I took a breath, turned off the shower, and answered the call instead of tossing the phone.
“Asher, who's this?”
“Morning, Asher, it's Matt Eaton, PI.”
“Ah. Hi, Matt. Have you found something new?”
“Yeah. Me and the rest of the city that is.”
“What?”
“Do yourself a favor, Asher, and go look on page three of today's Times. Do that, and then tell me whether you still trust that bird in your office.”
“All right, give me a few. I'll call you back.”
“Sure.”
My heart began to pound. What the hell was he talking about? Page three of today's Times?
I pressed an icon on the video touch-screen in my bathroom, and my driver's face showed up.
“Yes, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Go pick up today's copy of The New York Times, will you? And, uh, pick up a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich for me. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”
“Certainly, sir.”
I turned off the screen and stepped back into the shower, anxious to find out just what the private investigator had been talking about. There was only one way to find out, though, since I didn’t have an online subscription to the paper. That way involved waiting. I shook my head, sighed, and turned on the faucet for the rain shower, grateful for the temporary escape the relaxing heat the water provided.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the breakfast table having a smoothie when Alfred returned with a copy of The Times and a bottle of whiskey. I thanked him for his help, then asked him for a little privacy. My gut told me I didn’t want anyone around when I saw what was on page three.
After he had closed the door behind him, I plucked up enough courage to open the newspaper.
I almost wished I hadn't.
There, splayed out across half the page, was a full-color photo of Brendan Savage arm in arm with Lilah. She, I have to say, was dressed in an absolutely stunning gown. The headline of the article the picture was attached to said something about the opening of a new restaurant in town owned by a celebrity chef from France.
I wasn't interested in the article itself, though. All I could see was the image of Lilah, arm in arm with my biggest rival who had the smuggest grin on his face I'd ever seen. He had probably timed it just so that he'd walk past a press photographer, knowing I’d see the photo.
I crumpled the newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the room, shouting with rage as I did. With anger-quivering hands, I picked up my phone, skimming through until I reached Lilah's number. My finger hovered just above the screen, ready to press the dial key. I felt like unleashing a tirade on her. How could she have done this to me? After everything I'd done for her, after everything we'd been through together, done together—she did this?
I was about to hit dial, but then a different part of my brain took over and held my finger back.
“Wait,” the voice said—a voice that sounded almost like Colonel Tanaka's. “There might be an explanation for this. As blatant as it seems, there may be something else going on.”
I set the phone down on the table and leaned back in the chair. My mindset wasn’t where it needed to be at the moment to talk rationally to Lilah, so the best thing to do would be to simply not speak to her. Not until I'd calmed down and maybe not until I had a better idea of what was really going on.
Maybe it was time to have Matt start following Lilah. I gave it some thought before I picked up my phone and dialed.
“Matt speaking,” he answered.
“Matt. It's Asher Sinclair.”
“You saw the paper. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“And now you want me to follow the girl, right?”