“But the killings started before we met Casteel.”
“No. They started before we met him together, but after we met with him individually. Because we both crossed the CIA’s radar at the same time, it was easier for them to connect us.”
“Huh, you’re right.” A terrifying thought struck as Lisa caught sight of her cigar butt. Could it have been poisoned? Was this whole talk a smokescreen? Was her throat about to seize up? Her heart about to stop? Had Felix felt this way just before—”
“You okay?” Pierce asked, his tone sincere, his face concerned. “The nicotine can be overpowering, especially the first time. I should have warned you. I honestly didn’t think you’d take more than a puff or two.”
She swallowed, then studied his face as she spoke. “I’m fine. You really think the CIA is behind the killings?”
“I think it’s worth considering, especially since we don’t have another solid explanation. I’m not saying it’s specifically the CIA either. That’s just a convenient term for black ops. I’m sure POTUS has multiple clandestine resources at his disposal.”
Her heartbeat was regular, her breathing normal. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. “Why kill Camilla? She’s no political threat.”
“Look at the history of political assassinations. When monarchs are killed, their families are typically eliminated as well to avoid comebacks.”
“When you explain it that way, I have to admit the idea’s not completely crazy. I suppose we should explore it further. But given that we weren’t the first to go, I think it’s highly unlikely.”
Pierce fiddled with his own cigar. “Agreed. That brings me to my second insight.”
What now? She found herself reaching for more wine. “I’m listening.”
“Regardless of who’s behind it, there’s a pattern you’ll want to bear in mind.”
“A pattern?”
Pierce set his glass down, then reached out for hers. A second later, she understood why. “So far, the assassinations have followed a pattern of boy-girl-boy-girl.”
Lisa felt the trembling return as her stomach seemed to fill with concrete. “You’re right. If it’s not a coincidence, then either Aria will die next—or I will.”
54
Cooked
TORY SMILED BROADLY as Sandy Wallace walked into sight. She’d opted for the professional look but with a twist. Beneath the short chef’s coat she wore black stretch pants. Highlighting her assets was a good sign, as was appearing five minutes early.
She had a black handbag slung over her left shoulder, with something protruding. Tory raised his binoculars and zoomed in. She’d brought her own omelet pan. A true pro.
To access a yacht moored at the Miami Beach Marina, one first had to access its dock. From land, that required a key. A tall, wide gate blocked every dock entrance, each with a frame surrounded by long spikes. If a vandal or voyeur or thief attempted to get around, he risked getting hooked like a fish.
Of course, an intruder could approach from the water. But from Tory’s stakeout perch, he had that covered as well. He was confident that once Sandy passed through that gate, she’d effectively be fenced off from the world.
For surveillance purposes, the dock gate made a perfect pinch point. If Zachary Chase had figured out Tory’s gig and was somehow working with Sandy, he’d be stuck on the other side. If he approached by water, he’d be a sitting duck. Or a swimming duck. Or a scuba diving duck. Didn’t matter to the suppressed automatic Tory held in his hand.
Tory had risen at 5 a.m. to begin his watch two hours before dawn. The captain’s chair on the top deck of the 60-foot rental was perfect for surveillance. Literally designed for it—albeit with sandbars and sunfish in mind.
One boating family had left for The Keys an hour earlier. Their voices had carried clearly across the marina’s still water. Otherwise, the dock had been quiet.
No surprise there. The fishing charters ran off the less pricy piers. Pleasure craft marinas like this tended to be quiet places, especially during the week. He’d heard that most owners put less than a hundred hours a year on their motors. Such a waste of money when you looked at it that way. Of course, Tory understood that the people who leased slips here tended not to worry about their wallets. He looked forward to adopting a similar attitude sometime soon.
Tory sipped coffee from his thermos while rotating his chair and his attention from land to water and back again. He spotted Sandy as soon as she rounded the corner from the parking lot. Her behavior struck him as entirely normal. No furtive glances, no irregular stride. Just a lone woman walking to a meeting.
He watched her as she waited by the gate while continuing his 360-degree sweeps. For the first six minutes she stood attentively, occasionally glancing at her watch. Once Tom Bronco was officially late, she began thumbing through pages on her smart phone, glancing up every few seconds to look for the man who’d told her 8 a.m. sharp.
At 8:15 she turned to leave.
That was when Tory shouted “Sandy!” and headed in her direction.
She turned.
He bounded down two flights of stairs, across the gangplank, and out onto the dock. Once he’d closed the gap, he said, “So sorry I’m late.”
He opened the gate using the tiny knob concealed within a cup and ushered her onto the dock. After it clanged shut behind her, he said, “The bad news is that the Sassones were delayed in New York. The good news is that they’ve authorized me to make you an offer if I like what I see. And taste.”
“So it’s just you?”
“Just me. I hope that’s all right.”
“Only if you’re ready for the best omelet of your life.”
“I see you brought your own pan.”
“The right pan is very important, especially since I’ll be cooking over an unfamiliar stove.”
As a bachelor who ate most of his meals out, Tory hadn’t considered that aspect of the art. “How so?”
“Making omelets is a very hands-on process, when you do it right. You need to shake the eggs as they cook, forming curd. But it only works when the pan is the right shape and has been properly conditioned.”
Always interested in learning new tricks, whatever the field, Tory said, “I usually stir and fold.”
“Most people do. It produces an entirely different result. You’ll see.”
In Tory’s experience, one egg rarely varied from the next. Then again, his palate wasn’t particularly sophisticated.
The yacht he had rented was called the Lucky Seven. To turn it into the Grey Poupon, Tory had paid a sign maker to print the new name in nautical blue on two thick vinyl stickers, which he had then applied over the yacht’s given name.
There really was a wealthy pair of Miami socialites named Sassone who owned a yacht named the Grey Poupon, but of course Tory had no relationship with them. And Sandy would not have been able to learn that latter part during her Google search.
He led the eager chef up the gangplank, through the main saloon, and into the galley. Spreading his arms, he asked, “What do you think?”
Sandy stood in the center and slowly turned around, inspecting each piece of equipment. Cooktop, oven, microwave, refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, exhaust hood, pots and pans. All of it quality and gently used. “It resembles the kitchen in my apartment much more than the one at Café Au Lait, but then that fits the output requirement. I’m glad to see you use gas burners. I wasn’t sure, this being a yacht. And I approve of the French press. Simple is best when it comes to coffee.”
“I agree. You’ll note that the last chef took his utensils with him, so these are just stand-ins. And the owners asked to have the pantry emptied so everything would be fresh. I did pick up eggs, butter, and Gruyère in case you forgot.”