Something About You Page 37


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.

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.


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.

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