Page 52 of The Perfect Betrayal

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Do you recall the restaurant?” Monica asked.

"No, I'm not sure she ever said the name," he told her, "but I know it was close because she mentioned loving that her commute was a five-minute walk."

Monica left the hostel with a surge of renewed hope. This was the most encouraging development she’d had after years of searching for her sister, and she felt borderline giddy. In between rehab visits, Heather had gone to culinary school. She was a great cook and an aspiring chef, so this lead made sense. Unfortunately, while that sounded promising, it wasn’t a slam dunk.

Monica counted over thirty restaurants within about a five minute walk of the hostel, and fifty if her sister was just approximating the walking distance. So that weekend, she got a hotel room nearby and committed to visiting every single one.

She hit paydirt at her 22ndstop. It was an upscale seafood place called Hermosa on Harbor and the executive chef, a tall, painfully thin man with prematurely gray hair named Marcus Hillenbrand, immediately recognized Heather.

“She was really talented,” he said. “In fact, I was going to offer her a full-time gig starting the following month because one of our people was moving up to San Francisco.”

“Didsheknow that?” Monica asked.

“I mentioned that it was a strong possibility if she kept up the good work,” he said. “She seemed excited. But then she just bailed.”

“Do you remember anything about the last time you saw her?” Monica asked.

“Yeah, a little,” he said. “If I’m remembering right, she worked the lunch shift, then hung out at the bar afterward with some folks.”

“How do you recall something from so long ago?”

"Because the people she was with were pretty raucous, and I was debating whether to ask them to leave. But they beat me toit and decided to head out on their own. She left with them, but before she did, she said that she’d see me tomorrow. That’s why I was so surprised when she never showed up again.”

The phrase “pretty raucous” sent a shiver through Monica. Exactly what kind of people had Heather hooked up with?

“Do you remember any of the people she was hanging out with at the bar that afternoon?”

He looked at her like she was crazy.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m impressed that I remember this much.”

“Would any of your staff remember? Maybe a hostess or server?”

He shook his head.

“Other than my general manager, who works in the back office, the staff has turned over multiple times since then. No one here now would have known her.”

Monica was just leaving when he called after her.

“I do remember one thing,” he said. “one of the folks she left with was a guy with a red Maserati.”

“You didn’t know him?”

“No,” he said apologetically.

“Would you remember him if I showed you a photo?”

“Maybe?” he said unconvincingly.

But that was all Monica had to go on, so she put all her efforts into it. So she got records for every red Maserati registered in the South Bay. Of course, this guy could be from Beverly Hills and have just come down for the afternoon, but she had to start somewhere.

Her search uncovered eleven owners of red Maseratis in the area, nine of whom were men. After finding photos of all them, she brought them to Chef Hillenbrand.

“That’s him,” he said, pointing at a moderately attractive man of about thirty with longish black hair that that swooped across his forehead.

“You’re sure?” Monica asked.

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