Page 22 of The Alibi Club

She reached him and finally looked up. She was stop-traffic beautiful, her demeanor chilly, her gaze aloof.

“Hi, I’m Cliff Weston.” He offered his hand. She met his with the briefest touch.

“Hello,” she replied coolly.

Vasken came out with a velvet bag the color of midnight. He handed it to her, and she retrieved the contents. It was a Rolex with an aqua-blue face and Jubilee band. She inspected it.

“We replaced the few diamonds that were missing, polished it, and buffed out a scratch,” Vasken said.

She nodded her approval. “Excellent work, Mr. Yeremian. Thank you.”

“As it so happens, Ms. Gray, you were asking if I knew of any security experts. I’d like to introduce you to the best I’ve met, Cliff Weston.”

Ms. Gray turned her head slowly back toward Cliff. “That’s quite an endorsement,” she said.

“Enchanté, Ms. Gray.” Cliff took her hand and gently pressed it. “Vasken is generous with his praise.” Cliff lowered his chin. He wouldn’t miss this opportunity, though. He looked her directly in the eye. “But I do know my way around a security system. Do you have a business you’re looking to protect?”

“More like a residence,” she answered.

“I design personal systems, too.”

“Can you examine weaknesses in my current system?”

“I can. In fact, that is my specialty.”

“Color me intrigued, Mr. Weston.” The corner of her mouth tilted up. “Do you have a card?”

Cliff produced his newly printed business cards and handed one to her.

She took it, slid it in her purse, and smiled. “Weston Security. Excellent. I’ll be in touch.” She put on her watch, thanked Vasken, and waved goodbye.

When she was gone, Cliff looked at Vasken. “It’s like she walked out of a Raymond Chandler novel. Femme fatale.”

“A real mystery, too. New in town. I don’t know much about her beyond her address. It is a house here in Manhattan Beach, right on Strand.”

“A lot of new money coming into the beach cities, I’m told,” Cliff said, thinking about what his parole officer had said. How rich people around here get lulled into a false sense of security. If that was the case, he was just the man for the job. He needed the money to start his business, though. It was a huge opportunity and for once, he felt like he was at the right place at the right time.

But first, Cliff needed to meet a woman. Not just any woman. A woman who would reflect well on Cliff. Someone The Siberian would approve of. Someone perhaps Cliff had been looking for—for a long, long time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Make Your Own Luck

LORNA

Cliff Weston—hazel-eyed, ruggedly fetching with a sketchy past. Eyes always roaming for exits or warning signs, or something else only his mind could see. Such an interesting case. Lorna lingered over the art history section in Pages Bookstore as she thought about her encounter with Cliff at Pasha’s Fine Jewelry.

She believed Cliff when he said he was an ex-con with a dream over their email exchange. He wore his intensity and focus like armor and carried himself with a hooded confidence, a survival skill likely learned in prison where the right amount of cockiness would keep you safe, but too much would get your shivved in the shower. She could also sense that he was a man who loved women. It was in the way her took her hand and how he looked at her without ogling her. Good manners handed down from a good mother, she assumed. Likely his father was the issue at the root of his more rotten branches. He needed a good pruning, it was true.

He was also hiding something. Her guess was that Cliff was intent on reinventing himself, but acting like a newly born person, going through the motions and replicating what you see good, decent people do, is a lot easier than believing you’ve become one.

But she was always up for a project.

Cliff was the first piece of her puzzle and the one who would bring it all together. The table started with him.

She put down a hardcover copy of The Royal Tombs of Ancient Egypt and waved goodbye to the affable, bespectacled bookseller and headed toward the offices of her architect. She needed the blueprints for the house. She would set up a meeting with Cliff Weston to analyze them and see if he could put his expertise to work. All the while ascertaining if he was the man she was looking for. Judging by her instincts, she already knew he was.

If all went to plan, this Dinner for Six would be a masterpiece. She nearly tripped on a e-scooter that had been haphazardly tossed on the sidewalk like a broken toy when a text from Elaine Cromwell Frisco came in: