He smiles. “The order came down to give you whatever you needed.”
“Order? From whom?”
Simon’s desk phone rings before he can answer. He picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, then hands me the phone.
A deep baritone voice on the other end says, “We’ll have the list to you within twenty-four hours. Find our missing, Agent Monroe.”
The man doesn’t give me a chance to respond or ask questions. I’m left listening to the dial tone. The voice wasn’t one I’d heard before. It wouldn’t be easily forgotten. “Who was that?” I ask, handing the phone back to Simon.
“The boss.” Simon presses an intercom button and Rose appears like a genie out of a bottle. “Nice to meet you, Agent Monroe.” Simon grins as if he’s got a delicious secret. “We’ll be in touch.”
• • •
Zack is at his desk when I get back, working on his computer.
“Did you find anything?” I ask, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the desk chair. I lean over his shoulder to view the monitor.
Zack gestures to the screen. “Well, I couldn’t find any checks from Isabella to Green Leaf. No automatic deductions from any of her accounts, either. But Amy supported them. I discovered five checks made out to Green Leaf in the last five months that were marked as charitable donations. She also contributed to the Red Cross, a San Diego food bank, and the Humane Society. And there’s another connection. . . . Green Leaf has a special grant program that subsidizes training for contractors and laborers who promote and install the latest and greatest in green products. It looks like one of those Green Leaf crews installed the shades on Amy Patterson’s windows.”
“Giving them access to her apartment.”
“Yup. You have any luck at Wicked Ink?”
I look around. Other agents are milling about within hearing distance. “It was . . . interesting. . . . I’ll fill you in later.” I take my own seat at the desk across from him. “Although they did promise to get me a list of other customers who have missed deliveries or pickups lately.”
Zack lowers his voice to a whisper. “You think there might be other missing . . .” He glances around, too, regroups. “Others like Amy and Isabella that we don’t know about?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility,” I say.
He looks over the top of his computer screen at me. “You still going to that benefit tonight?”
To myself I think,
“You have an extra ticket?”
“It’s black tie. You have a tux?”
He nods. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pauses. “Is that all you’re going to ask me?”
I smile. “Last night was the third night of the full moon. You’ll be safe.”
The corners of his mouth turn down. He leans forward. “Safe? Don’t kid yourself. Deep down I’m dangerous, a predator. Don’t ever forget it.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. There’s heat and intensity in his voice, sincerity in his eyes. But it doesn’t matter. He’s right. Forget that he’s dangerous? Not likely. Although this afternoon proved we could work together without letting personal feelings get in the way, I don’t think for a minute we’re out of the woods yet.
CHAPTER 15
The Hotel Del Coronado looks as spectacular today as it did when it opened over a century ago. Since that time, the red-roofed Victorian hotel has become a favorite of presidents, royalty, and Hollywood’s darlings. The beachfront resort is luxury at its finest and most elegant. There is a long line of cars sitting at the entrance. Zack veers to the left to Self Park.
“Why didn’t you valet? We’re never going to find a spot in here,” I grumble. To say nothing of dreading the idea of hiking across the asphalt parking lot in four-inch heels.
Zack raises an eyebrow. “O ye of little faith.” He pulls up to the console and pushes the big green button. The machine spits out a ticket, the gate goes up, and Zack drives into the lot. The taillights on a white Mercedes come to light as we round the corner.
“How did you do that?” I ask, properly impressed.
Zack grins. “Another of my many talents.” He springs from the car. “Let me get your door.”
But I already have it open. “I know how to open a door and get out of a car. I’ve done it a bazillion times.”
Just not in these damned heels.
The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I stumble.
Zack is there, reaching out a hand to steady me.
“Thanks.”
He offers his arm. “You clean up nicely, Monroe.”
I don’t take it. “This isn’t a date. We’re working, Zack.”
That’s what I say. What I’m thinking is, he cleans up nicely, too. The tux is obviously tailored. The white shirt is crisply starched and the shoes, if I’m not mistaken, are Italian.
“Okay, okay. Strictly business.” He touches his hand to his heart. “Just try to blend without falling.”
I ignore the hint of humor in his tone. A wisp of hair escapes from my French twist. I tuck it behind my ear, then smooth down my dress. The gown is off-the-shoulder, black lace with a nude lining. It fits like a surgical glove. The shoes like a medieval torture device. I lift up the edge of my dress and start to walk. “Easier said than done. I don’t know how Liz does it. These shoes are already killing me.”
Zack places his hand at the small of my back as we cross the drive and go up the steps to the entrance. “Want me to carry you?”
“What I want to do is find Barakov.”
Every time I walk into the Del, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time—dark wooden paneling, rich fabrics, antique furnishings, and an abundance of fresh flowers all set the stage. Guests are milling about, dressed in formal attire—the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Except for the modern cut of the dresses and the scandalous height of our heels, we could be waiting for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to sweep in the door.
A low whistle comes from Zack, telling me he’s impressed and that he’s never been here before.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You don’t see woodwork like this anymore.” Zack pauses a minute to take it all in before asking, “Do you know where we’re going?”
I tilt my head in the direction of the Crown Room. “Michael Dexter said there would be tickets waiting for us.”
There is a man at the door welcoming guests. Zack mentions my name and he checks the list in his hand. Seconds later, we’re motioned through with a smile.
Once inside, Zack swipes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and hands one to me. “We’re trying to blend, remember?”
And blend he does. Zack looks as relaxed and at home in a tux as he does in T-shirt and jeans. He takes a sip from his champagne and starts to check out the room. To the casual observer, he could merely be looking for a face in the crowd, but I know he’s taking in every detail, because I’m doing the same.
There are a couple of dozen ten-tops, covered in crisp white tablecloths. An extravagant buffet is set up on the far side of the room. There’s a bar in the corner. Waitstaff in black slacks and white short-waist jackets with gold brocade epaulets are circulating with trays. Some, like the one that passed by earlier, hold champagne,
