3

I sat on the deck of the power boat, the heat hammering down as I swayed in the waves off Coconut Grove. The sunlight flared across the water like it was bouncing off a blade. I loosened the baseball cap against my sweating head, then gazed again at the photographs on my phone.

The youngest of the Oregon bombing victims was four years old: Lucy Hocroft, a shy-looking girl with wispy blonde hair and huge, searching green eyes. The ferocious nature of her death itched away at me as I slowly flipped through the other photos. Images of Lucy’s brother and sister. Of their parents. Of Will Jerome. Of the married couple who’d owned the cabin, friends of Will’s. Willard had sent me the photos in a bid to make sure that I saw this through, and it was working.

It wasn’t hard summoning up the will to kill Lenny Tripps.

‘You OK?’ said Murray.

I nodded, then draped the fishing rod back over the stern of the boat.

It was Murray’s boat. He ran fishing trips – cheap ones. In his forties and a real mess with it, his clothes were covered in chocolate crumbs and potato chips. He looked like the victim of a drive-by snacking.

He smiled. ‘Not doing too good here, huh?’

I shrugged. I hadn’t caught a thing.

‘It’s your money,’ he said. ‘But I’m telling you, we need to go further out.’

‘It’s fine, I’m good.’

I waved the fishing line around in the water like I had any idea what I was doing, and kept my eyes on Sunset Marina.

I’d been in Miami a week now. The first six days I’d spent holed up in a room at the Grand that had a view of the inland side of the Marina. Six days and not a single clue how I was going to get in. I’d come out on the boat, trying to get a measure of the ocean side. But there was no joy here either.

I gazed at the Marina tower – a glass cylinder that rose fourteen floors above the palms and yacht masts that surrounded its base. It was built on an artificial outcrop that stretched three hundred and fifty feet out into the sea, which meant the only way in was via the road that connected it to Palm Boulevard. The tower itself may have stood out, but there was little detail to be seen inside. The building’s glass was smoked a deep green and had a mirror-like quality to it. Even with binoculars you couldn’t see much. The only decent view inside was at the main entrance. Not that it was a particularly pleasant sight – the lobby was pure Egyptian-styled glitz. Marble pillars covered in hieroglyphs and rhinestones. A glass plinth resting between two stone sphinxes that served as the reception desk. Gold leaf on every surface. It looked like the last delirious throes of Cleopatra, like she’d tried to design a condo while dying of snake bite.

But it was the security that went with it. The government spends one point five billion dollars a year on Presidential security. Lenny was worth twice that, and it looked like he was spending every cent of it on guards, scanners, and metal detectors. In six days, I hadn’t seen a single person enter the tower without at least two of the eight guards who continually patrolled the lobby, searching and scanning them before escorting them in.

It’s not like there were any other viable entrances. There was a rear exit on the ocean side, which had been the first thing I’d looked at when I came out in Murray’s boat. But that exit had three guards – even if you got by them, you’d just find yourself back in the lobby having to deal with the other eight. You could climb in, maybe, from one of the apartment balconies. But the lower balconies were sealed with storm shutters, and it had to be a hundred-foot climb to the first open one. Not that climbing was particularly inviting anyway – if I got caught on my way up, I’d be a sitting duck. No, I was going to have to walk in through the front door like a regular person.

I shook my head to myself, then tossed the fishing rod onto the deck. The heat and frustration were gnawing at me. I’d spent a week stalking Lenny’s building like some lone wolf, but for all the threat I posed to him right now, I might as well have been a carrot that was stalking him.

As I bathed in the sun for a moment, my phone rang.

It was Willard. Shit.

I glanced back at Murray. ‘You got any more beer?’

As he headed down into the boat, I answered the call.

‘Yeah.’

‘Update, please,’ said Willard.

‘The fishing didn’t help.’

‘What now?’

‘I don’t have a what now, I’m just going to have to wait and see.’

‘I’ve told DC you’re on the job. They’re expecting results.’

I gazed again at the tower. ‘You got any other information you can send me? Anything, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Everything’s in the file.’

I sighed heavily.

‘You get the photographs?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

I thought to myself a moment – it seemed like a small thing. ‘Although, there were nine victims. You only sent eight photos.’

‘One of the victims still hasn’t been identified. A female in her early twenties.’

‘A friend of Will’s maybe?’

‘We don’t know. There’s been no missing persons reports that match her.’

I tried to get a handle on this. Nine times out of ten, no missing persons reports meant the victim was either a drug addict or a prostitute. Will Jerome would have been the only guy at the cabin that afternoon who didn’t have a wife in tow – but he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d have hired company like that.

Willard muttered impatiently, ‘Alright, stay focused. I want news tomorrow.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

But I didn’t hold out much hope of that. I was getting nowhere here. I hung up, grabbed the lifeless fishing rod, then once again turned my attention back to Sunset Marina.

I got back to the hotel at about eight that night. I took one look at the Marina tower looming outside my window, then went straight back out again. Eighteen hours a day watching that place – it was frying my head. I needed music and female company, even if it was just for a few hours.

I strolled through the bustling streets of Coconut Grove. The gentle roar of the ocean in the distance, the palm trees shivering in the evening breeze. As I scanned the clubs and bars, looking for a place to hang for a while, I caught sight of a pink glow down one of the side streets. A club called The Pepper Bar. The place looked good – a Lamborghini Aventador parked outside. Not that you’ll ever meet a guy in a Lamborghini who you’ll like, but there’s always crowds of pretty and, more importantly, desperate girls around them.

I headed down into the club, the neon depths glowing like a nuclear reactor. I squeezed over to the bar, ordered a double Scotch, then gazed at the crowds – a sweating mass of bleached hair and glitter. Seventies disco streaming from the speakers. I took a large mouthful of the Scotch, then stared at the dance floor. A group of girls heading down the white marble steps toward it. One of them glanced at me – a glossyhaired brunette in her twenties. A quiet confidence about her, I kept my eyes on her as she started to dance. She smiled at me. I took another mouthful of Scotch and weaved my way toward her. I reached the dance floor – then slowed a second. The sound of a man’s voice ringing out above the crowds behind me.

‘Michael! Michael!’

As I gazed at the silhouettes, a figure emerged into the pink light. A guy in his mid-thirties wearing a shiny black tracksuit. Slicked black hair. Dark, sunken eyes. Shit, I recognized him. Danny Perino. He’d worked for a hood in San Francisco that I used to steal cars for.

‘Michael, what the fuck are you doing here!’

‘Danny!’ I said.

He looked stoned out of his skull as he stumbled over and threw his arms around me.

‘It’s good to see you!’ he said.

I hid my disappointment at running into him. ‘You too.’

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What’s it been, four, five years?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Man, just look at you!’

The sweat on his face as he laughed – a giggle like a small child’s.

‘So what’s up?’ he said. ‘Still working for Berry?’

I shook my head. ‘Not for a while.’

‘Me neither. I’m down here now. Doing great.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You still lifting keys?’

I shrugged. ‘A little.’

‘I fucking bet, man! You were, like, totally good!’

I glanced at the brunette on the dance floor – she smiled at me again. She was definitely the preferable option to hanging with Danny.

‘Look, it’s good seeing you,’ I said to him. ‘We should definitely get together.’

As I turned and headed for the dance floor, he grabbed me by the arm.

‘No, no, we need to talk,’ he said. ‘I can’t fucking believe this!’

‘I’ll give you my number. Call me tomorrow.’

‘No, no, now,’ he said.

I sighed wearily as he started dragging me through the crowds toward an anonymous door in one corner of the club. I was too tired to argue with him – I’d give him five minutes, then head back to the brunette. As we approached the door, a thick-necked heavy standing guard opened it for us. On the other side was a small private room – white LED screens covering the walls, ceiling to floor. Some stoned guy and his half-naked girlfriend were draped across a circular sofa. Danny nodded at them. ‘Get out.’

No argument. They grabbed the girl’s clothes and scrambled to their feet, the two of them glancing to see who I was as Danny ushered them out of the room.

Danny closed the door, the music fading to a dull thud. On the table in the middle of the sofa sat two champagne buckets. Danny grabbed one of the bottles. ‘Champagne?’ he said.

I raised my Scotch. ‘I’m good.’

He poured himself a glass, then invited me to sit.

‘So who are you working for now?’ he said.

‘Me, mostly.’

‘Still doing cars?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘That’s good. That’s why you’re in Miami?’

I nodded. ‘I’ve got a little something going on.’

He giggled. ‘Little something going on. I fucking love you, man.’

He took a mouthful of champagne, then winked at me.

‘So what you driving?’ he said. ‘Still got the Aston?’

I shook my head. ‘Couldn’t be bothered with it any more.’

‘You’re kidding, I loved that car.’ He smiled, then pointed at his chest. ‘Lamborghini Aventador.’

‘That’s yours? I saw it.’

He giggled again. ‘You keep your hands off it too. Fucking girls love it, man. This one I met last week, you wouldn’t believe her. She’s just like... yeah! Fucking ass in my face. Just... fucking yeah!’

‘No, she sounds lovely.’

‘That’s the word. She’s like art, man. it’s like you’re literally fucking a painting.’

I really didn’t have the energy for this, but I raised a polite smile anyhow. ‘It sounds like you’re doing well, Danny.’

‘Yeah, yeah, get this.’

He took another huge mouthful of champagne, the wine dripping down the front of his tracksuit as he sat opposite me. ‘You know who I work for now?’ He flashed his eyes. ‘Emilio Lonos.’

I stared blankly at him, but I’d heard of Lonos from Lenny’s file. It was Lonos’ gang who’d attacked the Marina last year and got their asses kicked. The guy was a psycho by all accounts – a man whose attraction to oblivion had seen him rise to the silver medal position in Miami’s crime scene in just a few short years.

Danny nodded. ‘Emilio runs Miami, man. You should come work for him. I’m fucking serious. He could really use a guy with your hands.’

I paused for a moment, then took a sip of Scotch.

‘I thought Lenny Tripps was the guy down here,’ I said.

‘Fuck Lenny! He’s finished!’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘He’s done, man. Fucking rock n’ roll. The city’s ours.’

I eyed him carefully. ‘Why, you guys waging war on him or something?’

He giggled. ‘No, no. Not us.’

He leaned right across the table, then lowered his voice. ‘There’s been some outside talent in town the past few months. Not sure who, but Emilio thinks it’s government.’

I went still. ‘Why does he think that?’

‘Word is Tripps’ guys caught one of them by the marina. Fucking tattoos, some ex-military creep. Stinks of government, man.’ He nodded. ‘They’re bringing him down.’

He caught his breath, then wiped the champagne from his mouth. ‘Anyhow, Emilio’s got work for you. No cars. I’m talking real work, real money.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Keys, man! You can get in anywhere. Fucking judges, police chiefs... we’re gonna rule!’ He started slapping at the table. ‘You’re the man, Michael! I’m going to bring you to Emilio.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, he’s at the Palace.’

‘I can’t right now.’

‘No, no, now!’

‘I can’t, Danny.’

His mood shifted gear like a spoiled five-year-old. He grabbed me by the arm. ‘Let’s go!’

I stayed firm. ‘Danny.’

The heat in his eyes as I gently grabbed his hand and removed it from my arm.

‘Fuck this!’ he said.

‘Danny. Danny!’ I needed to calm this idiot down. ‘There’s a Ferrari California at the Hyatt. The guy who owns it is in this bar. I’m getting twenty-five if I can deliver it to the docks by midnight tonight, OK?’

He blinked heavily, then nodded – the anger in him ebbing away as fast as it had risen.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, alright.’ He looked lost for a second, his shoulders twitching slightly.

He threw his arms around me again. ‘It’s fucking good to see you, man.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah. You too.’

‘Give me your number,’ he said.

He took out his phone, and I gave him a fake number.

‘We’ll speak soon,’ I said.

‘Yeah. Yeah, Emilio’s going to love you, man.’

I headed back out into the bar and sighed wearily. I weaved through the crowds, looking for the brunette, but I couldn’t find her now. Not that it mattered – running into Danny had killed my mood. It had always been a fair assumption that Lenny knew the government was gunning for him, but the fact that a relative nobody like Danny Perino knew about it too made me feel less like a covert agent and more like a public executioner.

I trudged back toward the hotel, tired of the heat, the people and everything else to do with this job. I crossed the Boulevard and headed for the hotel’s main entrance. As I did, a red Mini Cooper blared its horn as it zipped past, nearly clipping me. I jumped back onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath. Shit, I really was tired. The Mini slowed as it approached the intersection. For a moment it looked like the driver was going to get out and yell at me, but no one appeared – the car just waited for the traffic to clear. I eyed it curiously as it then turned left into the darkness of the Marina Road and headed for the tower. I stepped toward the intersection and took a closer look. I hadn’t seen it here before.

Three of the tower guards approached the car as it pulled up by the main entrance. They seemed calm about the arrival, they were evidently expecting it. The car doors opened and two figures got out – a man and a woman. The woman was in her late twenties, wearing army fatigue pants and a white vest. I’d seen her before, she’d visited last Tuesday evening. Monroe-styled, platinum bleached hair. Tattoos all over her arms. Pretty, if you like that kind of thing. The guy traveling with her was new though. In his early thirties, short black Mohican, he looked twitchy as he grabbed a large, cube-shaped bag from the back of the Mini. He swung it over his shoulder and followed the woman into the lobby, eyeing her nervously as the guards ushered the two of them into a room just beyond the reception desk. On Tuesday, the woman had remained in the room for ten minutes, where she was no doubt thoroughly searched, before being escorted into an elevator. It looked like the same routine this evening. I stepped under a thick row of palm trees on the Boulevard and waited. The woman had arrived by cab on Tuesday, but not tonight. I noted down the license plate of the Mini, then turned over the possibilities of what might be in the bag. It looked heavy. But the arrival was too overt for cash or drugs. Weapons, maybe, but there had to be a huge armory in the tower already. Unless she was some hooker, and the bag contained fetish gear or something. Maybe the guy was, too. You never know what Lenny might be into.

Ten minutes later, the two of them exited the room and were escorted across the lobby. The moment they disappeared into the elevator, one of the lobby guards headed out to the Mini. He checked under the hood, took a look in the trunk, then extended a telescopic mirror and checked underneath the car. Whoever this woman was, Lenny didn’t trust her either. The guard then climbed inside the car and drove it toward the glowing concrete mouth that led to the Tower’s underground parking lot. I grabbed my keys. I’d missed the woman leaving on the Tuesday, but I wouldn’t tonight. I headed across the street to the hotel parking lot and got into my rented BMW. I pulled out onto the Boulevard, parked a couple of hundred feet from the intersection, and waited again.

It was nearly an hour before the Mini pulled back out onto the Boulevard. I switched off the radio and carefully eyed the car. The same man and woman in it – the woman driving. I started up the BMW and tailed them as they headed south.

Saturday night and the Grove was a sweating blur of silhouettes and pink neon. The tourists spilling off the sidewalk kept the traffic at a crawl and made the Mini easy to follow. The car wound through the crowds for about a mile, then hit the highway. I kept three or four cars behind them as the highway started to climb. The lights of the coast glittered in the distance as an overpass took us high across the city, past the glowing office buildings and billboards, and then down into the deep green shadows of Coral Gables.

The Gables was a little designer jungle. Boutiques nestled in Spanish archways, the whole area thick with trees. The Mini continued south for a few minutes, then slowed in the middle of the road ahead of me. I calmly passed the car, keeping my eyes on it in the rearview mirror. The car turned off the road and disappeared down a backstreet. I swung the BMW around, switched off the headlights, then crawled into the backstreet after them. The Mini’s lights were way ahead of me as it weaved between the dumpsters and fire escapes. The glow then ground to a halt. I stopped the BMW accordingly. I couldn’t see much at the far end of the backstreet, just the vaguest sense of movement as the guy took the bag from the rear seats. From the sluggish way he was moving, the bag seemed as heavy as it had been when he’d arrived at the tower.

The guy followed the woman down a narrow alleyway. I got out of the car and crept after them, ducking between the pools of sodium light that hung over the fire escapes. I neared the alleyway, then angled my approach to get a better view. They’d disappeared. Shit. I glanced around, then darted down the alleyway, keeping myself tight against the walls. A filthy little courtyard appeared just ahead of me. Rotting scraps of food and cigarette butts. Rows of garbage cans sitting beside the black lacquered rear door of one of the buildings. Beyond them, a concrete staircase led up to the units above – a row of offices by the look of it. As I stepped toward the staircase, the black lacquered door swung open. A sweaty guy in an apron dumped a garbage bag by the door. He eyed me for a moment, then headed back inside. As the door swung closed behind him, I went still – a glimpse of a bustling restaurant kitchen beyond the door. And standing in the middle of it was the tattooed woman. I reached for the door and pulled it open a fraction – watching as the woman took a sip of wine and buttoned herself into a brilliant white cotton smock.

She was no hooker, she was a chef.

A man’s voice from somewhere in the kitchen. ‘All good?’

The woman nodded. ‘Thirty-two guests confirmed. He’s going with the Dover sole and the lamb.’

‘How was Zack?’

She smiled. ‘Nervous.’

‘I bet he was. Lenny Tripps, are you kidding me?’

‘It was fine. We’re going to order some extra bottles... they liked the Malbec and the Burgundy.’

‘The Burgundy? We won’t get that in by tomorrow night.’

‘I’ll ask Ronnie, he’s always got it.’

A figure zipped past the gap in the door – I stepped back into the shadows of the courtyard. I just stood there for a moment, trying to get my head straight. It sounded like she was catering a party at Lenny’s. Why not? He may have been a paranoid recluse, but he’d want to be living his life even if he never left the building.

I approached the crack in the kitchen door again. I couldn’t see the chef now, but I could hear her on her phone, talking to someone about the wine she needed for tomorrow night. A relaxed playfulness in her voice, like catering for the biggest hood on the east coast was just another night for her. As she ended the call, I kept close to the door and listened carefully. Nothing now but the bustle of the kitchen – orders and services, boiling pots and sizzling pans. I waited a little longer, then headed down the alleyway until I hit the main road. I stared at the restaurant’s facade – the peach-lit, Spanish-styled entrance of ‘Charivari’. I glanced inside; a dimly lit blend of the ancient and the modern. Rough rock and mortar walls that could have been from a monastery. But subtle high-tech lighting and dark, brushed steel tables – all of them full. The guy who’d accompanied the chef to Lenny’s then appeared behind the bar at the far end, his Mohican like a strip of Velcro. He glanced at an order sheet, then started mixing drinks. I eyed him carefully. It seemed like he was the only bartender here – the guy who’d been covering for him, heading off and rejoining the waiters.

I nodded to myself. A party at Lenny’s tomorrow – the chef catering – this guy handling the bar. Malbec and Burgundy. Any money there were sample wines in the bag he’d taken with him. There could be a way in for me here.

I pushed open the main door and stepped inside the restaurant. A skinny waiter with purple-dyed hair approached me.

‘You have a reservation, sir?’ he said.

‘I’m just going to get a drink if that’s OK.’

He ushered me in. African music floating through the buzz of conversations as I headed over to the bar and sat down.

The bartender nodded at me. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Vodka tonic, please. Grey Goose.’

He grabbed a glass, filled it with ice, then started pouring the measures. I kept my eyes on him as he did. Taking this guy’s place was a definite possibility – I’d done plenty of bar work before. When I was starting out as a pickpocket, I spent six months serving drinks in the hotels around the Financial District, scouting the rich clientele and lifting their car keys. In the process I learned how to mix a whole barrel load of drinks. What’s more, I could toss a slice of lemon into a glass from about six feet away pretty consistently. Although that had more to do with me being a thief who was just good with his hands, it gave me the air of bartender who had a little style and experience.

He placed the vodka tonic in front of me. ‘That’ll be twelve dollars.’

I handed him fifteen. ‘Keep it.’

He nodded.

I took a sip of the vodka, then offered him a handshake. ‘I’m Rick.’

‘Zack,’ he replied.

‘It’s a great place you’ve got here. I’ve heard a lot about it.’

He smiled.

‘I’m looking for bar work,’ I said. ‘You got anything?’

‘Afraid not. I know Ronnie’s are looking for staff, you could try there. It’s the next block up.’

I glanced around the restaurant – the waiters all nose rings, tattoos, and chopped, dyed hair. ‘I don’t know, I kind of like this place. It’s got a different vibe to it.’

‘Ronnie’s are a little more conservative, but they’re a decent bunch. You should give them a try.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m done with conservative. I was at the White Room before this.’

He shot me a look. ‘In DC?’

I nodded.

He looked impressed, and with good reason. The White Room was famous – a real high-class place. It was where DC’s political elite hung out. I’d never been, but I knew Willard took meetings there sometimes. It was a good bet that either he or Arlen would know someone there who could arrange cover for me.

‘Look, you don’t even have to give me tips,’ I said. ‘First week I’ll work for nothing. You don’t want to keep me on after that, I’ll leave, no problem.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘A week for nothing?’

I nodded. ‘I need the change. I like it here.’

He stared thoughtfully at me.

‘Alright, give me a moment,’ he said.

He stepped out from the bar, headed toward the kitchen, then disappeared behind the door. I took another sip of the vodka and tried to think how this could work. Getting rid of Zack wouldn’t be too much of a problem. I didn’t want to do anything to hurt him, he seemed like a nice enough guy – but spike his coffee with a little eczema cream, and he’d be puking his guts up for the next forty-eight hours. Getting the chef to take me along as his replacement would be trickier though. She wouldn’t take some guy she hardly knew into Lenny’s home no matter how good a bartender I was. If I was going to get the gig, I’d need us to connect quickly, and to do that, I’d need personal information on her.

The kitchen door swung open and Zack reappeared with the chef. I eyed her carefully as she approached the bar. White cotton smock. Green cargo pants with a buttoned pocket in the flank of the right leg. Resting inside the pocket, the curved-cornered shape of a cellphone.

She sat beside me at the bar and shook my hand. ‘I’m Alice,’ she said.

‘Rick,’ I said. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

She leaned across the bar and grabbed an olive, gently chewing at it as she looked me up and down.

‘The White Room,’ she said. ‘That’s impressive.’

I shrugged modestly.

‘How long were you there for?’ she said.

‘A little over three months. I’d have stayed longer, but it wasn’t really for me.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s just DC. All anyone ever talks about is money... like the only reason Man came down from the trees was because he dropped his wallet.’

She smiled.

‘So what brings you all the way down here?’ she said.

‘Not much. Just traveling.’

‘Just traveling?’ She flashed her eyes. ‘Searching for something or running from something?’

I smiled. ‘A little of both.’

‘Yeah? What are you running from?’

‘Ah, nothing. Dad wants me to take over the business, but I’m not sure it’s for me. Lawnmowers... the sale and repair of. Thrilling huh?’

She kept her eyes on me as she grabbed another olive and slipped it into her mouth. A breezy air about her, like she had all the time in the world to do whatever she wanted.

‘OK, let’s see what you’ve got,’ she said. ‘Make me a White Russian.’

I nodded. White Russian – ice, vodka, Kahlua and milk. A truly hideous creation. I got up from the bar stool, Alice following me as I headed round to Zack’s side of the bar. I grabbed a tumbler, placed it on the bar, then reached into the ice bucket and started flicking cubes one by one toward the tumbler. A four-foot shot, they arced through the air, landing cleanly in the glass.

Alice smiled at me. ‘They go for that at the White Room, do they?’

I shook my head.

No matter – my little circus act had landed cleanly enough to make an impression. I poured the Stolichnaya. Kahlua. Full-fat milk. I gave it a stir and slid it toward her.

She took a tiny sip, ran her tongue across her lips, then thought to herself a moment.

She eyed me carefully. ‘One week, no tips?’

I nodded.

‘OK, we’ll start you at the lunch service on Monday,’ she said.

That was no good to me. ‘I’m free tomorrow if you want. The sooner I start, the better.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Keen.’

‘That’s me.’

She glanced at Zack a moment, then smiled.

‘OK, I’ll need you here by eleven,’ she said. ‘Bring your paperwork with you then.’

I nodded, then slid the Kahlua back onto the shelf. As I did, I glanced at the outline of her phone resting against the pocket fabric. Chances are it needed a fingerprint to unlock it.

‘Let me give you my number anyhow,’ I said. ‘You got a phone?’

She unbuttoned her pocket and produced a silver iPhone 8. As she pressed her thumb against the home button, I glanced around the bar counter for a fragment of dirt or fluff. A tiny thread of discarded cotton on the counter – I pressed a fingertip against it and curled it into my palm.

I gave her the number. She keyed it in, then slipped the phone back in her pocket. I started counting down sixty seconds – the usual time it took an iPhone to lock itself.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Pleasure meeting you, Rick.’

‘Likewise.’

I paused a moment, then stared at her.

I gestured toward her hair. ‘You’ve got a little, er...’ I pointed toward the platinum strands hanging down the side of her face. ‘Something’s caught in it.’

She brushed her hand through her hair.

I kept my eyes on her. ‘No, it’s still...’ I gently raised my left hand. ‘Do you mind?’

I brushed at the strands of hair. As I revealed the wispy thread of cotton to her, my right hand breezily unbuttoned her flank pocket – my middle and ring fingers slipping out her phone. I tapped the screen to restart the lock countdown, then slid it into my jeans. I brushed the cotton thread away from my fingertips.

‘We’re a proper little gentleman, aren’t we,’ she said.

‘I have my moments.’

She smiled at me again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

As she turned and headed back toward the kitchen, Zack nodded at me.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I replied.

I headed back round to the customer side of the bar. ‘I’m just going to finish my drink, then I’ll leave you guys to it.’

As Zack started mixing another drinks order, I took out Alice’s phone and started scrolling through her apps. I didn’t want to leave with it. She might get suspicious if the last time she remembered having it was around the new guy. But I didn’t make too much of a deal about hiding it while I sat there – it could have been mine.

The first thing I noticed was she didn’t have any kind of social media. No Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, nothing. A private person by the look of it, which was a shame – social media was a gold mine of personal details. Still, no matter. I opened her emails. I typed the word ‘doctor’ into the search bar, and waited. I’d always found that medical conditions were a great way of connecting with someone. I once pretended to have Huntsberger Syndrome in order to get close to the chairman of Barker Hardware. It was a great bonding experience. I managed to steal his uncle’s Bugatti. A list of emails containing ‘doctor’ then appeared on the phone. I browsed a few, but they seemed to be mostly social emails from friends – none of them suggested that she had any medical conditions. I cleared the search, then typed in the word ‘delivery’ – shopping habits was another good one. A list of ‘delivery date’ emails filled the screen. A lot of books about astronomy. Star charts. Merlin’s Tour of the Universe by Neil deGrasse Tyson. Uncharted Galaxy by Howard Lett. She even had a telescope delivered last April. I nodded to myself – I could use that. I continued scanning the delivery emails. A couple of iPads. A blender. A few books about cuisine, nothing new there. A few Star Wars toys – probably gifts. I slowed as a couple of orders then caught my eye. She’d bought two novels by an author named Zoy Rigby. I’d never heard of Rigby, but that was good, it was specific. I typed Zoy Rigby into the search bar, and got nine emails stretching back over the past four years – all of them purchases of novels. Alice was evidently a fan. I pulled up Google and did a search. It seems Rigby was a Canadian author whose work centered around themes of abandonment and loneliness. A reclusive writer who shunned publicity, she wasn’t well known outside of her home country. Perfect.

I wouldn’t say that I knew Alice – but I knew how to lie to her, which was nearly as good. Zoy Rigby and astronomy. You don’t need a symphony to serenade someone, just a few well-chosen notes. With no one ever remembering where they put their phone, I slipped it onto the bar, and headed out.