Mirror Image

“I?

??m not gonna go chasing—”

“Please, Fancy. It’s terribly important.”

“Then, how come you’re asking me? I usually get the shit detail.”

“I thought we were friends,” Avery said, turning up the heat. “Tate and I helped you out of a jam the other night. You owe us a favor.”

Fancy chewed on that for a moment, then flipped the key in her palm several times. “Where’s it at?” Avery provided her with the address of the post office branch. “Jeez, that’s a million miles from here.”

“And you said half an hour ago that you were tired of being cooped up in this friggin’ hotel suite. And I believe that’s a quote. Now, will you do this for me?”

Avery’s demeanor must have conveyed some measure of the urgency and importance of the errand because Fancy shrugged. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Avery gave her a hard hug. At the bedroom door, she paused. “Don’t make a big deal of leaving. Just go as unobtrusively as possible. If someone asks where you are, I’ll cover for you.”

“Why so hush-hush? What’s the big secret? You’re not screwing a postman, are you?”

“Trust me. It’s very important to Tate—to all of us. And please hurry back.”

Fancy retrieved her shoulder bag from the credenza in the parlor and headed for the double door of the suite. “I’ll be back,” she tossed over her shoulder. No one gave her a second glance.

Forty-Eight

Fancy lifted her hip onto the stool and laid the small rectangular package she’d taken from the post office box on the polished wood surface of the bar. The bartender, a mustached, muscular young man, moved toward her.

The smile she blessed him with had been designed in heaven for angels to wear. “A gin and tonic, please.”

His friendly blue eyes looked at her skeptically. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Make that two gins and tonic.” A man slid onto the stool beside Fancy’s. “I’m buying the lady’s.”

The bartender shrugged. “Fine with me.”

Fancy assessed her rescuer. He was a young executive type—insurance or computers, she would guess. Possibly late twenties. Probably married. Looking for kicks away from the responsibilities he had assumed so he could afford his designer clothes and the timepiece strapped to his wrist.

This was the kind of trendy place that attracted singles or marrieds on the make. It was filled with worthless antiques and glossy, gargantuan greenery. The bar created a vortex during happy hour that sucked in yuppies from their BMWs and Porsches by the scores.

While she was analyzing him, he was analyzing her. The gleam in his eyes as they moved down her body indicated that he thought he’d scored big.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said.

“You’re welcome. You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

“Sure. I’m old enough to drink. Just not old enough to buy.” They laughed and toasted each other with the drinks that had just arrived.

“I’m John.”

“Fancy.”

“Fancy?”

“Francine, if you prefer.”

“Fancy.”