“Ah . . . the Meet Cute,” Wilkins said with a grin.

Jack threw him a sharp look. “What did you just say?”

“You know, the Meet Cute.” Wilkins explained. “In romantic comedies, that’s what they call the moment when the man and woman first meet.” He rubbed his chin, thinking this over. “I don’t know, Jack . . . if she’s had her Meet Cute with another man that does not bode well for you.”

Jack nearly did a double take as he tried to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean.

Phelps shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t go that far. She’s still on the fence about this guy. He’s got problems keeping his job from intruding on his personal life. But she’s feeling a lot of pressure with Amy’s wedding—she’s only got about ten days left to get a date.”

“She’s the maid of honor, see?” Kamin said.

Jack stared at all three of them. Their lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was like they were speaking a different language.

Kamin turned to Phelps. “Frankly, I think she should just go with Collin, since he and Richard broke up.”

“Yeah, but you heard what she said. She and Collin need to stop using each other as a crutch. It’s starting to interfere with their other relationships.”

Unbelievable. Jack ran a hand through his hair, tempted to tear it out. But then he’d have a bald spot to thank Cameron Lynde for, and that would piss him off even more. “Can we get back to the switcheroo part?”

“Right, sorry. It was Slonsky’s suggestion. Turns out her date tonight is at Spiaggia. You know it?” Phelps asked.

Jack nodded. He’d never been, but he knew of it. A five-star restaurant—one of the top in the city—it was located at the northernmost point of the Magnificent Mile and known for its romantic views of Lake Michigan.

“Well, Slonsky knows a cop who does security there in the evenings—says he figured he’d put that guy on Ms. Lynde’s detail while she’s at the restaurant, since he already knows the layout of the place and everything,” Kamin said.

Phelps nudged him. “Tell him about the other part.”

Kamin folded his arms across his chest in a huff. “Slonsky also said this guy will blend better than we would at the restaurant. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Jack’s eyes were drawn to the cuffs of Kamin’s faded-blue denim shirt, both of them stained with some sort of mystery red sauce. He’d put his marker on a chili dog as the likely culprit.

“So we dropped her off at the restaurant and made sure she got in okay, and we’ll go back when she’s ready to leave. She’s gonna call us,” Phelps said.

Jack did not like the sound of this plan—he wasn’t exactly thrilled about Slonsky sending in some new guy to watch over Cameron. Although after spending three minutes with Phelps and Kamin, he wasn’t sure he felt much better about them watching her, either. Still, he supposed he didn’t have anything specific he could complain about—Slonsky was in charge of this side of the investigation and they seemed to have thought things through—but the whole idea of this date just generally put him in a foul mood.

Instead of saying anything that would give this away, however, he thanked Phelps and Kamin for bringing by the lab report and sent them on their merry way. Before they started babbling on again about Cameron and Max-the-guy-he-couldn’t-give-a-crap-about and their Meet Cute or whatever. So he told her that he liked her shoes—so what? The whole thing sounded more like a Meet Lame to him.

“I’m proud of you, Jack,” Wilkins said after Kamin and Phelps left. “Not a single glowering look.”

“We’re still on the glowering thing?”

Before Wilkins could answer, Jack’s phone rang again. He picked it up. “Pallas.”

On the other end, the operator who answered the office’s main phone number informed him that she had Collin McCann on the line for him.

Jack frowned. “Put him through.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Collin started right in as soon as the connection went through, “but it’s about Cameron and I didn’t know who else to call. I know this thing she’s involved in is confidential.”

“Is something wrong?” Jack asked. Hearing this, Wilkins looked over.

“It’s probably nothing,” Collin said. “She’s on a date tonight. Maybe she’s just . . . preoccupied.”

Jack gritted his teeth. If one more person mentions this damn date . . . “But?”

“She’s not answering her cell phone. I’ve called her several times and I keep getting her voicemail.”

“She probably turned it off,” Jack said. Wouldn’t want anything to interrupt her night with Max-who-apparently-has-a-fetish-with-women’s-shoes, after all.

“That would certainly be a first,” Collin said. “She’s never once turned that thing off as far as I know. She keeps it on for work.”

Jack paused at this. “Okay—we’ll look into it.”

He hung up and turned to Wilkins. “That was McCann. He says Cameron’s not answering her cell phone. Probably just a dropped signal, but we should check it out.” He picked up his phone and called Slonsky. When the detective didn’t answer, Jack paged him and left a message to call back.

Jack frowned. “Did either Phelps or Kamin mention the name of the new guy they’ve got watching Cameron?”

Wilkins shook his head. “No.”

Jack quickly looked up the number for Spiaggia restaurant and dialed. Twenty seconds later, he hung up the phone, his frustration level having risen about ten notches. “I got a recording that says I should try again in a few minutes if I’m calling during normal business hours. Very helpful,” he said to Wilkins. “Do we have numbers for either Phelps or Kamin?”

“No.”

Great. Clearly, that would have to change ASAP. “Let’s call the station and have them paged, too. How nice it would be if we could find somebody who knows something.”

“The restaurant is only two miles away,” Wilkins said. “Why don’t I stay here and keep trying them, CPD, and Cameron, while you head over and check things out? With your ride, you’ll be there and back in fifteen minutes.”

Jack nodded—he’d been thinking along those same lines. There were plenty of perfectly innocuous reasons Cameron might not have been answering her phone. But the thought of that one not-so-innocuous reason got him moving. Fast. He grabbed his keys and shoved them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Phelps and Kamin said they saw her go into the restaurant, so at least we know that much. If you get through to the restaurant, confirm that everything’s okay with this cop Slonsky’s got watching her, whoever the hell he is, then call me. Most likely, this is all a lot of nothing.”

“And if it isn’t nothing?” Wilkins asked.

Jack yanked open the top right drawer of his desk and pulled out his backup gun, a subcompact Glock 27. He strapped it into a harness around his ankle. “Then I’ll make it nothing, as soon as I get there.”

Because no one messed with his witnesses.

Not even this one.


SIX MINUTES LATER,having raced through the city at vastly illegal speeds only a skilled driver and badge-carrying FBI agent could pull off without fear of death or being arrested, Jack pulled up at the One Magnificent Mile building. He left his Triumph parked out front and flashed his badge to the lobby security guard in order to avoid being towed. After a quick sprint up the escalator, he entered the marble foyer of Spiaggia restaurant.

The maître d’ came around the corner, looking harried. “Sorry—I hope you haven’t been waiting long. A busier crowd tonight than we had anticipated. Can I help you?” While he caught his breath, he took notice of Jack’s jeans and eyed them skeptically.

Jack still had his badge in his hand. “Jack Pallas, FBI. I’m looking for one of your guests, Cameron Lynde. Dark-haired woman, early thirties, about five-three.”

The maître d’ studied his badge. “Andy told me I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. And he specifically said I’m supposed to call him if anyone asks for it tonight.”

At least CPD got that right. “I’ll tell you what—you call him, and while you’re doing that, I’m going to have a look around.” Without further delay, Jack entered the main dining room and quickly surveyed his surroundings. The restaurant spanned two levels: the primary dining area, and a lower level where tables were flanked by impressive floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite the ornate chandeliers above, the lighting in the restaurant was low—presumably to enhance the views of the city and Lake Michigan—and it took him a few moments to scan through the guests on the first level. Not seeing Cameron, he headed to the balcony railing and looked for her at one of the tables below. He spotted her at the second table from the left, sitting next to the window. Alone.

For a moment, he had to pause and just . . . look. Because the view he had from the balcony was stunning.

And he wasn’t referring to the lake.

The soft candlelight on the table picked up the gold highlights in her long chestnut brown hair. She wore a sleeveless black dress that showed off every curve of what Jack supposed he would have to acknowledge was an incredible body.

She sat at the table, looking out the window next to her. He watched as she took a sip from the wineglass she held. She looked subdued. She checked her watch, then crossed one leg over the other, revealing a slit in the dress at her thigh.

Only one wine menu on the table, Jack noted. It didn’t take a special agent to figure out what had happened. Not that he cared or anything, but the infamous Max was kind of a dumbass to leave a girl like that sitting alone in a restaurant.