Page 11 of The Witness

I took another sip of the wine as I considered the question. At my age, most people had a laundry list of responsibilities and connections—the mess of midlife. But not me.

“Uh, a brother I’ve not seen in a few years up in Tampa. He’s a cop. And my mom. She lives in a fancy assisted living place near Palm Beach. Very ritzy. I see her on holidays and stuff.” I shrugged. It was sad. At forty-two, I only had two people on my list. “Honestly, if they want to come after me, it’s my business that would get my attention.”

“The catering company?” He wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

“I’m opening a restaurant; build-out is about seventy-five percent complete. I started with a food truck, then branched out into catering. My goal was a brick-and-mortar place by the time I was forty-five. And I’m running way ahead of schedule thanks to winning a food truck cooking competition on TV.”

“Very cool. Where’s the restaurant?”

I rattled off Viande’s address in the heart of Miami’s affluent Design District. And Michael whistled, impressed.

“You have insurance?”

I froze. The next forkful of cake stuck halfway to my mouth. The question filled my head with a vision of my beautiful place going up in flames. I shuddered and squeaked out something that passed as a yes.

Michael took out his phone and fired off a text message. “I’ll get someone to monitor the building. We’ll talk to your mom and brother in the morning. He is a cop, so that’s great. And those fancy assisted living places have decent security, especially at night.”

I sagged with relief and enjoyed my delayed bite of cake, smiling my thanks at him.

“Restaurants are a risky business. Don’t—”

I cut him off. “No, don’t tell me how most new restaurants fail. I don’t want to hear it. My mom has said it often enough.” I wouldn’t fail. I’d promised myself that in honor of Hailey. I’d beat the odds.

“Okay.” He held his hands up like he was going to surrender. “Tell me about it?”

“It’s called Viande. That’s French for…”

“Meat.” He smirked.

“Yes.” I paused and considered what his knowing the translation might mean. Interesting. “We’re remodeling the space now. The soft opening is set for mid-February. I need to get as many days open during the height of winter season as I can. Evey day I delay I’m losing money. The menu is a lot like what I cooked for my food truck. A focus on decadent proteins, cooked in interesting but recognizable ways. Everything from Wagyu beef to foie gras. And since I can get it, local seafood too.”

“Specials?”

“I won the food truck competition with a lionfish taco. Eating an invasive exotic fish played great on television. So I’m kind of known for that and the tacos will have to be on the menu. I’ve been finalizing an Ostrich Chateaubriand and a wagyu and Morel mushroom stroganoff with scratch-made egg noddle pasta. Beyond that, I’m testing a million ideas.”

“Like what else?”

The cake disappeared from both our plates and all the rest of the wine from the bottle as I filled Michael in on my plans. He was obviously both a bit of a foodie and a mixologist. When I started talking about craft cocktails, his knowledge impressed me. Having someone new to tell about Viande helped me forget for a little while why I was locked inside a building that looked like a bunker.

I was fighting back a yawn when Michael stood. “Let’s get you settled in the guest apartment before you pass out at this table. We have clothes, toiletries—you name it—already waiting in the suite. After some sleep, we’ll get to work solving your problems in the morning.”

“It’s that easy?” I looked up, hoping he’d say yes so hard it hurt.

“I’m not promising easy. Only progress.”

Chapter 6

Michael

In my Smith Agency SUV, I rolled past Sabrina’s white bungalow at a little before six am. Her house was quintessential Miami. Likely built in the nineteen-fifties, it sported an overgrown bird of paradise plant that towered over the garage and a front walk made of big white paver stones with nicely mowed grass growing between the bricks. The front door was a bright cheery blue, and not how I would enter the house.

It was in a neighborhood that had transitioned from sketchy to fashionable in the last ten years. Testament to the change was the brand-new Range Rover parked in the driveway next door. The dull silver Ford Tauras parked across the street wasn’t quite so chic. And the two guys sitting inside staring right at Sabrina’s house encouraged me to keep driving. That car at this time of the morning didn’t belong. They had to be on the lookout forSabrina. Whether they were from the FBI, PD, or Sandoval’s crew, I didn’t care. No way I’d tip them off.

I parked a block over in front of a similar bungalow with an empty driveway and a “for rent” sign out front. By my calculations, Sabrina and this house shared a back fence line.

The sun was turning the sky a mellow gray and the morning air had, for Florida, a definite nip. I zipped my fleece jacket all the way and walked up the rental house’s driveway. I’d lived in Florida my whole life; this was my heavy winter coat, and I needed it this morning.

I hopped the privacy fence and landed like a cat in the rental’s side yard. Sparring with an ex-Navy SEAL, like Derek Sawyer, had taught me to be light on my feet despite my size. The rental had a stillness that only came from being unoccupied. I walked through the backyard, thankful for the pre-Christmas miracle of an empty house in this trendy neighborhood. A wall of tropical vegetation spilled over the common fence from Sabrina’s side.

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