Page 14 of Sinful Beauty

“Busy. What chu need, sweets?”

“Can you look up a name for me?”

“Fire away.”

“Lucia Oliveira. If I recall correctly, she’s mentioned in one of the reports about the missing American incident.” I step around a gentleman on the sidewalk, listening to the clack of the keys through her speaker.

“She’s mentioned once. She told a Miss Sage Watson that her sister resigned.”

“Interesting.”

“How so?”

“It’s odd the call was routed to her. Not her department. Can you run a full background on her? And include financials.”

“Should have it in under thirty.”

“You are a wonder, my love.”

“Sod off.” The call ends and, as always, Ozzie has me grinning.

Debt is always an excellent incentive to play along. If the dark-haired beauty is involved, there’s no doubt she’s on the lower rung. But, low or high, in this game, I want all the players. If you’re cleaning the cobwebs, it doesn’t do to leave a strand behind.

My mobile rings and my father’s name shows on the screen.

“Dad,” I answer.

“Are you in Geneva?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you’d be back at the end of the month.”

“It’s the end of the month.”

“Ah, so it is. Well, yes, let’s definitely meet for lunch. Come to Le Jardiner.

The Michelin-starred French restaurant is a part of the Woodward Hotel and boasts views of the picturesque Geneva harbor. I researched it during the journey, and it’s precisely the type of lunch spot I would expect my father to frequent.

The host escorts me to a round table by the window. It’s chilly, and the patio is closed, but naturally, my father has secured a view. He’s not alone, but I didn’t anticipate him to be. He’s a sociable man. Clad in a collared sweater and dark jeans, his cheeks flushed and eyes smiling, the contrast between him and my mother couldn’t be more striking. At seventy-five, there’s a vibrancy about him that suggests he’s healthy and content with his circumstances. The shock of bright white hair atop his head is thick and brushed back. He underwent eye surgery several years ago, and no longer wears glasses, but there’s an indentation on the bridge of his nose if one looks closely from decades of wearing them.

The woman at my father’s table has shoulder-length hair, and like my father’s, it’s gray, but hers features a thick slate streak from near her crown to her shoulder. She removes her reading glasses, and I’m struck by her light blue eyes. Judging from her laugh lines, she’s older than my mother, and like my father, she’s retired and carefree.

“Son, I’d like for you to meet Cassandra. She’s an old friend.”

“Salu,” I say, taking her hand in mine and maintaining contact. Since I haven’t met her before, I do not air kiss her cheeks, but the way she angles her head, I might have if I hadn’t already been pulling back to take my seat.

“Thank you for letting me join last minute,” I say, since I’m quite positive my call interrupted a pre-planned lunch. Cassandra is vaguely familiar, which means she’s probably been a family friend, or perhaps she worked for the Wagner Group back in the day, and I probably should have kissed her cheek. My father keeps in touch with many of his old colleagues, as to him, they’re an adopted family. However, I don’t remember them.

“Nonsense,” Cassandra says.

Both she and my father are drinking glasses of a white wine, and they are sharing an artichoke and burrata appetizer.

My father gives me a firm hug and a clap on the back. With a hand on my shoulder, he peers inquisitively and asks, “So, you’re really going to do it?”

“I am.”

He shakes his head and returns to his seat. He doesn’t speak until his napkin is placed elegantly across his lap once more, but the crinkling around his eyes conveys amusement.

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