Page 10 of Dancing in the Dark

“Okay, baby.” He laughs at his daughter’s plight and shakes his head. “Okay. Yes. I understand. I’ll tell her. Goodbye.”

Chuckling, he ends their call and drops the phone into his desk. Finally, he settles back and stares over the pile between us. “Jen says hello.”

“Everything is absolutely awful?”

“I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective. You remember that little girl who came to dinner at my house last month? Juniper. Well, her mother runs the bakery in town and supplies the Checkmate office with daily desserts.”

“Okay…?”

“Well, Jen was allegedly saving one of those treats for herself, and Soph allegedly found said treat and gobbled it up in secret. It’s very serious business.”

Very serious indeed. I snicker. “I like how you said alleged. As though we don’t know for a fact Sophia Solomon makes a game of screwing with people. She seems to take additional pleasure in stealing the hidden treats, like she knows those are the ones that’ll be missed most of all.”

“It’s important we say alleged, because until a judge has decided such a thing happened….” He shakes his head. “It never happened. Are you and Sophia pals?”

“Friends of friends, I suppose. Plus, I catch a lot of the drama through either Chief Mayet or Jen.” I glance down at the files stacked between us. “You ready to get started?”

“Yep.” He bounds up from his seat and crosses to a glistening drink cart settled beneath a wide, north-facing window. Where one might expect expensive bottles of liquor to sit, a large display of wildflowers explodes from a crystal vase instead, and on the second shelf down, bottles of water wait in a uniform line.

Grabbing two, he comes back again and studies me with a raised brow.

“Right.” I take the cardboard box from the top of my pile and place it carefully on the floor. “I emailed you some of the highlights already. Thank you.” I smile as he drops a bottle on the desk beside my things. “However, I’ll run over everything again to ensure we’re on the same page. Ambassador Anwei Zhao. He’s fifty-three, married, and a dad. First name: Anwei, surname: Zhao. In Chinese culture, names are structured differently from ours. Surname first, then given name. He may introduce himself as Anwei Zhao, to match our customs, or Zhao Anwei, to honor his. Regardless, Zhao is his surname. You can call him Ambassador Zhao, or Mr. Zhao. Anwei, if he invites you to.”

“Noted.” He cracks his bottle of water open and lowers into his seat. “Existing trade agreements?”

“Current discussions revolve around China’s commitment to increased agricultural purchases, as well as the control of rare earth elements. I caution you against bringing up tariffs, and the man who held Ambassador Zhao’s position before him stepped away due to the breakdown of his marriage.” I bring my eyes up. “Probably don’t mention that either.”

His lips twitch with a smile. “Understood. What else?”

“It’s customary in these situations for each country to present the other with a small gift. It should be meaningful and emblematic of our city, but it should not be so expensive that it could be misconstrued as a bribe.”

“Right.” He settles back in his chair and brings one foot up to rest against the opposite knee. “So… a watch? A jar of rocks from the bay?”

“Valid ideas,” I snicker. “But I suggest commissioning a local artist to paint something. Make it a Copeland U art student, and we’re encouraging and rewarding youth talent. Make the painting of our bay, and that draws us back to the very crux of our deal. It’s likely Ambassador Zhao would hang a framed painting in his office, which ensures Copeland is represented perpetually, and not only when he opens a junk drawer.”

Amused, Justin drops his chin in acknowledgment. “Point taken. We don’t have a lot of time, so please have Ms. Prescott reach out to Copeland U and see if we can⁠—”

I do as he did and lift a single finger. Wait. Sweeping the narrow box from the floor, I carefully peel the end open and draw out the piece I commissioned weeks ago.

I free it from its confines and peel the protective wrap from around the elegant black frame. Setting the empty box on the floor, I spin the painting and grin. “Done.”

“Ohhhh, she was a fool to let you go.” Chuckling, he drops his foot and stands, reaching across his desk and taking the painting between gentle hands. “It’s no wonder Chief Mayet is always so angry at me. I swooped in and stole you without a single shred of shame, and though Detective Fletcher’s daughter consistently looks at me like she wants to tear my face off⁠—”

“Oh my gosh.” I let out a nervous giggle. “She doesn’t want to tear your face off, sir.” She wants to kick you in your leg. But still. “She would never.”

“She could beat me black and blue, and I still wouldn’t be sorry for my thievery.” Offering the painting back, he watches as I re-wrap and slide it into its box. Sitting again, he studies me through adoring eyes.

It’s not a sleazy, middle-aged-man gawk so many seem to think is a compliment.

It’s not the same as how Charlie stares at me, either.

It’s not even the same kind of adoration Mia carries around every time we see each other.

It’s different.

It’s how he looks when his daughter complains about stolen cupcakes.

“I haven’t seen Detective Fletcher or his sweet little girl in a couple of weeks. Are they well?”