At this thought, he held his hand up as if he were about to sneeze, in front of his nose and mouth. He exhaled softly through his mouth, then inhaled through his nose. No, he didn’t reek of gin. At least he didn’t think he did.
If someone had been watching him, they might have seen that he rose from the table a little carefully. He had enjoyed the martinis. The Cliffside was famous for serving a good martini. It also boasted one of the best restaurants in the city. Today, the first time he had dined here, he discovered that its good reputation was well deserved.
Hitch had been eating lunches in fine restaurants all week. The Cliffside hadn’t been able to give him a reservation until today, and he was almost tempted to see if they could give him another reservation for next week. But what use would that be?
Harriman. That stubborn asshole.
Hitch had been around long enough to read a guy like Frank Harriman. They could fire Harriman and Harriman would work the case on his own. He had seen that on Sunday. Vince Adams was wasting his time trying to pressure Harriman. Why couldn’t Vince see that?
Hitch left the restaurant, stood awhile in the hotel’s grand lobby, then walked outside. It was terribly hot, he thought, and started to dab his forehead. To his horror, he realized he had taken the napkin with him. Jesus! Was the waiter on his way out now to accost him? He would be remembered. He would be the man who stole the napkin. The cop who stole the napkin. Quickly, he stuffed it into his pants pocket, which made the pocket bulge clownishly. It seemed as big as a damned tablecloth in there now, that napkin. He hurried toward his car. He unlocked it, tossed the napkin into the front seat, shut the door and locked it, locked it away from him.
He stepped back from the car, feeling a little dizzy, breathing heavily. He turned and stumbled toward the low wall that ran along the far side of the parking lot, at last leaning against the railing there, looking out over the cliff that gave the hotel its name. The wind was stronger here, blowing hard across the beach and up the face of the sheer rocky surface, on to his own heated face. He needed the cool ocean air to calm him, the sound of the sea to soothe him.
Hitch told himself that he had no reason to feel vulnerable. But that was bullshit, and he knew it. He had been vulnerable for ten years. Not long after Lefebvre disappeared, he had been terrified, certain he would be next. When Rosario left the force, he had gone down on his knees before God and begged for mercy.
He got a miracle. For ten years, nothing.
Now this. His miracle, it seemed, had an expiration date.
Maybe Dale Britton was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Elena Rosario he had seen at the funeral.
A voice behind him said, “Did you drop something?”
He turned to see Myles Volmer holding the napkin. He was smiling.
Hitch felt his spine turn to cold jelly.
“Wh-what are you d-doing here?” he stammered, noticing two other burly giants standing not far away.
“Isn’t the question what are you doing here?” Myles asked.
Hitch glanced nervously toward the hotel, at the large, tinted windows that looked out toward the water.
“You’re right,” Myles said. “It isn’t good for us to stand out here where we might be seen. Although I doubt many police officers lunch at the Cliffside. A bit above your touch, isn’t it?”
“How did you know—”
“Hold your hands out to your sides,” Myles said, suddenly stepping very close to him.
Hitch’s legs felt wobbly. The bastard was going to take his weapon from him. He knew he shouldn’t let him do it, but Hitch couldn’t find it in himself to resist. He wanted to weep from the fear and shame he felt as Myles reached for the button of his suit coat and unfastened it. Myles smiled down at him again, a hard, icy smile. Myles’s hand moved slowly inside the jacket — then he startled Hitch by plunging that hand into Hitch’s pants pocket and pulling out his keys.
Myles stepped back, still smiling, and tossed them to one of the other men.
Hitch felt a rush of relief that Myles all too apparently observed, so that the relief was quickly followed by anger and a deeper sense of humiliation than he had felt when the other man was touching him.
“What?” Hitch said with false bravado. “All of a sudden you need keys to get into my car? Or were you just copping a feel?”
“Let’s go,” Myles said in a bored tone, then turned and started walking toward a white limo.
“Fuck, no!” Hitch said, knowing whose limo it must be. “You’ve probably just blown everything. What is it with you guys? You were fool enough to show up at that funeral, one of his other men causes a scene — at a flower shop, for God’s sake—”
Myles kept walking.
“I’m telling you, the department is watching his every move!”
Myles stopped, turned, and said, “Do you want to see me in a mood as foul as your language?”
Hitch hurried after him.
Myles held a door to the limo open, making a mocking “after you” gesture.
As he bent to enter, Hitch hesitated. The interior of the limousine was warm and white and smelled of sex.
He saw the woman first — her white stiletto heels, her lacy underwear around her slender ankles, her white silk skirt pushed up almost to her hips, her nipples dark beneath her thin white blouse, her full red lips, her blue eyes, her long blond hair. He had seen her a few times before, of course, but never this close. She wasn’t young, maybe in her thirties, but he had seen plenty of women in their twenties who didn’t have half of what she had going for her. Even in his anxiety, he responded to her. She leaned back lazily, posing alluringly in the corner, her long legs falling slightly apart at the knees.
Hitch blushed. She smiled at him.
Then he saw Dane. If someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his crotch, it could not have more effectively taken his mind off the woman.
He had known Dane would be in the car, of course. Dane wasn’t looking at him, or at the woman, but he felt sure that Dane knew he had been staring at the woman’s thighs, at the way her nipples showed through her blouse. Dane’s own clothes were not in the least disarrayed.
“Get in,” Myles said behind him, and Hitch climbed in, perching his large body on the edge of the long leather seat opposite Dane. Through the tinted rear window, he saw his own car pull up behind the limo.
Myles entered after Hitch, shutting the door. As soon as it closed, the limo began moving, pulling out of the parking lot. The driver of Hitch’s car followed.
The woman leaned over to pull her panties up from around her ankles.
“No, Tessa,” Dane said, not looking at her. Tessa sat back, seemingly untroubled by the idea of leaving the panties where they were.
Hitch averted his eyes, not looking at either of them for a time. But soon he found himself watching Dane, and only Dane.
Dane sat silently, looking out the window nearest him, his head turned so that Hitch saw only one side of his face — the left side, the side on which he wore the eye patch. Hitch was always uneasy when beholding that black wedge on Dane’s pale face, and it now seemed more menacing than ever, as if that unseeing profile were all-seeing, as if his every thought had been scanned by that darkness, his fears absorbed through its cloth into Dane’s awareness. It stared at him, and nothing could be hidden from it.
He remained silent, knowing that Dane would not take kindly to an initiation of conversation. He had learned this early on. He did not ask questions, although his head was full of them. Or at least one question.
It was not Where is he taking me?
It was Is he going to kill me?