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 orna
te 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.
His cell phone vibrated in the pocket of his blazer. Jack pulled it out and saw it was Wilkins.
“I just talked to the cop at the restaurant. Name’s Andy Zuckerman. He’s telling me that Cameron is fine,” Wilkins said.
“I’ve got a visual,” Jack confirmed. “She seems okay. I’ll find out what the problem is with her phone and get back to you.”
He hung up and made his way over to her table.
Ten
CAMERON CHECKED HER watch, wondering what the statute of limitations was before a woman—clearly dressed for a date—sitting alone at a table in one of the most romantic restaurants in the city began to look wholly pathetic.
She would finish her glass of wine, she told herself. She’d treated herself to a 2006 Stags’ Leap petite syrah, unwilling to let the evening be a total waste.
Max had stood her up.
Technically, she supposed, he hadn’t actually stood her up, because he’d texted her—oh yes, a text message, as if he didn’t have a moment to spare for a phone call—to let her know that he was stuck in a meeting with a client and wouldn’t be able to make it. A lot of help that had been, seeing how she’d already arrived at the restaurant and been seated at the time he sent his message. She’d ordered a drink when the waiter came by her table, hoping to pull off some sort of chic, nonchalant, “Oh no, just one tonight—after a hard day of work, I often unwind alone in five-star restaurants with a richly aromatic Rhone varietal” type vibe. Given the slit in her dress and her knock-out high heels (if she did say so herself), she doubted anyone, including the waiter, was fooled.
When she hadn’t immediately answered Max’s text message, wanting to calm down first, he’d sent her another message asking when they could reschedule their date. Again. In response, she’d sent a message saying that she would check her calendar for the month of Probably Never, Buddy and get back to him. Then, thinking Max might have a thing or two to text in response to that, she’d turned down the ringer on her phone, not wanting to disturb the other restaurant guests with further incoming message beeps. Frankly, at that point, she didn’t want Max bothering her, either.
As Cameron finished her wine, she looked out the window, taking in the view of the lake and reflecting upon those things a single woman in her thirties tended to think about when sitting alone in a restaurant. Her best friend was getting married, and she had no one to take to the wedding. No one to share the moment with, other than Collin, but that was different. It wasn’t the biggest deal, she knew—particularly with the much more serious issues she’d faced lately—but she certainly wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss if Fate wanted to throw her a bone or two in the man department.
“What happened to Max?”
Surprised to hear the voice, Cameron looked over and saw Jack standing at her table.
Fate was so clearly mocking her.
Cameron frowned. “What are you doing here?” Perfect. Just the man she wanted to run into right then.
“You haven’t been answering your phone. Are you having problems with it?” Jack looked displeased. Big surprise there.
“It seems to be working fine.” Cameron reached into her purse and pulled it out to check. She realized what she’d done. “Oh . . . I turned the ringer down. I must not have heard the calls over the noise of the restaurant.” She peered up at him. “Were you trying to call me? Is something wrong?”
“Collin called. He couldn’t reach you, got nervous, and called me. Then we couldn’t reach you or get through to the restaurant, so here I am,” Jack said.
Cameron ran her hands through her hair, feeling very tired. It had been a long day—she’d gone one round with her opposing counsel in court, another round with Silas, and then had been ditched by her date. From the look on Jack’s face, he was gearing up for another sparring match and she wasn’t sure she had it in her right then.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking when I turned down my phone. I apologize that you had to run all the way over here for nothing. Glower at me all you want—you’ve earned it this time.”
Jack took a seat in the chair across from her.
“That being said,” Cameron continued, “I would like to point out that Officer Zuckerman has been over there at the bar, watching me all night, so it’s not as though I had any reason to believe I was in danger. And I’d also like to state, for the record, that there was never any discussion about me keeping my cell phone on at all times. If that was something you expected as part of this surveillance, you should have stated it clearly up front to avoid exactly this type of scenario.”
Okay, so maybe she had just a tiny bit left for one last round.
Jack rested his arms on the table. “That has to be the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ve had a chance to think things through. Seeing how I was only about thirty percent at fault here, you get thirty percent of an apology.”
“I see.”
Cameron waited for him to say something further. “That’s it? I expected there to be a lot more. You know, with the growling and scowling.”
“I could add a few curse words to that, if you like.”
Cameron checked her grin just in time. “Not necessary, but thanks for the offer.”
They sat in silence for a moment, each one studying the other warily.
“So you never said what happened to your date,” Jack led in.
“He had a last-minute conflict with work. For the third time in three weeks.” Cameron had no idea why she’d added that last piece of information.
Jack’s dark eyes studied her. “I hope you had better luck picking out shoes that day.”
He never ceased to amaze her. “How do you know how I met Max?” Cameron asked.
“Kamin and Phelps are a wealth of information. They seem to be having a blast being assigned to your detail.”
“Shockingly, some people actually find me charming.”
“I once found you charming, too,” Jack said quietly.
It was as though the proverbial record had skipped to a stop, silencing the room.
For the last week, she and Jack had danced around this very issue, never actually discussing the past. But now that he had launched the first salvo, she could either retreat or face him head-on. And she wasn’t a retreating kind of girl.
“The feeling was once mutual.”
Jack mulled this over for a moment. “Now that we’re working together, maybe we should talk about what happened three years ago.”
Cameron took a sip of her wine, trying to look casual. She chose her words carefully. “I don’t think there’s anything that could be said that would do us any good.”
Jack surprised her with his response. “I was wrong to say those things to that reporter. I knew it right after I said it. Th
at was . . . a rough time for me. I was going to apologize to you. Of course, I never got the chance.”
It was as she’d expected. He blamed her for his transfer, never realizing how close he’d come to being dismissed from the FBI. Part of her was tempted to tell him the truth and just get it all out there. But he was so angry with her about the Martino case—about everything—that she didn’t know how he’d react. Logically, there was no good reason why she should trust Jack. So she continued dodging the issue. “I appreciate your apology,” she said matter-of-factly, hoping that would end the conversation.
His face hardened. “That’s it?”
“There’s not much more I can say about what happened back then.” Without taking a risk that the information would get back to Silas.
“You can tell me why you did it. I know you were pissed off about the things I said, but did the sight of me really offend you so much that you needed to have me thrown out of the entire city?”
Cameron knew it was time to end this conversation. “This isn’t a good idea, us talking about this.”
Jack leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering in the soft light coming off the candles in the center of the table. “I saw you come out of Davis’s office that morning, Cameron.”
Anger got the better of her. She leaned in, meeting him halfway. “You saw what you wanted to see,” she snapped.
Cameron saw surprise register on Jack’s face and knew she had said too much. “Dammit, Jack. Just let it go.” She stood up from the table and walked away, not daring to utter another word.
Eleven
WHILE WAITING IN the lobby, Cameron slipped on her jacket and tied the belt around her waist. It was a warm night for October in Chicago, but given that it was nevertheless still October in Chicago, the concept of “warm” when wearing a sleeveless dress was relative.