Chapter 1 - The Wrong Man at Table Seventeen
Meline Hayes dropped beneath the restaurant table as a man shouted:
“Costello, don’t move!”
Beside her, New York’s most feared man pulled a black pistol from beneath his jacket and kicked a leather briefcase toward her.
A silver number was scratched into its broken clasp.
Meline suddenly understood she had not chosen the wrong table by accident.
Three seconds earlier, Greg Higgins had been standing beside her with a bouquet of dying daisies.
Now the first gunshot shattered a wineglass.
Meline hit the marble floor hard enough to lose her breath.
Someone screamed.
Then everyone screamed.
Chairs scraped backward. Plates crashed. A woman near the windows dropped to her knees. A waiter flattened himself behind a service cart while two men in raincoats shoved through the panicked crowd.
Meline stared at the polished black shoes beside her.
Costello.
That was what the terrified waiter had called him.
Not Greg.
Not Higgins.
Costello.
The dangerously handsome stranger she had been talking to for twenty minutes crouched beside her as calmly as though he were checking a dropped cuff link.
His blue eyes met hers.
“Stay down.”
“Wonderful advice,” Meline hissed. “Maybe you could have given it before pointing a gun at me.”
Another shot cracked through the restaurant.
Costello moved instantly.
He grabbed Meline around the waist and pulled her behind a marble column as a bullet punched through the upholstered booth where her head had been.
Greg Higgins stood frozen near the table.
His flowers were on the floor.
“Greg!” Meline shouted.
Costello looked over.
One of the raincoat men raised his weapon.
Costello fired once.
The attacker spun sideways and crashed into a table.
Greg finally moved.
He dove behind the booth.
The second attacker disappeared into the fleeing crowd.
Costello cursed.
Meline stared at him.
He had just shot a man.
There was no hesitation in his face.
No shock.
No trembling hand.
Nothing.
“You killed him.”
“No.”
“How can you possibly—”
“Shoulder.”
Meline looked.
The attacker was alive, clutching his upper arm as he crawled toward the kitchen.
Costello started after him.
Meline caught his sleeve.
It was instinctive.
Stupid, perhaps.
But his attention snapped back to her.
“Don’t leave me.”
Something changed in his expression.
It lasted less than a second.
Then he crouched again.
“I’m not.”
Sirens sounded somewhere outside.
Costello looked toward the entrance.
Too soon.
Meline noticed that too.
“You don’t look relieved.”
“I’m not.”
“They’re police.”
“Maybe.”
Her stomach tightened.
He reached for the leather briefcase beneath the table.
Meline grabbed it first.
His eyes narrowed.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“Meline.”
Her blood chilled.
She had never told him her last name.
“You know who I am.”
“I know more than I did twenty minutes ago.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
“Then give me one.”
He stared at her.
Behind them, Greg emerged shakily from the booth.
“Maddie?”
Meline looked at him.
“My name isn’t Maddie.”
Greg blinked.
“What?”
“My name is Meline.”
“But Harper said—”
“Harper arranged my date with Greg Higgins.”
“I am Greg Higgins.”
“Yes. Apparently.”
Greg stared at Costello.
Recognition drained the remaining color from his face.
“Oh God.”
Costello rose slowly.
Greg backed away.
Meline noticed.
“Who is he?”
Greg swallowed.
“Dominic Costello.”
The name meant nothing to Meline.
The reaction around her did.
A waiter who had been crawling toward the kitchen stopped.
A middle-aged man hiding behind a chair lowered his eyes.
Even the wounded attacker froze.
Dominic Costello looked almost bored.
Meline stood.
“You’re supposed to explain why everyone looks like they’ve just seen the devil.”
Greg whispered, “Because half of New York knows not to say that name too loudly.”
Dominic turned toward him.
Greg shut his mouth.
Meline stared at Dominic.
“So you’re a criminal.”
“That depends who is writing the definition.”
“That sounds exactly like something a criminal would say.”
A corner of his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then Dominic noticed the briefcase still in her hand.
“Put it down.”
Meline looked at the scratched clasp.
She was an architect.
Numbers mattered.
Details mattered.
And she had seen that particular combination before.
Not on a briefcase.
On a blueprint.
Her pulse changed.
Dominic saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Meline.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“And you’re a man who introduced himself as Greg while carrying a concealed handgun.”
“You introduced me as Greg.”
“And you went along with it.”
“You sat at my table.”
“You could have corrected me.”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
“You.”
The answer caught her off guard.
Dominic took the briefcase from her.
She let him.
The restaurant doors opened.
Four uniformed officers entered.
Behind them came a tall man in a dark overcoat.
Dominic’s face hardened.
“Those aren’t police.”
Meline’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
The uniforms looked real.
Badges.
Radios.
Everything.
Dominic seized her wrist.
“Kitchen. Now.”
Greg stepped forward.
“Wait.”
Dominic ignored him.
Greg grabbed Meline’s other arm.
“Meline, don’t go with him.”
Dominic looked down at Greg’s hand.
“Remove it.”
Greg obeyed immediately.
Meline stared between them.
“You know each other.”
Greg shook his head too quickly.
“No.”
Dominic’s voice was quiet.
“He knows who I am.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
The man in the overcoat spotted them.
His hand moved toward his waist.
Dominic pulled Meline toward the kitchen.
Greg followed.
They ran.
Belladonna’s kitchen exploded around them in steam, shouting cooks and overturned trays. Dominic moved as though he knew the building, pushing through a steel door at the rear.
They entered a service corridor.
“Left,” he said.
Meline stopped.
A red EXIT sign glowed to the right.
“Exit is that way.”
“And three armed men will be waiting there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where I would put them.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Greg appeared behind them, panting.
“We need to call the police.”
Dominic turned.
“The actual police?”
Greg froze.
Meline saw it.
A tiny reaction.
Too small for most people.
Not for her.
“Greg,” she said.
He looked at her.
“How did you know which restaurant Harper chose?”
“She told me.”
“Harper never gave me your last name.”
“What?”
“She only said Greg. Risk analyst. Midtown. Charcoal suit.”
Greg’s eyes flicked toward Dominic.
Meline continued.
“And you called me Maddie.”
“That’s the name I was given.”
“By Harper?”
“Yes.”
“Then why was I told you were expecting Meline?”
Silence.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened.
Greg stepped backward.
“Meline, I can explain.”
Dominic reached inside his jacket.
Greg ran.
“Greg!”
He slammed through the emergency door.
Dominic did not follow.
“Let him go.”
“He knows something.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re letting him escape?”
Dominic looked toward the door.
“He won’t get far.”
“How can you know that?”
A vehicle screeched outside.
Then came a heavy impact.
Meline flinched.
Dominic closed his eyes briefly.
“What was that?”
“Probably Greg not getting far.”
She stared at him.
“You’re insane.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
He pulled out his phone.
No signal.
“Jammer.”
“What?”
“They’re blocking cellular traffic.”
Meline’s fear deepened.
“This was planned.”
“Yes.”
“For you?”
Dominic looked at her.
“I thought so.”
Thought.
The word frightened her more than the gunshots.
“What changed?”
He opened the briefcase.
Inside were no weapons.
No money.
No drugs.
Only papers.
Architectural drawings.
Meline stopped breathing.
Dominic unfolded the first sheet.
A twenty-story building.
She knew it instantly.
Hawthorne Exchange.
An abandoned financial building near the East River.
Her firm had secretly been hired to assess it three months earlier.
Only six people had access to those plans.
Meline was one of them.
Dominic looked at the title block.
Then at her.
“Meline Hayes. Hayes & Rowe Architectural Consulting.”
She felt cold.
“I didn’t make this copy.”
“But you made the original.”
“Yes.”
Dominic unfolded another page.
Someone had circled a sealed sub-basement.
B-17.
There was the number again.
“What’s down there?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
His expression told her not to try again.
“It was inaccessible,” she corrected. “The original elevator plans showed a lower service level, but the renovation documents said it had been filled with concrete in 1998.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the architect.”
“I assess structures. I don’t walk through concrete.”
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Dominic closed the case.
“Move.”
They entered another corridor.
Meline followed because, at the moment, the armed criminal seemed safer than the fake police.
That realization made her want to scream.
They reached a loading bay.
A black sedan waited outside.
A man stood beside it.
Large.
Gray-haired.
Dominic relaxed slightly.
“Victor.”
“Boss.”
Victor opened the rear door.
Meline stopped.
“No.”
Dominic looked back.
“No?”
“I’m not getting into a mysterious black car with an armed man named Costello.”
“The people behind us just fired at you.”
“They fired at you.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“Did they?”
She remembered the bullet.
The booth.
Where her head had been.
Her mouth went dry.
Dominic stepped closer.
“I can leave you here if that’s what you want.”
Meline searched his face.
“You would?”
“No.”
She almost laughed from disbelief.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re alive.”
A door slammed behind them.
Dominic pushed her into the car.
Victor accelerated before Dominic had fully closed the door.
Meline looked through the rear window.
Three men emerged from the loading bay.
One raised a gun.
The sedan turned sharply.
They disappeared.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Meline noticed blood.
“Your hand.”
Dominic looked down.
A thin line ran across his palm.
Glass, probably.
“It’s nothing.”
Meline pulled a napkin from her evening bag.
“Give me your hand.”
He stared at her.
“You were just accusing me of kidnapping you.”
“I still am.”
“And now you’re treating me?”
“You can be a kidnapper with an infection if you prefer.”
Victor made a strange sound from the front.
Possibly a laugh.
Dominic gave him a look.
Victor immediately became silent.
Meline wrapped the cut.
Dominic watched her fingers.
“You’re remarkably calm.”
“I’m not calm.”
“You look calm.”
“I design buildings in Manhattan. If I screamed every time someone threatened me, I’d never finish a zoning meeting.”
This time, Dominic actually smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
Meline finished the knot.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere secure.”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“My friend Harper will be worried.”
At Harper’s name, Dominic went still.
“What is Harper’s last name?”
Meline frowned.
“Bennett.”
Victor looked into the rearview mirror.
Dominic’s voice changed.
“How long have you known her?”
“Eleven years.”
“Where does she work?”
“She’s an event planner.”
“Which company?”
“Her own. Bennett House Events.”
Dominic looked at Victor.
“Find her.”
Meline’s pulse jumped.
“What do you mean, find her?”
Victor was already typing on a secured device.
“Dominic.”
He looked at her.
It was the first time she had used his real name.
Something unspoken passed between them.
“Your blind date put you at my table,” he said.
“No. I made a mistake.”
“Did you?”
“I saw a charcoal-gray suit in a secluded booth.”
“Exactly what Harper told you to look for.”
Meline stared at him.
He continued.
“My reservation tonight was made under another name. The table was changed fifteen minutes before you arrived.”
Her throat tightened.
“Coincidence.”
“I stopped believing in those years ago.”
Victor spoke from the front.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“I found Bennett House.”
“And?”
Victor’s face had become grim.
“The business address doesn’t exist.”
Meline laughed once.
Nervously.
“That’s impossible.”
Victor handed her the screen.
She looked.
The corporate registration was there.
Harper Bennett.
Bennett House Events.
But the Manhattan address listed on the website belonged to an empty commercial floor.
Meline shook her head.
“No. I’ve been to her office.”
“Where?”
“West Twenty-Third.”
Victor searched.
Nothing.
Meline felt the first true fracture in her certainty.
Dominic watched her.
“When did you last see Harper?”
“This afternoon.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing. We had coffee. She helped me choose the dress.”
“Did she go anywhere else in the apartment?”
Meline thought.
Bathroom.
Bedroom.
Then—
“My office.”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“Why?”
“She said she wanted to see the renovation sketches I’d been complaining about.”
“Hawthorne?”
Meline did not answer.
She didn’t need to.
Dominic leaned back.
“Victor. Change destination.”
“To where?”
“Meline’s apartment.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“You just said it wasn’t safe.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why are we going?”
“Because whoever arranged tonight may already have been there.”
Twenty minutes later, they stopped outside her building.
The front door was open.
Meline knew she had locked it.
They went upstairs.
Her apartment door appeared untouched.
Dominic held out his arm.
“Behind me.”
“I live here.”
“Tonight, that means very little.”
He entered first.
The living room looked normal.
Kitchen normal.
Bedroom normal.
Then Meline reached her home office.
The architectural drawers were open.
Her Hawthorne plans were gone.
On her desk sat a single photograph.
She picked it up.
A younger man stood in front of Hawthorne Exchange.
Meline recognized him immediately.
Her father.
Thomas Hayes.
Dead for fourteen years.
Beside him stood another man.
Much younger than the man Meline had met tonight, but unmistakable.
Victor.
Meline slowly turned.
Victor had gone pale.
“You knew my father.”
Victor said nothing.
Dominic looked at him.
“Victor?”
Meline flipped the photograph over.
There were four handwritten words.
DON’T TRUST A COSTELLO.
Her hand began to shake.
Then the apartment door clicked shut behind them.
Dominic raised his gun.
May you like
Someone was inside.
And from the dark hallway, a woman whispered Meline’s name...
