Sophie

Grant clicked on one of three links that followed Sophie’s e-mail and scanned the first profile. She was right. Not much to go on. There were no posts showing and most of the privacy settings had been enabled, limiting the given data to a name (undoubtedly fake), sex, city, and a lascivious profile pic no more scandalous than what a rowdy college girl might upload after a big weekend.

The next profile lacked the same personal details, and the sole method of contact would be a friend request. Grant felt the familiar exhaustion coming on that preempts a dead-end lead.

He took a larger sip of scotch and opened the last of Sophie’s links.

Adrenaline clobbered the beginnings of the evening’s buzz.

The profile pic was only a pair of eyes—big and dark and with accentuated lashes so long they seemed almost alien—but the sickening heart-lurch of recognition was unmistakable.

He clicked on the photo album, and with each image, felt the world reorienting itself around this new knowledge.

Grant reached for his jacket on the other side of the table and dug through the pockets until he found his phone. He made a mad swipe across the screen of his contact list. Names ascending in a blur.

He hadn’t used the number in almost a year.

Worried he might have deleted it.

Should have deleted it.

There it was.

He dialed.

It rang five times and defaulted to an automated voice mail message he’d heard many times before.

“Hey, Eric, it’s Grant. I need to speak with you asap. You can reach me at the number I’m calling from.”

He let the phone clatter to the table.

Outside, the rain intensified. It wasn’t just misting anymore.

Grant downed the last of the scotch and slid the glass away as the phone illuminated with a new text.

On shift until midnight.

His coat hadn’t even begun to dry.

Chapter 4

Grant pulled his black Crown Vic past two idling cabs and parked at the entrance to the Four Seasons.

A bellhop with bad acne scars said, “You leave your car there, it’ll be towed.”

Grant was already reaching for his wallet. He held it up as he passed the kid, let it fall open, his shield refracting glints of overhead light.

The bellhop called after him, “Sorry about that, sir. It’s cool.”

Grant shouldered through the revolving doors into the lobby—sleek, modern, and minimally decorated for Christmas with only a handful of evergreen wreaths hanging from the walls. There was stone and wood everywhere, a dynamite contemporary art collection, and a long fireplace near the entrance to the adjoining restaurant and lounge flooding the place with heat.

Grant spotted Eric at the concierge desk. From a distance, he didn’t cut the figure of a guy who could stumble you into any type of recreational substance or activity in the city. Looked more like a law student—twenty-four or twenty-five, clean-shaven, hair cropped and pushed forward like classic George Clooney. Tonight, he wore a black single-breasted coat over a Carolina-blue vest and matching tie. Grant waited while Eric patiently gave an older couple directions to the Space Needle, and as they shuffled off, the concierge glanced up from his brochure-laden desk. Rising, he came around to Grant, fishing a pack of Marlboro Reds out of an inner pocket of his coat.

• • •

They stood just inside the entrance overhang, protected from the weather, watching traffic crawl down Union Street.

It was cold.

Rain collected in pools along the sidewalk and streams of it sluiced down the curb toward Elliott Bay.

Eric fired a cigarette.

Grant took out his phone—already had her Facebook profile pic pulled up on the browser, her eyes dark and popping, filling the screen.

He showed it to Eric.

“Know her?”

Eric stared at Grant for a beat.

His looked at the phone.

Nodded.

“I want you to set something up for me for tonight,” Grant said.

“That’s not going to be possible. She isn’t like the others.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just so I’m clear …” Eric dragged hard on his cigarette. “I’m talking to you as a human being, not a cop, right? I mean, this is for you, like before.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. Good. Look, Gloria isn’t your type, man.”

Grant smiled. “I didn’t realize you’d expanded your services into matchmaking. So now you’ve acquired some sort of insight into what I want to fuck?”

“She’s two thousand for an hour. You telling me you can swing that on your public servant’s salary?”

“I didn’t come here to see a financial advisor. How do I contact her?”

“Through me.”

“Where does she work?”

“Out of her house.”

“And where’s that?”

“Queen Anne. Look, you don’t understand. She’s referral-only.”

“So refer me.”

“She takes care of a handful of clients. A very elite club.”

“I’m trying not to get offended here, Eric.”

“Haven’t I always set you up with excellent companions? All top shelf? All Johnnie Walker? But let’s shoot straight. Call it like it is. You’re a red- sometimes black-label guy. This woman is Johnnie Walker Blue all the way. Her select group of repeat clients spend between eighty and a hundred thousand dollars a year for her company. She’s not a one-shot deal, okay? It’s like you’re leasing a Lexus. There’s a commitment implied.”

“I want to see her tonight.”

“Grant—”

“Listen to me very, very carefully. I’m going into the bar to have a drink. One drink. Before I’m finished, you’re going to come into the bar and tell me that you made it happen. You’re also going to buy my drink. If these things don’t happen, Eric, I will shut you down.”

Eric threw his cigarette into a gutter, exhaling as he shook his head. “When you first came to me, I didn’t want to work with a cop. And I told you that. There’s an imbalance of power going on right here, and it’s not fair.”

“Jesus, how old are you? There is no fair. There’s only how it is. And this is how it is.”

“I could—”

Grant stepped hard and fast into the concierge’s airspace, pushed him up against the cold brick, smelled the tar and nicotine coming off his breath, his face, his hands.

“You could what, Eric?”

“She’s not gonna go for this.”

“Then tell her a pretty story. Sell it. I have faith in you. And don’t use my real name—first or last.”

He slapped Eric on the shoulder and started back toward the hotel entrance.

• • •

Grant slid into an empty chair at the corner of the bar and stared out at the darkness of the bay. Wasn’t much to see at eight thirty on a rainy Thursday night—just the reflection of lights from the waterfront buildings.

The lounge was bustling—a small crowd mingled by the floor-to-ceiling windows, everyone clutching small, still-wrapped presents.

Was Christmas just two weeks away?

Last year, he’d dropped two hundred on a world-class single malt. Spent the day plowing through the bottle and watching the Godfather trilogy for the umpteenth time. He’d passed out during the first twenty minutes of Part III—no big loss there. Maybe he’d take this Christmas in the same direction. Might be something he could almost look forward to. The start of a tradition. Or maybe he’d put a request in to stay on-call. Get lucky, catch a juicy murder.

Didn’t really matter as long as there was a plan.

As long as he didn’t let the holiday creep up and catch him off guard. Advanced preparation was the only way somebody with nobody had a prayer of surviving Christmas.

“What can I get you?”

Grant turned his attention to the tall, pretty barkeep. Black vest. Long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. The clear fresh eyes of someone who’d just come on shift.