GLENVILLE PAID OFF the cab and hurried down the street after the three men who were his quarry. The taxi he’d been following had driven up to the front door of l’Arrington, and he’d been forced to stop half a block away. As he drew near, he saw the three men he knew to be Stone Barrington, Dino Bacchetti, and the one he was really concerned with, Billy Barnett—or whatever name he was using—go back into the very hotel where he’d picked them up to begin with. Slowing, so as not to overtake them, he smiled at the bellboys and the valet parkers for whom he offered no business, and pushed his way into the lobby.
Inside, a fuss was being made. Stone Barrington, recognized as the co-owner, was immediately descended upon by the concierge and the head clerk, eager to cater to his every whim. As if Stone were not enough of a celebrity himself, he was known to be dining with Marcel DuBois, which pushed his importance off the chart. The maître d’ was summoned from the restaurant to personally escort them into the dining room.
Glenville watched all this with misgivings. Aziz would want a quiet location to make another run at Barnett, some out-of-the-way place. At the owner’s table in the main dining room—being catered to by waiters, wine stewards, and possibly the chef himself, would never do. Aziz would be displeased, and would probably find a way to blame him.
Glenville peeked into the dining room. Marcel DuBois was not there yet, but the other three men were being led to what was clearly his table. It commanded a view of the whole dining room, and was even slightly raised from the rest of the room.
Glenville sent Aziz a text: L’Arrington Hotel. Dining.
Aziz texted back: Check windows.
Glenville frowned. He didn’t want to ask for a clarification, but “Check windows”?
Glenville went out and walked around to the side of the hotel where he figured the restaurant was. He had no problem finding it. The windows were all lit up in the gathering dark. While he watched, waiters scurried around the head table, pouring water and waiting to take drink orders. The maître d’ was talking rapidly to the three men, no doubt apologizing for the absence of Monsieur DuBois, and imploring them to sit down. The men were demurring, probably not wanting to be seated before their host.
Through the brightly lit windows, Glenville could see it all in vivid detail. With a rush, he suddenly realized exactly what Aziz meant.
It was perfect.