“We understand that Mr. Sinclair was here this evening, is that correct?” Paul asked.
A coy smile played at her red lips. “Yes. He came in and, as usual, waited to be seated in my section. He had the house specialty. Then he moved to the bar for a cocktail.”
“So he is a regular?” Paul asked.
“Yes. Twice a week for the past, oh, gosh, five years.”
“So you know him pretty well?” Andy asked.
She gave him a haughty stare. “Yes. I like to get to know my customers.”
“When would you say he left the restaurant?” Paul inquired, drawing her attention.
“I really couldn’t say. He sat at the bar for a while.” Angela gestured to the bar. “You should ask Rod.”
“We will,” Andy said, and moved to the bar.
“Thank you for your time,” Paul said. “Just one last question. Does Sinclair normally come in on Tuesday nights?”
Angela’s eyebrows drew together. “Now that you mention it, no. Usually Thursday nights and Friday afternoons for lunch. I often sit with him for a while on Thursday nights. But tonight we were slammed, so I wasn’t able to.”
Paul narrowed his gaze. “Do you usually sit with your customers?”
She gave him a bold smile. “Only the ones that tip well.”
“Ah. Thank you. If I have any other questions, I’ll know where to find you.” Paul joined Andy with the bartender, Rod.
“Rod, here, was just saying that Sinclair joined a young woman at the bar tonight,” Andy informed Paul.
Paul recorded the information in his notepad. “Did you happen to hear the woman’s name?”
Rod, a muscular man with a crew cut and a scar on one cheek, shook his head. “No, sorry, dude. She came in and sat here nursing a glass of house wine. When Sinclair got up to leave, she halted him and invited him to sit with her. I got the impression he was surprised. They both drank a scotch and sat talking for about forty minutes, maybe longer. I was busy, so I didn’t hear any of their conversation.”
“What time did he leave?” Paul asked.
“Eight-ish, I think.”
Paul exchanged a glance with Andy. So far Sinclair’s alibi checked out. “Was he here the whole time?”
Rod shrugged. “I don’t know what time he came in. He ordered his first drink from me sometime after seven.”
“Did the woman pay with a credit card?” Andy asked.
Rod shook his head. “No. Actually, Mr. Sinclair picked up the tab.”
“For her wine, as well?” Paul asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can you describe her?” Andy asked.
Rod raised his hand shoulder height. “She was about so tall, curvy in the right places. Blond, blue-eyed. Pretty.”
Paul gauged Rod to be about six feet. If the woman came only to his shoulder, she was about five-five or-six. “Had you seen her before?”
“No. First time on my shift. But I could tell she wasn’t comfortable here. A couple of guys tried hitting on her, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested.”
Paul exchanged a curious glance with Andy.
Paul closed his notebook. “You’ve been a big help.”
Andy handed the guy a card. “If you think of anything else about Sinclair or the lady, let us know.”
Rod slipped the card into the pocket of his black silk dress shirt. “Yeah, sure.”
“Just a sec,” Paul said to Andy. “I have one last question for Angela.”
He tracked her down near the kitchen doors.
She paused with a plate of salad greens in hand and a pepper grinder tucked against her body by her elbow. “Detective? Was there something else?”
“One last question. Did Sinclair stay in his seat the whole time he was in your section?”
She thought for a moment. “No. He actually was gone for about ten minutes. I assume he used the facilities.”
Time unaccounted for. Paul jotted that down. “Thanks.”
Paul preceded Andy out of the restaurant and to the car. He shook off the snow and climbed in. Once they were moving, Paul said, “Alibi has some holes. And he changed his pattern. Angela said he usually comes in on Thursdays for dinner and Fridays for lunch. Why’d he go to Figaro’s tonight, exactly when the murders were taking place? And she said he left his table for a while. The gallery’s not that far from here. He could have slipped out the back and gone to the gallery, killed Drake and Vanderpool and then returned without anyone questioning him.”
“Yeah. Could have happened like that. He must be one quick clean-up artist though,” Andy stated dryly. “What’s with the woman? Random or what?”
“I don’t know. But it’s interesting that Sinclair didn’t mention the lady. Probably more worried about his wife finding out.” Paul consulted the papers with the employees’ addresses on it that he’d received from Sinclair. “Let’s go see the assistant.”
Paul gave Andy the address to an apartment in SoHo on Prince Street. Andy parked a few blocks away from the prewar, six-floor, elevator apartment building. They hustled down the street and under the overhang to the building to get out of the snow and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The dimly lit hallway extended to the last apartment, 4D.
From the other side of the door, music blared. The metal door had a round peephole. Paul knocked and held up his badge. Paul knocked harder. The music abruptly stopped, and the door was yanked open.
Paul stared in surprise at the curly haired, little girl standing in the doorway. He guessed her to be about six. “Is Lacy Knight here?”
The girl frowned. “Lacy’s out. What do you want?”
“Is there an adult here with you?” Andy asked, his gaze searching beyond the girl.
“Momma!” the girl yelled, and moved away from the door, leaving it wide open.
Paul shared a look of disbelief and anger with Andy. They could be serial killers. What was this kid doing opening the door to strangers?
A young woman stumbled out from a doorway to the right of the small kitchen. She had the same curly blond hair and blue eyes as the kid. She wore floral flannel pj’s and fuzzy slippers. Her eyes widened when she saw Paul and Andy. Paul held up his badge for her to see.
She rushed forward. “Is something wrong? What are you doing here?” She turned toward the little girl now sitting on the couch tucked under a blanket. “Susie, go into the bedroom.”
“Aw, Ma,” little Susie huffed but took her blanket and stomped away.
“Ma’am, we’re looking for Lacy Knight,” Andy stated, his voice harder than normal.
The woman waved her hand. “Lacy’s not here. She’s staying with her parents uptown. Susie and I are just camping here for a few days.”
“And you are?” Paul took out his notepad to record her name.
“Jasmine Oliphant and that’s my daughter, Susie.”
“How do you know Lacy?” Paul asked.
“We met a few years ago at an AA meeting. Is Lacy in some kind of trouble?”
“No, ma’am. We just have some questions. You said you met at an AA meeting. Is Lacy