Page 43 of The Witness

“The witness?” asked Acosta in a near whisper.

I nodded.

Gunter had briefed the PNR agents on tonight’s plan to have Sabrina roam the party as a server until she either identified Sandoval or the party ended. Once she made an ID, it would be my turn to play my part.

“Gentleman, can I offer you some shrimp with guava cocktail sauce?” Sabrina proffered her tray to the PNR agents, who each took something. Her attention turned to me, waiting for me to select a morsel from the tray.

“These are Gunter’s friends,” I told her.

She glanced from Mora to Acosta, her expression unreadable.

I leaned close, like I was inspecting the food on her tray. She smelled like the shampoo in our hotel bathroom, coconuts and island breezes. “Have you seen him yet?”

She sighed. “No. But it’s so dark and busy in this room. It’s impossible to be methodical but—” She shrugged as best she could without upsetting the tray.

“I’m here when and if you need me.” I took a shrimp I didn’t want.

She hesitated for a moment, her head cocked, then bit her lip and shook her head. I’d have paid ten thousand dollars to know what she didn’t say. I hated to think she was scared or frustrated, and I was helpless. Even a simple touch on her arm might tip someone off that she was more than just a waitress and get them to take a second look. Her blonde hair and heavy makeup was a good disguise, but we shouldn’t press our luck.

The room crawled with people. Most were here for the hospitality conference. But Gunter had warned us that many others were criminals using the event to hold high-level talks on neutral ground. The meetings were the only reason thatSandoval had agreed to get off his boat—or so Gunter’s informant promised.

“Thank you.” She pasted on a brittle smile before turning and heading for the next group of partygoers.

“Brave woman,” Acosta said, his appreciative gaze following her across the room.

Mora grunted in what might have been agreement, and my trust in him fell even further.

Chapter 20

Sabrina

Ishoved my shoulder hard against the swinging door that led into the kitchen, my empty tray balanced on one hand. The bright overhead lights burned my retinas after spending time in the dusky ballroom.

I exhaled and released some of the stress clogging my lungs. The controlled chaos of the commercial kitchen was my happy place. The typical smells and sounds wrapped around me like a lovely garlic-scented blanket. If I tried really hard, I could almost pretend that this was just a regular night in any of dozens of places I’d worked in over the years. No matter how fancy the hotel or average the restaurant, there was a sameness to every kitchen. I tried to forget about Sandoval and fall into the familiar rhythm of the work. Maybe they’d let me join the line and addmy efforts to the dozen or so cooks busting their asses to create the hors d'oeuvres for the party.

I set down my tray on the stack of used ones and enjoyed another calming breath of pungent air while I leaned against a white subway tile wall. Looking for Sandoval had been an exercise in frustration and fear thus far. The poor lighting made everything so much harder than I’d expected. The last thing I wanted to do was get within three feet of the man, but up close and personal was the only way to clearly see people’s faces in the candlelight.

I’d almost quit. Told Michael that it was too dark, and I was too nervous I’d get recognized to keep looking. The words had trembled on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. All I wanted was to crash into his arms and pretend that none of this was real. Go back to our room, strip naked, and do everything that felt good.

But… Michael and I weren’t real life. It was a fantasy. A hot, delicious fling. My destroyed restaurant was reality.

I didn’t survive twenty-plus years in the kitchen, the struggles of being a single mom, and losing my daughter only to give up now. I was strong, and I did the hard shit because a long time ago I gave up on waiting for a white knight to come along and do it for me.

“¡Oye!” The expediter standing at the pass snapped his fingers and pointed to a fresh tray of canapes that a cook had just finished assembling.

I jerked away from the wall and grabbed the platter. It had been a few years since I worked the front of the house as a server, but I knew what was expected. It was a minor miracle I’d yet to bobble a tray, because my head was on everything but the food I was serving. Thank the Lord for muscle memory.

I hustled out of the kitchen, deftly ducking around two other servers and out the swinging door. I turned left, away fromwhere Michael had been standing with the two PNR men, and headed for a distant corner with a grouping of low couches I’d not visited yet. When Michael and I were alone next, I planned on asking him to tell me all about the Cubans. They were making a lot of promises to Gunter, and I hoped Michael was getting good vibes from them.

Getting to the far side of the room took longer than I’d expected. Hungry guests waylaid me to snatch food off my tray. I forced myself to smile and nod at them as a trickle of sweat ran down my back and dampened my bra. The combination of stress and an antiquated AC system not up to the increasing number of people in the room had me sweating through my uniform vest.

The group of men in the corner were arranged in a loose semicircle on couches and lounge chairs, all facing one man in the center, his back to the wall, sitting in a throne-like armchair. I threaded my way into the circle and offered my tray of black bean fritters to a bald-headed man with crude tattoos on his knuckles and a silver cross on a chain around his thick neck. He looked like a thug dressed up for prom.

I glanced around the circle. The others looked little different except the man on the throne. He wore a slick suit and alligator loafers that glistened in the candlelight. Dark shadows hid his face, but his build was right. It could be Sandoval. Shit.

Two over muscled guys, stood behind him, their arms crossed and faces hard. A third was practically genuflecting before him as they spoke in hushed tones. The scene reminded me of something from the movie The Godfather.

I felt ridiculously awkward as I moved from one stone-faced man to the next, offering each a napkin and a fritter. Most took food and a few even thanked me.

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