Page 18 of The Witness

“I can groove on some old school Italian. Maybe add a bit of ground bison or pancetta to make it super decadent.” She squeezed the spot where my neck met my shoulder one last time before letting go.

“I’ll buy the wine and make salad.” That sounded like a date. Me, Sabrina, and all the Smith Agency employees. Perfect. I was delusional.

“Deal.” Our gazes met in the rear-view mirror, and this time it was more than a blip. My pulse kicked into overdrive. I could easily fall for this woman.

The conversation about our favorite foods, the best meals we’d ever had, and her plans for Viande’s menu kept us all entertained as we drove north. The Sunday traffic on I-95 was light, and we rolled up to the security booth at Silver Palms in record time. Sabrina flashed the guard who knew her name a smile and told him a made-up story about her lost ID. He chuckled and wished her luck at the DMV as he gave us access to retiree paradise.

“Damn, this place is posh.” Noah whistled as we rounded the driveway’s center island overflowing with perfectly maintained landscaping and pulled under the gracious porte-cochere.

The sprawling four-story compound was built in Florida’s popular Mizner style. It looked like a super-sized mansion. Behind the building, golfers dotted the emerald green grass of the private course. Near the building entrance, a uniformed bellman waited to open our doors and a valet parker had a ticket at the ready to trade for the SUV.

“Hi Jaques, can we leave the car up here? We won’t be long. We're picking up Mom,” Sabrina rolled down the window to ask before the bellman opened our doors.

“Of course. No problem at all, Ms. Dalton.” The man’s rich Jamaican accent gave the answer a lilting singsong quality. “Pull into that loading zone.”

“Do they know everyone’s name?” I parked the SUV and cut the engine.

“Pretty much. The staff here is unbelievable. Silver Palms is like a five-star cruise ship that never leaves port. Wait until you see the inside,” Sabrina said.

The inside didn’t disappoint. Silver Palms had decorated for the holidays, and I mean all of them. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, winter solstice. Fresh pine boughs, twinkling lights, tinsel, menorahs, and more festooned every available spacein the grand hotel-like lobby and the adjoining wood-paneled cocktail bar.

In the bar, groups of mostly ladies sipped bloody marys and mimosas. They were dressed to the nines, from their perfectly styled white hair to their polished toes in their orthopedic thong shoes.

“When I get old, I’m moving here.” Kennedy did a full 360-degree turn to take in the lobby and bar as we waited for the elevator.

A table of older ladies enjoyed the view eyeing him front and back. One saucy minx even gave him a finger wave he returned. Given the chance, I was sure Kennedy would join their boozy brunch. He was our resident ladies' man and didn’t discriminate. All women were fair game when he was flirting.

I sighed and shoved his shoulder as the elevator doors opened. “Get in, Romeo.”

Upstairs, we followed Sabrina to her mother’s apartment and stepped inside. It was like stepping inside a gold and pale peach jewelry box. Fancy wallpaper, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and artwork in thick gilt frames.

“Mom, we’re here,” she called out.

A lady I assumed was Sabrina’s mom came around the corner using a cane and dragging a sizable wheeled suitcase. She was petite like her daughter and wore a flowing caftan that brought to mind 1970s loungewear. “Sabrina, thank God. I was so worried.”

The two women shared a long embrace, the tender moment shattered by an awful screech from a seriously pissed off bird.

“You’re fucking late!” In a gilded cage on the other side of the room was a blue and gold macaw with his feathers puffed out. He pointed one sharp black talon in my direction, like I was the tardy arrival. Birds creeped me out. Their beady eyes and sharpbeaks were a huge hell no from me. And that this one talked was next level uncomfortable.

Sabrina and her mother ignored the bird, turning to introductions.

“Mom, this is Michael Steel and Noah Kennedy. They are from the security company I mentioned. They are helping me with the ah, misunderstanding. This is my mother. Minerva Colasanti.”

We all shook hands. Minerva informed us we were to call her by her first name, as Mrs. Colasanti was her deceased husband’s mother. For a small woman, Minerva’s handshake was steady and her gaze penetrating. I decided the cane was more affectation than necessity.

“Don’t even try that dimple and wink on me, young man. I know your type,” Minerva admonished Kennedy when he tried theyou two are sisters aren’t youroutine. Her bullshit meter was intact and fully functioning, no question.

“You’re all packed?” Sabrina eyed the suitcase big enough to hold a dead body.

“There are two more bags in the bedroom and, of course, we need to box up Captain Morgan.”

“Damn, I knew I liked you, Minerva. Are you a Daiquiri or Dark 'n' Stormy kind of gal?” Kennedy asked.

“Neither. That’s my husband’s parrot’s name.” Minerva hooked her thumb over her shoulder at the big gold cage.

The thought of being locked in The Tank with a bird that size gave me heebie-jeebies. I could handle gunfire, bar fights, and Miami drivers, but I drew a line on car travel with a super-sized murder chicken.

“No way.” I said it before I could stop myself.

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