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Dryden said.
    “A writer for CSI: Miami. ”
    “It’s crap. Never watch it.”
    Philippe had had the good sense not to clear Roth’s table. There were still five plates, five coffee cups, five waters, and one empty juice glass sitting on the table.
    “This is Rafe,” Philippe said. “He was Mr. Roth’s waiter.”
    “Where was Roth sitting?” I asked.
    Rafe pointed toward the juice glass.
    I turned to Dryden. “Chuck, you can bag and tag it all, but do me a favor, when you run it through the lab, start with the glass.”
    “And you might want to test everything in the kitchen,” Kylie said. “Just in case someone was targeting the whole dining room and Roth was the first to drink the Kool-Aid.”
    Chuck moved his head imperceptibly in something that looked like agreement.
    “Rafe,” I said, “did you bring Mr. Roth the juice?”
    “No. There was a busboy—a new guy, Latino. I asked him to top off the coffee. When he got to the table, Roth asked him for the tomato juice, and he brought it.”
    “What’s this busboy’s name?”
    “I don’t know,” Rafe said. “Like I told you, he was new.”
    “Where is he now?”
    Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s not here. He’s not in the kitchen. He probably went home.”
    I turned to Philippe.
    He shook his head. “We don’t have any new busboys today. This is a busy week. I have all my regulars—nobody new. The one who brought the juice—I don’t know who he is.”
    My cell phone rang. It was Cates.
    “Give me an update,” she said.
    “We’re at the Regency. The Possible Homicide is looking more like a Probable Murder One, but we have to give the lab rats time to dust and dissect. We’re going to head back to the precinct.”
    “Don’t,” Cates said. “I need you at Silvercup Studios. There’s another body. Ian Stewart, the actor.”
    “What went down?” I asked.
    “He was shot,” Cates said.
    “Anybody see anything?”
    “There were about a hundred witnesses,” Cates said, “and if none of them are any help, we’ve got the whole thing on film.”

Chapter 11
    I GAVE PHILIPPE my email address and told him to send me a list of everyone who was in the dining room. “And put the two guys who had breakfast with Roth and bolted before the cops got here at the top of the list.”
    I thought about asking Rafe the waiter to sit with a police artist and come up with a sketch of the busboy, but I know a waste of time when I see one. No sense circulating a picture of a generic male Puerto Rican who looks like half a million guys from East Williamsburg to Spanish Harlem.
    I thanked Philippe and motioned Kylie toward the exit. As expected, the Regency’s unholy trinity was waiting in the doorway.
    “Do you have any surveillance cameras in the dining room?” I asked.
    The manager looked at me like I’d asked if they had peepholes in the guests’ bathrooms.
    “This is the Regency,” he said. “Our clients come here for discretion and privacy.”
    “How about the back of the house? Do you keep an eye on the kitchen staff?”
    “We did, but…” He looked at the executive chef. “Etienne had the cameras removed when he came here two years ago.”
    The burly chef gave a wave of his hand to let me know that he had no regrets. “I find them offensive, distracting,” he said.
    The old me would have said something like Makes it easier to spit in somebody’s bouillabaisse if they piss you off, but my sensitivity training kicked in and I went with, “We’ll need a list of everyone who worked here this morning.”
    “Fine,” Chef Etienne said.
    Not so fine with the guy from corporate. “Detective, is that really necessary? It’s a heart attack.”
    “It’s a police investigation,” I said. “My partner and I have to go. We’ll be talking to you.”
    “Wait!” It was le chef. “We have to set up for lunch. How long before that, that…” He pointed at the dead man on the dining room carpet, which I’m sure he found offensive