.

  Mark nodded once in acknowledgment. “I had a great time talking with you tonight, and I really like you. But I’m still a little shell-shocked right now, so I’d rather keep it light for a while.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn’t sound so good. Did I screw things up somehow?

  But aloud I said, “Absolutely. I went through a rough breakup myself not so long ago, so I’m kind of in the same place.”

  “Glad you understand,” Mark said. “ ’Cause I would like to see you again.”

  My sense of dread eased. “I’d like that too.”

  On our way out, Mark paid the cashier, and we agreed to check back with each other after I moved Harpo into my shop. He walked me to my car and pecked me on the cheek, probably as conscious as I was that passersby might see us and start the rumor mill spinning. (Not that Pete couldn’t get one started all by himself if he cared to.)

  As I slid behind the wheel of my Honda, I told myself I was fine with the idea of “keeping it light for a while,” as long as it wasn’t just a brush-off. Mark Coccia seemed like a guy worth waiting for.

  I was about to turn the ignition key when I remembered the muted phone call and wondered if I might have a message. I did, from an unfamiliar number.

  The recorded voice was unfamiliar too—male and probably young, but with an oddly formal speaking style. I also could hear occasional, muffled PA-type announcements in the background.

  “Cassie McGlone, this is Dion Janos, son of Nicholas Janos. He asked me to tell you that he finished the post for your back stairs, but he won’t be able to come by tomorrow to install it, as he planned to. I had to take him to Saint Catherine’s tonight, and he’s there now in intensive care. He may have had a heart attack.”

  Chapter 10

  St. Catherine’s Medical Center, on the highway just outside Chadwick, was one of several small hospitals in a county network. Around eight p.m. on a weeknight, the ICU was busy but not overwhelmed, and only half a dozen visitors sat in the gray molded-plastic chairs of the waiting area, most on their cell phones.

  It didn’t take me long to spot Dion, even though I’d never met him before. About thirty, he sported collar-length dirty-blond hair and chin stubble at least two days old. He wore black sweatpants, a gray hoodie, and sneakers that no longer resembled whatever color they originally might have been.

  He sat hunched with his elbows on his knees and gripped his smartphone with both hands, although he stared off in the general direction of the glass-walled nurses’ station. He might have sounded almost robotic on the phone, but his posture conveyed how worried he really was.

  I had to touch his shoulder to get his attention. “Dion?”

  He startled like a deer and looked up in confusion. I might have been the Grim Reaper, checking in with him before I went to take his father away.

  “I’m Cassie McGlone. You left me a phone message about your dad’s condition.”

  “Yes. And you . . . came here?”

  Was he grateful or annoyed? I didn’t meant to intrude, but knowing he and his father had only each other, Mrs. Janos having passed a few years back, I thought he might need the support.

  To make it sound more casual, I told him, “I was already in my car, and I wanted to see how Nick was doing. Have you had any news?”

  Dion relaxed just a little at my explanation. His pale gray eyes and blond lashes gave him the look of a creature that rarely saw the sun. The black T-shirt that peeked through the gap in his hoodie bore a bright green mandala-like design of electronic circuitry. “Pop’s awake and talking, and I guess the pain has eased up. They sent me out because they’re running tests on him. Electrocardiogram and bloodwork.”

  I nodded, remembering that routine from a couple of close calls my own father had survived. Turned out his heart was fine. That didn’t make any difference, unfortunately, when a hit-and-run driver ended his life three years ago.

  I’m sure my mother and I were still affected by that event in ways we might not even realize. At least back then we could turn to each other to help us survive the loss of Dad. But Dion seemed to have no one to lean on but Nick. Maybe that was why, even though I hardly knew him, I felt moved to offer some support, at least until his father was out of the woods.

  In case Dion didn’t understand medical terminology as well as he did electronics, I explained, “Those tests will tell them if it was really a heart attack, or something less serious.”

  “Really?” The idea that it might be a false alarm seemed to calm Dion a bit, and he loosened the death grip on his phone.

  Sitting next to him, I asked what had happened. He said his father had been complaining since the early afternoon about pains in his left arm, and thought he’d strained it lifting some lumber. But while they were eating dinner, the discomfort had turned into chest pains and finally he’d allowed Dion to drive him to the medical center.

  “He’s had problems like this before, hasn’t he?” I asked.

  “Yes, but not for a while. He was watching his diet, taking an aspirin every night, and trying to avoid stress.” Abruptly, Dion broke off eye contact and swallowed hard. “This is probably my fault.”

  “What is? You mean, because you were questioned by the police?”

  “I guess he told you about all that. She called me back in this morning, that Detective Bonelli. She thinks George DeLeuw was killed because of something to do with my invention. Now the FBI is getting involved!”

  Wow, I thought, who’d have expected things to go that far? “Why would they be interested?”

  Dion sighed as if he wished he’d never heard of DeLeuw and maybe even wished he’d never come up with whatever it was he’d invented. “They were going over the guy’s personal files and found a lot of material they think was encrypted using my method. The FBI has code breakers, but even they couldn’t decrypt it.” A brief smile of pride brightened his scruffy features. “Anyhow, Detective Bonelli kept browbeating me to give them the key. She kept coming back to that, even though I told her I have no idea what the key might be. DeLeuw would have programmed that himself. And he can’t tell anyone now, can he? Because he’s dead.”

  Dion stated this in a flat, almost callous tone. Because he’d killed George himself, or just because George’s murder was turning out to be a major pain in the neck for him and his dad?

  Maybe the guy was just irritable from fatigue and worry. I noticed a sign forbidding any food or drink in the waiting room, and made a suggestion. “Nick’s probably going to be tied up with those tests for a while, and you may have a long night ahead. Want to step out for a minute and get some coffee?”

  “That’s a good idea.” He stood up, started for the hall, and looked almost surprised when I
came along with him. No wonder Nick kept trying to fix this guy up. Dion acted as if his only social life took place in virtual reality.

  Because he didn’t think of it, I told the ICU nurse where we would be, and asked if Dion could be notified in case of any news. She promised to call the cafeteria.

  A few minutes later Dion and I both drank sludgy coffee and nibbled prepackaged muffins at a wobbly laminate-topped table. I felt as if I were on the worst blind date ever as I tried to draw him out. “So, Dion, what do you actually do? I mean, for a living? Your father mentioned that you have clients coming to the house.”

  His air of depression briefly fell away. “I’m a games tester and a freelance programmer. Companies that design new video games send them to people like me for testing before they put them on the market. I find obvious glitches, and I also give them tips sometimes on how to make the game more challenging. That’s the part I enjoy the most, but it’s not steady. So I also do programming of all kinds for small businesses.”

  At least he did have a real job, I thought, even though the spotty income probably explained why he still lived with his dad. Of course, maybe he just preferred to, for company. “And I guess that’s how you came up with your invention? What does it involve, exactly?”

  Dion sized me up for a second and obviously concluded I was not very high-tech savvy. I sensed he was translating his explanation into the simplest possible terms. “It’s a new process for performing more rapid public key encryption and decryption.” He kept his voice low, probably so no one sitting around us in the coffee shop would hijack his idea. “See, right now public key encryption involves two separate keys—a public one and a private one—to encrypt or decrypt messages and files. Because of... well, their mathematical properties . . . the private key can’t be determined from the public key.”

  He scrutinized my face for some sign of comprehension. I humored him with a nod so he would continue.