I didn’t know who else to call. I know this thing she’s involved in is confidential.”
“Is something wrong?” Jack asked. Hearing this, Wilkins looked over.
“It’s probably nothing,” Collin said. “She’s on a date tonight. Maybe she’s just . . . preoccupied.”
Jack gritted his teeth. If one more person mentions this damn date . . . “But?”
“She’s not answering her cell phone. I’ve called her several times and I keep getting her voicemail.”
“She probably turned it off,” Jack said. Wouldn’t want anything to interrupt her night with Max-who-apparently-has-a-fetish-with-women’s-shoes, after all.
“That would certainly be a first,” Collin said. “She’s never once turned that thing off as far as I know. She keeps it on for work.”
Jack paused at this. “Okay—we’ll look into it.”
He hung up and turned to Wilkins. “That was McCann. He says Cameron’s not answering her cell phone. Probably just a dropped signal, but we should check it out.” He picked up his phone and called Slonsky. When the detective didn’t answer, Jack paged him and left a message to call back.
Jack frowned. “Did either Phelps or Kamin mention the name of the new guy they’ve got watching Cameron?”
Wilkins shook his head. “No.”
Jack quickly looked up the number for Spiaggia restaurant and dialed. Twenty seconds later, he hung up the phone, his frustration level having risen about ten notches. “I got a recording that says I should try again in a few minutes if I’m calling during normal business hours. Very helpful,” he said to Wilkins. “Do we have numbers for either Phelps or Kamin?”
“No.”
Great. Clearly, that would have to change ASAP. “Let’s call the station and have them paged, too. How nice it would be if we could find somebody who knows something.”
“The restaurant is only two miles away,” Wilkins said. “Why don’t I stay here and keep trying them, CPD, and Cameron, while you head over and check things out? With your ride, you’ll be there and back in fifteen minutes.”
Jack nodded—he’d been thinking along those same lines. There were plenty of perfectly innocuous reasons Cameron might not have been answering her phone. But the thought of that one not-so-innocuous reason got him moving. Fast. He grabbed his keys and shoved them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Phelps and Kamin said they saw her go into the restaurant, so at least we know that much. If you get through to the restaurant, confirm that everything’s okay with this cop Slonsky’s got watching her, whoever the hell he is, then call me. Most likely, this is all a lot of nothing.”
“And if it isn’t nothing?” Wilkins asked.
Jack yanked open the top right drawer of his desk and pulled out his backup gun, a subcompact Glock 27. He strapped it into a harness around his ankle. “Then I’ll make it nothing, as soon as I get there.”
Because no one messed with his witnesses.
Not even this one.
SIX MINUTES LATER,having raced through the city at vastly illegal speeds only a skilled driver and badge-carrying FBI agent could pull off without fear of death or being arrested, Jack pulled up at the One Magnificent Mile building. He left his Triumph parked out front and flashed his badge to the lobby security guard in order to avoid being towed. After a quick sprint up the escalator, he entered the marble foyer of Spiaggia restaurant.
The maître d’ came around the corner, looking harried. “Sorry—I hope you haven’t been waiting long. A busier crowd tonight than we had anticipated. Can I help you?” While he caught his breath, he took notice of Jack’s jeans and eyed them skeptically.
Jack still had his badge in his hand. “Jack Pallas, FBI. I’m looking for one of your guests, Cameron Lynde. Dark-haired woman, early thirties, about five-three.”
The maître d’ studied his badge. “Andy told me I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. And he specifically said I’m supposed to call him if anyone asks for it tonight.”
At least CPD got that right. “I’ll tell you what—you call him, and while you’re doing that, I’m going to have a look around.” Without further delay, Jack entered the main dining room and quickly surveyed his surroundings. The restaurant spanned two levels: the primary dining area, and a lower level where tables were flanked by impressive floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite the ornate chandeliers above, the lighting in the restaurant was low—presumably to enhance the views of the city and Lake Michigan—and it took him a few moments to scan through the guests on the first level. Not seeing Cameron,