A waiter reappeared, hands clasped behind his back to indicate that he was above using a pad. “What would delight your palates this evening?”
Felix looked at Cyrus, who nodded. “We’re happy to dine at Enzo’s discretion.”
“The chef’s selection. Always an excellent choice. I’ll be sure to let Enzo know that you’re drinking Sassicaia, and will be right back with an amuse-bouche.”
The miniature goat cheese phyllo purses came and went as the foursome discussed their favorite Caribbean beaches. Once the waiter had removed the tiny plates along with their Champagne flutes, Salvatore resurfaced. “Are we ready for the taste test?”
He poured an ounce into each of the six glasses, three from one decanter, three from the other. “Let me know which you prefer, the Sassicaia on the left, or the Sassicaia on the right.”
Felix started with the left. He gave it a good swirl and sniffed the bouquet. The rich, fragrant aroma was instantly alluring. The taste was recognizable, complex and fruity. It tickled pleasure centers and triggered sweet emotions as it slid around his tongue and over his palate. Delicious, but not intimately familiar. It must be the 2010.
Salvatore was watching him for a reaction.
“I do like it.” Felix then picked up the right glass, which had to be his 2007. Again an utterly alluring bouquet. The taste recognizable, but not completely. That wasn’t his bottle either.
“Something wrong, Mr. Gentry?”
Felix grabbed a piece of bread and took a bite to cleanse his palate. Satisfied, he gave the 2007 another swirl, followed by a larger swallow. It was good, but not quite right. “Neither is the 2007.”
Salvatore raised his eyebrows. “The one you just drank is the 2007. Your 2007. If you’ll indulge me.” He poured a half ounce into the silver shell hanging around his neck and gave it a well aerated taste. “You’re right. It is a bit off. I wonder if there was some contamination in the bottle. Shall I—”
Salvatore didn’t finish his sentence. Felix felt a horse kick his chest. He arched his back and clutched his breast, but neither relieved the pain.
As the sommelier called for help, Felix felt his unresponsive body slide off the chair and onto the floor.
50
Good Call
SKYLAR PLACED HER HAND ON MY ARM as I put the rental car in Park. It was a friendly attention getter.
I looked over at my partner. Today, she was back to short hair, her natural hair, but she’d temporarily darkened it with colored chalk.
We were in Durango, a small town in southwestern Colorado, preparing to give the third of our four planned lookalike briefings. We’d parked on the street in front of a thirty-year-old white one-story starter house with dusty blue shutters. A wooden swing swayed in the breeze on its otherwise empty porch, and a sad silver Chevy with a Coexist bumper sticker rested beneath a connected carport. This was the home of Emma Atherton, Skylar’s day-trading doppelgänger.
Our first two lookalike recruitment meetings had gone well, thanks to Skylar’s appearance and my credentials. Sandy Wallace and Amy Zabala had both been shocked, skeptical, then scared, in that order. The all-important helpful remained to be seen, but each had promised to cooperate.
“I’ve been thinking,” Skylar said, closing the car’s vanity mirror and turning to face me. “Emma is likely to be more wary than Sandy or Amy was because we’re approaching her at home rather than at work.”
“I agree.”
“She’s alone and isolated and in an environment where she frequently fends off solicitors, everyone from telemarketers to landscaping professionals to religious recruiters.”
I raised my eyebrows, but didn’t comment.
“I think I should start this one alone. By myself, I present an infinitely lower threat profile—even though that’s not the case,” she added with a smile. “Once I’ve earned her trust and told our story, I’ll call you in. Does that sound like a good plan?”
I’ve always welcomed insights into the female psyche, and this seemed to be a good one. “It does. I like your thinking. But do me a favor and text me within two minutes of her inviting you in.”
Skylar frowned. “That will raise her guard, plus it will take me more than two minutes to get her defenses down.”
I persisted. “I just want to know that you’re fine. The last time I saw you disappear into a building, things got complicated.”
Skylar cocked her head at me. “You really think there’s a chance she’ll attack me?”
“It’s not Emma I’m worried about. Tory might be in there.”
Skylar’s irises flared; then she looked down at her knees. “I’d never considered that possibility.”
“When Tory lost you, he disappointed his client. He’s going to be scrambling. Given that we’re both urgently hunting the same quarry, overlap is likely.”
“Of course. I should have thought of that.”
“You still want to go in alone?”
She nodded. “It’s still our best chance at success.”
Skylar pulled out the burner phone we’d bought for her and called up my number. “I’ll pocket text ‘OK’ if I’m fine. Anything else means I’m not.”
“Good plan. Text again after another five minutes if you’re still not ready for me.”
Skylar popped open the vanity mirror and scrunched her face a few times, working to replace the worry with softer lines. She wanted to appear friendly. Disarming. Satisfied, she closed the flap and opened the door.
While she approached the house, I reclined my seat so that my head wouldn’t be obvious when Emma opened up. I stopped at the level where I could still watch with one eye.
Skylar stepped back and to the side after ringing the bell, giving me an unobstructed view. She had good instincts. Street smarts, the surveillance experts would say.
Emma’s physical reaction resembled Sandy’s and Amy’s, a full-facial mix of curiosity and surprise. After a few seconds of conversation, the door opened wide and Skylar stepped inside.
To my dismay, they didn’t enter the room that was visible from the street. Presumably, Amy had taken her twin back to the kitchen. I kept my eyes locked on the windows, looking for shadows near the edges or the displacement of drapes. Nothing triggered a warning before the OK text arrived.
Five minutes after that I got the Join us invite.
My knock was met with “Come in.”
Emma’s house was considerably cheerier inside than out, thanks largely to sunshine-yellow paint and the scent of chicken soup. The owner was pulling mugs from a white laminate cabinet and a tea kettle was beginning to boil as I entered the kitchen. “Skylar was just telling me your remarkable story. Please have a seat. I’m Emma, by the way.”
“Chase,” I replied, extending a hand. “Thanks for listening.”
“Skylar was just about to explain why you don’t want to involve the police.”
“Actually, Chase will do a better job of that,” Skylar said.
I put on my serious face. “Our goal is preventing future assaults—on you, Skylar, and anyone else resembling you. Involving the police won’t accomplish that. They’re not going to put the A-Team on protecting you, which means there’s no way they’ll catch this guy. At best, their presence would scare him off. But you couldn’t count on that. And even if they did manage to arrest him, you’d still be in danger, because he’s just a hired gun. The people who employed him can easily replace him with someone else.”
Emma put a box of chamomile tea bags on the table. Her hand shook as she filled the three mugs with boiling water. She did not offer milk or sweetener. “How do you know he’s a hired gun? Maybe he’s just a homicidal maniac.”