EIGHTY

THE large ballroom space was packed with artists and their guests, admiring the display of paintings and sculptures. A circular bar, made from recovered industrial parts, was set up in the center of the room.

Some kind of synth pop was playing—I didn’t know whether the speakers were hi-fi or wi-fi, but the music was fun and upbeat and the sound quality was impressive.

Since I was supposed to meet Mr. Dante at the bar, I headed straight there and quickly spied him sitting on a stool, sipping (I assumed) one of those “artisanal cocktails.”

“Mr. Dante!” I called.

The tattooed barista froze and scanned the crowd around him. With my blond wig and big glasses, I wasn’t easy to recognize, so I caught his attention with a wave.

“There you are! We’ve got to move and move now,” Mr. Dante said frantically.

“Calm down. Let’s sit for a few minutes and you can fill me in on—”

“No,” he said. “There’s no time. If you want to talk to Tessa Simmons, we’ve got to go now.”

“But Detective Quinn is busy on an important call. Can’t we wait fifteen minutes?”

“Tessa could be gone by then. It’s now or never.”

This isn’t the plan. Not at all!

I thought I’d have time to check out the art show—and gather my courage to speak with Tessa. I reminded Mr. Dante of the plan he’d texted us during our drive. He was supposed to take me and Detective Quinn behind the scenes, to some back office, where he said Tessa could usually be found all evening long.

“Not tonight,” Mr. Dante informed me. “Her assistant just told me that she decided to have an early dinner with a business associate, and then she’s going home.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where she lives,” Mr. Dante said.

“No! Where is she having dinner?”

“Upstairs, at Nostalgia, the rooftop bar and restaurant.”

“Let’s go.”

Mr. Dante took me to a dedicated elevator in the lobby that went straight up to the restaurant. Just as the doors began to close, we spotted a man who looked disturbingly familiar. He wasn’t in his burgundy corduroy suit tonight or his security uniform. But I instantly recognized the grumpy, stout fireplug with the thinning red hair, ruddy skin, and jagged scar on his cheek.

Mr. Dante scowled. “Isn’t that one of the assholes who roughed me up at the Parkview?”

I nodded. “That’s Stevens, the security chief—and he’s in the wrong hotel.”

Not only that. It was the second time this weekend that I’d run into the man. The mathematical odds for chance coincidence were falling fast.