Luke raised his brows. “You came up with that scenario just now? Including the bit with the laundry carts?”
“Isn’t that how the bad guys who arrived with room service get rid of dead bodies in the movies?”
“You have a very interesting imagination. But your theory has some plausibility, so, just to be on the safe side, we won’t order room service.”
“The inn doesn’t offer room service.”
“Problem solved. We need data, so for now we’re going to stick to the schedule.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
She raised both hands in surrender. “You’re the one who’s gotten us this far, so I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”
She shot him a severe look, crossed to the bed, and picked up the printed program they had been given when they checked in.
“First up is dinner,” she said. “The only restaurant is the one here in the hotel.” She glanced at Luke. “Are we going to risk it?”
“Yes. I’m hungry. It’s either the restaurant or a couple of protein bars and some of Bruce’s kibble. I don’t know how he’ll feel about that.”
“You’re not worried that someone will try to poison us in the restaurant?”
“No. Too complicated, too much chance of something going wrong. If anyone tries to drug us it will be here in the suite.”
She winced. “So we don’t eat any chocolates we might find on the pillow tonight.”
“There won’t be any chocolates,” Luke said. “It’s a small inn with minimal staff. No turndown service. And no one else will pop in uninvited while we’re gone, because Bruce will be here.”
“Good point.” She turned back to the program. “The welcome reception starts at eight. It will be followed by the grand opening of the Maze, ‘a gallery dedicated to the Art of Light.’ Eveningattire is requested.” She looked up. “I don’t suppose you have a black blazer in that duffel bag?”
“Of course I have a black jacket in there. CIA assassins never leave home without one. There’s a dress code for the profession.”
“How did you know—?”
“That you think I might be an assassin? Deke mentioned that the Harpers were in the habit of making certain assumptions about his career path and mine. Now I know where he got that inside info.”
She groaned. “From my aunt.”
“Evidently.”
She switched her attention to the sculpture. “What about that mirrored tile you found in the doughnut?”
“It may be nothing. We need to eat. It’s been a long day. After dinner comes the reception and the gallery tour. I’ll deal with the doughnut tonight.”
Twenty
“Welcome to the Fool’s GoldCanyon Art Colony. As most of you already know, I’m Trent Hatch, founder of a little start-up that created a new way of looking deep into the brain. Between you and me, my goal back at the start was to invent a new game, make a fortune, sell the company, retire at thirty, buy some fast cars and a yacht, and date beautiful women. Simple dreams, I know, but in my own defense I would like to remind you that I was a very young man at the time.”
A ripple of laughter swept across the small crowd gathered inside the reception hall. Sophy stood at the back with Luke. Like everyone else in the room, they each held a glass of champagne. The booze was being handed out freely.
She estimated there were about thirty people present, all guests at the inn. Almost everyone was wearing black. She and Luke fit right in, she thought.
Trent Hatch was in his early thirties. In the photos and videos taken during his days in the tech world, he’d had a pleasant if unremarkable face that looked like it would soften quickly with age,a body that went with the face, and limp brown hair that had been in desperate need of a stylist.
The man onstage tonight was Hatch 2.0. His sculpted profile was a work of art that could only have been created by a skilled cosmetic surgeon. His hair was cut quite short. He, too, wore black—black T-shirt, slouchy black jacket, black jeans, and white running shoes. The outfit paired back to his tech wizard origin story and coordinated equally well with his new role as a patron of the arts.
