“We’re on it,” Terry confirms. “Two witnesses claim that Remy stumbled into them. They assumed that she was drunk.”
“She’s pregnant!”
Terry raises both hands. “I’m giving you the facts to work through. Better for all concerned if our perp has no idea that she’s pregnant; we don’t want to give them any more ammunition than they already have.”
I glance at Cash who cricks his neck from side to side, slowly reviving himself from his bubble of guilt.
“What else?” I ask.
“No one followed her through to the foyer. No one saw her leave the building.”
“The concierge? He’s paid to be our eyes and ears.”
“He had a particularly difficult customer. His words, not mine.”
I lower my head and clasp my hands around the back of my neck. “It was a fucking set-up. They knew exactly what they were doing.”
“I’ve been researching George Quinn’s background,” Kyle says. “Sure, he started a small tech company, funded by Daddy, when he graduated from college. It has since grown disproportionately thanks to the advancement of AI, and some perfectly timed investments which I assume Daddy threw his son’s way. But unless he’s hiding some secret cypher punk connections, this is way beyond his capabilities.”
“In plain fucking English, Kyle.” It’s harsh, but we’re wasting time dicking about here when we should be out there looking for Remy.
Kyle’s expression registers no offence. “I don’t think that Quinn is our man.”
“Got a better suggestion?”
Kyle shakes his head and exchanges glances with Caleb, looking for someone to back him up.
“We’re looking into Isabella Leone’s connections,” Caleb says.
“Well.” I stand up tall and meet their eyes in turn. “While you’re looking for connections, I’m going downstairs to speak to our friend Mr. Quinn.”
“Bash,” Terry says, standing between me and the door. “He has an alibi.”
I meet his gaze. “And you and I both know it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”
“I’m coming with you.” Cash is already on his feet.
“Boys.” Terry blinks hard. “I should stop you. Your mom will have my fucking balls on a plate if I go home tonight and tell her that her youngest sons have both been arrested. But I’m trusting you not to blow it, alright?”
He stands aside and gestures to the door.
“You prove me wrong, and you’ll have me to deal with. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Isabella is the first to spot us when we enter the restaurant and make a beeline for their table. I guess we’re hard to miss. Instead of alerting her fiancée and her other dinner companions, she presses a crisp white napkin to her lips, folds it neatly, and continues the conversation they were having before we appeared.
If I wasn’t so focused on the man sitting next to her with the mashed-up features, I might have paid a little more attention. But some perverse part of me, the part that has already tried and convicted George Quinn of abducting the woman I love and holding her hostage in some dank basement in a rat-infested warehouse, takes immense pleasure in his reaction.
He blinks his good eye, pushes his seat backwards, and picks up a silver dinner knife, wielding it in front of him like a sword. “St-stay away from me,” he stutters. Peering around, he catches the eye of the maître-d and beckons him to the table.
“What’s the problem, George?” I pull up a seat from a spare table and sit down. “Something wrong with the food?”
Cash copies me and drags a second chair closer. “We have a complaints procedure if you’re unhappy with the service.”
“Okay.” The man sitting across from Isabella places his cutlery across his unfinished plate. Mr. Leone perhaps. He has the same slender nose as Isabella, the same strong jawline. “Would you care to explain what’s going on here? My wife and I are trying to enjoy a meal with our daughter and her fiancé.”
“Please accept my apologies, sir.” Cash produces his most disarming smile, and I don’t interrupt. “But earlier this evening, your future son-in-law accused me of a crime that I didn’t commit.”
