FORTY-ONE

“IT looks like your husband was the last person to see Gus before what happened, happened.”

Sophia looked at me as if I’d spoken Martian. “It’s not possible, Clare. Dad would never meet with Hunter. He disliked my husband from the start. And it’s only gotten worse.”

“Someone buzzed Hunter in,” Matt replied. “If not Gus, then who?”

I interrupted with a better question. “Whether Hunter was with Gus or not, how long was he inside the compound?”

She continued to play the digital footage.

We all watched Hunter leave about an hour after he arrived and then . . . nothing. Just like the jewelry store’s front door camera, there were no new arrivals or departures at the courtyard gate until we came on the scene.

“Looks like Hunter was inside the property for almost an hour,” I said. “If he did meet with Gus, that’s a long time for one man to tell another man he doesn’t like him . . .”

I flashed back to the argument Matt and I overheard in the jewelry shop between Sophia and her husband. Hunter seemed pretty keen on talking with Gus. But Sophia had played gatekeeper and denied him entry—entry he obviously found today with Sophia preoccupied.

I also thought about that promise Gus made me to ask around about the Panther Man shooter and find out what he could. Matt thought it was idle talk, but now I wondered—

Could Gus’s condition be a result of asking too many questions about the pattern of police shootings? Or . . . finding too many answers?

Whatever was going on, one man seemed to have some answers.

“Your husband was obviously determined to speak to Gus,” I said firmly. “You need to find out why.”

“I agree,” said Matt, exchanging glances with me.

Reluctantly, Sophia nodded and put her smartphone to use. A minute later she was wiping away a tear. “Hunter won’t pick up my call, or answer my text. He’s probably busy with some new—”

Sophia paused and perked up when she heard activity in the hall. But her shoulders slumped when she realized it wasn’t her husband rushing to her, but some other man coming for another loved one.

After a moment of thought, she leaned across and touched my shoulder.

“Clare, I can’t leave the hospital. Will you and Matt go find Hunter at that 21 Club meeting? Ask him why he visited my father, what they talked about, and . . . what my father’s condition was when he left him.”

“No problem,” Matt said.

Yeah, no problem for the guy in the custom-cut Italian suit, but this was one of the most exclusive eateries on the West Side we were talking about, one with a strict dress code.

I faced Sophia. “I’m dressed fine for the sports bar on that block, but . . .”

Matt seemed baffled by my comment, but Sophia took one look at my simple black skirt, off-the-rack sweater, and low-heeled (slightly scuffed) New York walking shoes, and nodded.

“What size shoe are you, Clare—seven, right?”

I nodded.

She unfasted her stiletto sandals. “Let’s swap. Handbags, too . . .”

Finally, she tugged off her ruby and diamond earrings, unfastened the matching necklace and bracelet, and gave the stunning treasure trove to me.

“Put these on. The shoes and bag are to make you feel better. But, honestly, most of the people in that place will only see the jewels.”

*   *   *

YOU can’t imagine the confidence boost a little fresh makeup and twenty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry gives a girl.

I even stood taller—much taller—although, I had to admit, the reason for that wasn’t confidence as much as Sophia’s Giuseppe Zanotti “Cruel” Wing shoes.

The strappy five-inch-heeled sandals (with the fifteen-hundred-dollar price tag!) included decorative metal “Firewing” appliques on the front and two thin ankle straps. With the matching designer bag, I felt like a celebrity exiting the cab, and even managed a short catwalk down the sidewalk—before Matt had to catch me.

FYI: I now know exactly what Giuseppe meant when he called these shoes “cruel.”

I only hoped it wasn’t an omen for the night ahead.