Page 72 of The Witness

“They are not.”

“That last woman Isabell, the single mom with a criminal ex. Once he was back in jail, you two were over. Before that, there was the one on the edge of financial ruin you helped get a new job. Don’t forget the veritable Ellis Island of women new to town with questionable immigration paperwork. Tina, who’d been swindled by that investor guy in Palm Beach: Maycek. The one with the dying mother. The one with the dying cat. The one with the kid you scared back onto the right path. Did she thank you for keeping him outta jail?” She counted them off on her fingers, not missing a single one from the last few years.

I held up my hand to stop the torrent because I knew Quinn and she could keep going. Her brain was like a steel trap.

“I’m a big guy. Women feel like they can lean on me.”

Quinn shook her head. “Michael, no. You’re a good guy that women take advantage of because you need to be needed. And when the need disappears, you and they have nothing left. Poof, relationship over.” She made a hand gesture like a magician disappearing a coin.

I shook my head.

“Seriously. You’re going to make me be mean to you. Let me ask. Did any of the United Nations of foreign girlfriends last evena week after you solved whatever problem was making their new life in Miami difficult?”

I cocked my head, thinking about the women in question. Struggling to remember one that lasted longer than her problems.

She assumed my silence was me preparing to argue. It wasn’t.

“Come on, be honest. I know you’ve helped some get jobs, get green cards, get apartments. But after you solve their problem, I never hear about them again. When they stop being pathetic, you move on.”

“I didn’t move on. Like half those women broke up with me.”

“Steel, a woman knows when a man is done with her. Not all of them wait for him to pull the plug.”

I leaned on the front desk and thought about what Quinn was saying. In my head, I relived a decade of failed relationships looking for and finding a pattern. Inside, I squirmed. Shit.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I’d have traded my spleen for a beer or a wall to bang my head against.

“I have told you. All of us have told you. You weren’t ready to listen until you met Sabrina. Take that big brain of yours and think on that.” She grabbed her handbag, came around the desk, and kissed my cheek before leaving me to stew.

Chapter 32

Michael

The waiting area at Oleander was as lavish as the rest of the jewelry store. I sat in a brocade wingback chair with a delicate coffee cup and saucer balanced on my knee. The cup was so small it nearly disappeared in my hand, but the strong Cuban coffee wasn’t something you drank in quantity unless you wanted an ulcer. The Sabrina situation was doing enough to gnaw a hole in my stomach already.

At my feet, Onyx, Lee Vance’s black German shepherd guard dog, lay curled up in a tight ball. He’d been excited to see me when I’d arrived, demanding I pet him and play a little well-behaved, indoor-appropriate tug. Now he was wiped out. The dog was a character: goofy one minute, hard-ass attack dog the next. He’d saved Lee’s life earlier this year and earned a lifetime of treats from Derek Sawyer for it.

My assignment, Malcom Wanders, was doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the store. Lee had his undivided attention, showing him expensive baubles from one of her long, gleaming display cases. The top-notch security at the store, supervised by the Smith Agency, meant there wasn’t much for me to do until Wanders was ready to leave.

The muted TV on the opposite wall was tuned to the local noon news. I’d been reading the subtitles on the screen to keep from falling asleep. Most of last night I lay in bed replaying yesterday’s conversations with Sabrina and Quinn, playing armchair therapist to myself. Forty-three was the perfect age for a midlife crisis. Glad I was right on schedule.

On TV, the meteorologist in his red and green seasonally appropriate but still ridiculous jacket predicted sunshine and highs in the seventies from now until Christmas. Fa-la-la!

The next segment began, and I almost dropped my coffee on poor Onyx. Sabrina, in a white chef’s jacket with Viande embroidered in a fancy script on the chest, filled the screen. They were interviewing her inside the bar area with some of the worst damage showcased behind her.

I fumbled for the remote on the side table next to me, turning up the volume. She looked great, with her bobbed blonde hair curving gently around her jawline and a slick of bright lipstick that made me want to kiss her. She wore the chef’s whites like another woman might wear a little black dress and pearls. The inner quality that drew me to her was visible on the screen and had to be part of her success on reality TV. She glowed.

The reporter’s intro gave viewers a quick recap of Sabrina’s accomplishments, from winning Food Truck Fabulous to the success of her popular catering company that provided food for many of Miami’s elite parties.

“Chef Dalton, tell us what happened here at your soon-to-open restaurant.”

“I was the victim of witness intimidation. A criminal gang hoped to keep me from talking to authorities about a crime I’d witnessed by vandalizing Viande. They were sending a message.”

“Are you still in danger?” The reporter placed a sympathetic hand on Sabrina’s arm.

“No. The FBI and Miami PD have been incredible. I wish I could say more, but I’m not at liberty to do so. Just know that the justice system is working. Now, if only my insurance company would do the same.” She rolled her eyes. The silly expression was perfectly in character for her. It made me chuckle.

Sabrina and the reporter shared a laugh. In south Florida, insurance companies were fair game for jokes and disparaging comments. Too many of us had dealt with them in the aftermath of hurricanes to have any sympathy for the bastards. It had been a skillful change in topic by Sabrina getting the reporter off the crime and onto the fate of Viande.

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