The Price of Time Page 19

  “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.

  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.”

  I had intended to put a bit of shiver in her spine. Clearly, I’d succeeded. Now it was time to become a beacon of hope. “My background is in the law enforcement field, working at the federal level. I’ve seen him in action, and I’ve read his biography. He’s a pro. A very high-end pro, which means he’s working for people with considerable resources. For you to be safe, we need to identify them.”

  Emma considered my words while she dipped her tea bag. Far more than was necessary. “What do you want me to do?”

  “This guy works using sophisticated cons. If he targets you, he’ll likely approach with a friendly offer. When that happens, we want you to play along, then let us know immediately.”

  “So you can set a trap?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You said he’ll likely approach. What if he skips the con? What if he just plucks me off the street, plunges a needle into my flesh, and pulls me into a van?”

  “Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And in any case, the police will be no help with that. They don’t provide personal protection, and I’m guessing you’re not in the position to hire a bodyguard.”

  Emma nodded grimly.

  We sipped tea while the Durango day trader processed how much her life had changed since she answered the door. Eventually, she said, “Show me his picture.”

  “It’s best if you don’t know what he looks like. He’ll sense it if you recognize him, and then he’ll disappear.”

  “In which case I’ll be safe.”

  “Dead is more likely. At that point you become a witness.”

  Emma blanched and her mug began to shake.

  “Forgive the blunt talk,” Skylar said. “It’s for your own good. You know everything you need to know to defend yourself. Be extra wary of strangers and special offers, and let us know immediately if you’re approached.”

  “But now I can’t help but react, even if I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “To him, you’ll appear skeptical and wary,” I said. “That’s perfectly normal. It’s different from facial recognition.”

  Like the others, Emma maintained her calm and kept a cool head. I attributed their demeanor to a combination of intelligence and the reassuring expression on their twin’s face. “Should I buy pepper spray? Or one of those electric-shock things?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Neither would do you any good. No
r would a gun for that matter. This guy is too good for you to beat him in any kind of combat. Now that you’ve been forewarned, you’ll win using your mind.”

  “So what do I tell him?”

  “Just play along,” Skylar said. “With me, he made an offer and gave me a day to think. It was a very soft pitch, and in retrospect, very disarming.”

  “Once people find something that works, they tend to repeat it. That’s especially true with high-risk operations,” I added.

  Emma’s expression hardened and I saw resolve reflected in her eyes. “So while I’m ‘thinking about’ his proposal, I call you.”

  As she made air quotes, my phone began vibrating. I checked the display. “It’s one of your other twins, Sandy Wallace, calling from Miami.”

  51

  No Problem

  TORY DID NOT LIKE the way Sandy Wallace reacted to his proposal. Surely most chefs who didn’t own equity in their restaurant would jump at the opportunity to double their salary. But her feet remained firmly fixed to the ground.

  When he intercepted Sandy in the employee parking lot at Café Au Lait, he hadn’t just waved more money. He’d offered to move her out of a hot and crowded kitchen where she made a couple of hundred meals a night onto a yacht where she’d rarely cook for more than a dozen. Not to mention that she’d be off as many nights as she was on, and the scenery would be constantly changing.

  He would have understood if she had been in a serious relationship or had just bought a new house, but as far as he could tell, she wasn’t attached to Miami in any significant way. Not historically, not financially, not emotionally. She’d grown up in South Carolina and studied in Atlanta.

  Sandy had not blown him off. In fact, she’d voiced interest, but there was something behind her eyes. Not just the tinge of suspicion you’d expect, but also a hint of fear. Tory wondered, was it once bitten, twice shy he was seeing? Had she been burned by a bogus job offer before? Or was there something more? Was it possible that Zachary Chase had anticipated his move and warned her? That seemed unlikely, but not impossible. Back in Finland, Tory had made a career out of anticipating the Russians’ unlikely moves and defending against them.