We were about to put that theory to the test.
“Heather wasn’t kidding,” Sandy said, approaching our table. “But I know you’re not really my twin.”
Skylar held out a hand. “My name is Skylar Fawkes. I was recently abducted by a stranger and nearly killed. Mr. Chase saw it happen and helped me escape.”
Sandy brought a hand to her chest. “My goodness. Who was he?”
“We’re not sure, but we think he was a hired professional,” Skylar lied. We’d decided to streamline the story as much as possible, so as not to snag on distracting details. A bit of embellishment further added to the efficiency. “We believe I was targeted because of the way I look. He kept commenting that ‘you look just like her.’ Since I escaped, we think he might go after someone else.”
“Someone who looks like you? Who looks like us?” Sandy clarified.
“Exactly.”
Sandy’s expression morphed into a mixture of skepticism and shock. Nonetheless, she slid into the booth across from me. “How did it happen?
Skylar retook her seat and replied. “I was lured to a quiet location through an elaborate con, drugged, and loaded into a cremation retort. Chase here,” Skylar inclined her head in my direction, “literally pulled me out of the fire.”
Sandy looked at me, then back at Skylar. Slowly. Twice. “How long ago was that?”
“It seems like a year ago, but it was just a few days.”
“Show me the burn marks.”
Skylar rose again and turned her back toward Sandy. She pointed to her calves, then, keeping an eye on the other diners, she discreetly lifted the back hem of her dress to expose the angry lines across her thighs.
“Jesus.”
Skylar dropped the dress, turned around, and leaned to put her face close to Sandy’s. “We’re here to warn you, Sandy. And to enlist your help in catching him—and the people who sent him.”
49
Bad Taste
A HOT NEW HOSTESS led Felix to the prized table at his favorite restaurant. It was almost as if Raffaele, owner of the landmark Italian eatery, had read his mental wish list.
Felix’s standing Friday-night reservations had become awkward after “things didn’t work out” with the former hostess. Not awkward enough to make Felix forgo his favorite meal of the week, but uncomfortable enough to ensure that he never arrived without company.
Tonight he was joined by Miami Beach’s most successful realtor, the man who had sold Felix his house. Cyrus landed three times as many listings as the number two broker by turning flirtatious lingerie models into real estate agents. “The other realtors curse and complain about me, but they all want to be me,” Cyrus had confided during their first dinner.
Felix knew he’d found a friend.
As usual, Cyrus brought a couple of those agents with him. Women eager to allot the day’s thousand calories to dishes rating two Michelin stars. Turnover was high at Cyrus Real Estate Services because his agents often developed relationships with the men buying multimillion-dollar Miami vacation houses. Rather than fight it, Cyrus used that turnover statistic as a recruiting tool.
Felix would miss his entrepreneurial friend when the forthcoming identity switch kicked in.
“Felix, meet Nylah and Samone.”
The busty redhead and willowy blonde kissed his cheeks and took their seats. Salvatore the sommelier showed up a second later, toting eight big-bowl Bordeaux crystal wine glasses, and a 2007 Sassicaia. Felix ordered the prized Super Tuscan wine by the case, more for the prestige than to save a few hundred a bottle.
As Salvatore presented the cork, he leaned in instead of stepping back. “Excuse me, Mr. Gentry. After this one, we’ll be down to two bottles. Shall I order another case? Perhaps the 2010 this time? It’s also 97 points.” He reached into his apron and produced a second bottle. “I highly recommend it.”
Felix turned to the table. “What do you say, girls? Taste test?”
“Sounds good to me,” the redhead said. Felix had already forgotten her name.
“I’m allergic to alcohol,” the blonde said. “Club soda for me please. With lime.”
While Salvatore got busy decanting the bottles and setting two glasses before each imbibing patron, Felix studied the women. If he had to choose, he’d go with the redhead. The blonde was a bit too uptight. But usually he and Cyrus managed to share. They’d get a penthouse suite at the COMO or Mondrian and take the girls up for the view.
“Best to let these breathe for a few minutes,” Salvatore said. “Meanwhile, I’ll send over some Champagne.”
While nodding his appreciation, Felix was distracted by the sight of Raffaele heading his way. The owner had joined Felix for dinner on one of his earlier visits, a time when a last-minute cancellation left Felix dining alone. Raffaele had taken Felix through a chef’s tour of the menu, and they had ended the night as fast friends.
That was something Raffaele and Cyrus had in common. They both knew how to take care of customers. They’d give people fitting their target profile something extra special, and turn them into loyal patrons for life. As a result, half the tables at Raffaele’s went to regulars. Cyrus’s business was similarly stacked with repeat customers.
Felix excused himself and met Raffaele off to the side. After the old friends hugged, Raffaele said, “What’s with the Hawaiian shirt? I hope you’re not leaving me for the islands?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Not about moving, but about the shirt. He guided Raffaele back between two potted palms to the place where the dessert cart sat on display when not making the rounds. He twisted halfway to show Raffaele his back, then lifted the printed shirt, exposing the hilt of his Beretta. “There’s been a threat on my life.”
Raffaele’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.
“Has anyone asked about me? A casual inquiry? Perhaps someone pretending to be a friend? Or looking to do business?”
“No, no. But I’ll check with the waiters and ask Giselle. Discreetly of course. You’ve seen the new girl?” He raised his eyebrows.
“She’s lovely.”
“And currently unattached, if you can believe that.”
Felix wasn’t going to go there. Not tonight anyway. “This threat requires me to break my patterns. So for security’s sake, I won’t be using my table for a few weeks.”
Raffaele put his hands on Felix’s shoulders. “It will be waiting for you whenever you want to return.” He leaned in. “I know a guy who’s very good at personal protection. Worked for the Italian version of your Secret Service. Built like a linebacker. One of the leaner players, not the fat ones. He is Italian.”
Felix had not considered hiring protection. He asked himself why not, and decided that it was because the other Immortals had all been killed with stealth. Nothing a linebacker’s brawn could have prevented, with the possible exception of Ries. “Let me think about that. I appreciate the offer.”
Raffaele squeezed his shoulders and released. “Just say the word, my friend.”
Felix returned to his seat to find that the Champagne had been poured. Four glasses. Apparently, the blonde had decided she could handle a sip.
“May our evening be as lovely as the ladies we’re with,” Cyrus said, raising his glass.
They clinked and sipped. Felix hadn’t seen the bottle, but he knew it was French, not Italian. Champagne with a capital c. The way the bubbles exploded, releasing their acidulous flavors against a rich, smooth background of ripe fruit and exotic wood, was unmistakable. A Blanc de Blanc, he believed, although he couldn’t guess the brand.