“I’ll call Andy Blake. We start from the beginning. Every witness gets looked at again. I’ll bring Ian up to speed. I need to track down that ex of hers—he blew off our scheduled meeting. Guys, just take care of Cassie. Monique, call the office. Have them recall my team, Mike, and his team. Five o’clock—tenth floor.” Kieran got up to make the call.
* * *
Martin had had enough rest—there was work to do. He waited for Lil to check on Cassie to sneak out on her. The couch in the upscale Union Square hair salon provided comfort to his aching body while he waited to speak with Franny Penn. Six years ago, she was the hostess at La Luna.
The young woman with violet streaks in her hair approached him. “Well, lover, what can I do for you? You don’t need a cut.” She ran her hand over his close-cropped hair. “But I love, love, love this color.” Franny ran her thumb across the stitches above his brow. “What did you do? Poor baby.”
Martin gave her a movie star-worthy megawatt smile. “Franny, my name is Martin Bailey.” He handed her his business card. “I need to ask you a few questions about something that happened at La Luna six years ago.”
“That’s a long time ago.”
“I thought we could try. Can you take a few minutes?” Martin turned the charm to full blast.
“You are my last customer, so I’m all yours.” Her tone was seductive.
“Let me treat you to a cup of coffee or something?”
“I’ll take the ‘or something.’” Her eyes told him what “something” was.
They sat at a table in a small bistro. “Franny, Metro Police spoke to you about an argument you witnessed in the parking lot.”
“Yeah, I do remember that. The girl had a weird name. Like the stars, Cassiopeia, right?”
“Yes. You do remember. Do you recall what she was wearing?”
Franny sipped her sparkling wine. “The guy wore a smart black suit and a thin silver tie.”
“Why do you remember that?”
She laughed. “My boss played a game with the staff every shift. We gave our picks at the beginning of the night. We got an extra hundred if we won the pool. He had the bartender keep the tally—I won that night. It was count the number of guys with those preppy thin ties and any-color-but-black girl shoes. There was a huge debate about them. I said they didn’t count since they never came inside.”
Martin smiled. “Cassiopeia?”
“Boring black dress. Black patent ballet shoes. I hate that style.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I remember thinking that with her reddish hair and the cool name, she should be wearing more color.”
“One more question. What do you think of these shoes?” Martin showed her a picture of Cassie’s navy pumps.
“Now, lover, that’s a shoe. I dream of making enough to afford those. That’s Valentino.”
“How much are they? They’re shoes.”
“Eleven hundred a pair.”
Martin almost spat out his coffee. “Well, Franny, today’s your lucky day. Come with me now so we can write this all down, and I will buy you a pair.”
* * *
After the graveside service, Ian drove to CIA headquarters. Flashing the appropriate credentials, he was allowed to enter the secretive halls. Analyst Terry Fields escorted him to a small conference room. “Good to see you.” He patted Ian on the arm.
Ian winced. “Arm versus bullet. No big deal.”
Terry frowned. “I thought you sat behind a desk these days? I assume this isn’t a social meeting then. What brings you in?”
Ian placed an envelope on the table. “Samples and a shell from my building.” He pulled two photographs and two fingerprint cards from his pocket. “These two took a shot at me in San Diego. Ex-AFEUR. I need to know who hired them.” He pointed to one. “He’s no longer with us.”
