It occurred to her that he hadn’t batted an eye at the three hulking brutes holding up the back wall. Nor did he seem confused that Grafton had chosen not to sit with her and Angel.
Suddenly, Grafton’s assurance that he had everything well in hand made a heaping helping of sense. He’d set the stage. The waiter, if that was indeed who the man in the apron truly was, had been expecting them.
“I’ll have a bottle of Perrier with a wedge of lime,” Grafton said, accepting the menu the waiter handed him.
“And for you, miss?” Meess. The waiter turned from Grafton to look at Sonya expectantly.
“Nothing for me,” she told him.
“Have something, Sonya.” Grafton’s voice slipped over her shoulder, brooking no argument.
“Fine,” she gritted out. “I’ll have hot tea with lemon.” She too accepted a menu, although there was no chance on God’s green earth she’d be able to stomach food.
“Nothing for me,” Angel rasped, waving away the menu shoved in front of him.
“Like I told Sonya, have something.” Grafton’s tone dared Angel to naysay him.
Angel accepted that dare. “And like I keep saying, go fuck yourself.”
Sonya briefly screwed her eyes shut. Why did Angel insist on goading Grafton? Did he have a death wish or something?
The waiter, sensing the rising tension at the tables, asked Sonya, “Would you like a hook for your satchel, miss?”
“Huh?” She glanced at him sharply.
“A hook for…” He pulled a small plastic holder from the pocket of his apron and attached it to the side of the table, indicating with hand gestures how she could hang her purse from it.
“Oh.” Her hands automatically tightened on the handbag in her lap. “No. I’m fine.”
She realized, once again, she’d answered too quickly, not taking the time to think about how her knee-jerk response might be perceived. Thankfully, Grafton didn’t seem to notice. He told the waiter, “Give us a few minutes to look over these menus, would you?”
“Of course.” The waiter shifted from foot to foot. The motion made his black leather shoes squeak. Then he gave them a little bow and disappeared through a door in the back wall, ostensibly off to fill their drink order.
“You never asked me how my son died or who was responsible for his death,” Grafton said conversationally. When Sonya glanced over her shoulder, she found him casually perusing the menu.
Not that she gave a shovel full of Scheisse about him or his dead son, but for right now, and especially given her newfound penchant for back talk, she figured she’d better keep up pretenses.
“How did he die?” she asked dutifully. “Who is responsible for his death?”
Grafton set aside the menu and adjusted his hoodie so his face was completely shadowed. “He died from a bullet to the brain in a run-down motel on the bad side of Chicago. And those responsible for his death are known as Black Knights Inc.”
The way he said the name made Sonya think she should recognize who he was talking about. She didn’t.
Grafton glanced at her over his shoulder. She got the impression he studied her from behind the opaque lenses of his glasses. Eventually, he shrugged. “I thought, given your position within Interpol, you might have heard of them.”
“No.” She shook her head, then looked over at Angel.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. His face was as impassive as always. But there was something about his stillness. It was punctuated by a weird energy.
Had he heard of Black Knights Inc.?
Before she could analyze him further, Grafton said, “Ah, well…they do run a good game. A good shadow game. When I first learned of them, when they killed my son, I thought they were nothing more than what they were purported to be. A group of leather-clad, beer-guzzling, custom bike builders whom my boy had the bad luck of running afoul of. But I’ve since learned they are much more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they’re government agents.”
She raised both eyebrows, turning back to Grafton, but he was no longer looking at her. He was once more studying his menu. “How do you know that?” she asked.
