I said, “Would an early dinner work for you?”
She said early would be fine, and I guessed that if we met at six, I could be watching Tommy’s house by eight.
I drove to the Red O, just opened in 2010 by award-winning chef Rick Bayless. The place was visually dramatic, starting with the huge wooden doors that led from Melrose into a glass-covered courtyard.
Inside was a blend of design and architecture evoking South Beach and a hot resort town in Mexico. There was a communal table up front, hand-wrought chandeliers overhead, a curving glass tequila display tunnel, and huge pots of palms everywhere.
I’d read that the Mexican nouvelle cuisine here was incredible even in a town noted for its Mexican food. At six, I could smell the spicy chocolate aroma of mole and I realized I was hungry for a really good meal.
Jinx was waiting for me in one of the small eating spaces tucked into an alcove off the main room. The ottomans, couches, and deep chairs were all covered in black leather. As much as I liked the decor, though, Jinx was the real attraction.
We kissed cheeks, ordered drinks, and as soon as the waiter brought the tequila cocktails, Jinx said, “Tell me something good, Jack. I’m counting sheep at night, and last night I got into the hundreds of thousands.”
I smiled.
She said, “I mean it. Two hundred thousand.”
I smiled again and we both laughed.
It had been almost a week since I’d taken on Jinx Poole as a client, and Cruz and Del Rio had put a lot of time on her tab.
“I think we’re getting somewhere,” I said to Jinx.
The waiter took our order, and when he left, I told Jinx about Cruz’s night at Havana and about Del Rio and Cruz confronting a limo driver under the Sky Way earlier today.
“We have a pretty good idea how to find this Tyson Keyes. If he knows who killed the johns, we’re going to find out.”
“Why were Karen Ricci and Carmelita Gomez holding back his name?”
“Ricci was afraid of him,” I told her. “Apparently Keyes is abusive. I don’t know why women marry men like that. And I don’t understand why they stay with them.”
“My husband was abusive,” Jinx told me. “It’s complicated. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it.”
“Tell me,” I said.
Jinx sipped her drink. She had said she wanted to tell me, but I could see from her expression that it wasn’t an easy story to relate. I sat next to her and waited her out.
“I killed him,” she said. “I want you to know that I killed my husband.”
CHAPTER 87
NOTHING ABOUT JINX Poole said “killer” to me. She was smart, cool, a respected businesswoman, and her admission sounded literally, factually, unbelievable.
Yet I believed her.
Still, I was just about shocked out of my shoes—and I didn’t hide it.
“Jinx, you can’t tell me that you committed a felony. I’m not a lawyer and I’m not a priest. I can be subpoenaed. Forced to testify.”
“I don’t even understand why I want to tell you,” Jinx said to me. “But I feel I must. I want you to know about my husband’s death from me.”
I didn’t like this setup. I hardly knew Jinx Poole. Why was she confiding in me? The question jumped into my mind for the first time: Did she have something to do with the hotel murders?
“My husband was Clark Langston,” she said. “You’ve heard of him?”
“He owned some TV stations in the nineties?”
“Yes, that was him.”