She thought about it, tapping one nail against the counter. “You mentioned the Orpheum the other night.”
“I did.”
“My neighbor, Rodney, catered a fundraiser there in the spring. Preservation people and donors. It was the usual crowd with opinions about restoration and no experience carrying anything heavier than cutlery.”
“That sounds right.”
“He said there was an older man not on the guest list who spent a long time in the lobby with the facilities manager. Long enough that Rodney noticed. The man wasn’t drinking or circulating. Rodney said he held himself like someone doing arithmetic in his head.”
I sipped again.
“What did Rodney mean by that?”
“He didn’t say exactly. Only that it didn’t feel social. That made him stand out in the crowd.”
“How long was he there?”
“Forty minutes. Possibly more.”
“Did Rodney describe him?”
“She did. Short, white hair. Dark jacket. Do you know who it is?”
“I could make an educated guess.”
“Do you want the facilities manager’s name?”
“I think I know him.”
“Luca.” Her voice softened. “Is Dominic in danger? Are you?”
I considered softening my response and decided not to. “Yes.”
She tensed. “And the security professional?”
“Is doing his job.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
No one in my family ever let a deflection pass if they could help it. I hated and respected it in equal measure.
“He leaves when the job ends,” I said.
Camille studied me. “Well, that’s a different danger altogether.”
I finished the coffee and kissed her cheek on my way out.
Two blocks down the street, I called my mother. She answered on the second ring from the funeral home office. I heard paperwork shifting in the background before I heard her voice.
“You sound tired,” she said.
“I’ve earned it.”
“What happened?”
I told her about Henri again. I shared what I’d seen at the donor reception: the controlled cough into a handkerchief and how he conserved movement throughout the evening.
She was quiet for a moment.
