What was really going on tonight?

The hostess returned. She had brought someone with her.

The man standing next to the table had salt-and-pepper hair and a pale, pockmarked face. He was in his late forties to early fifties, Ellie guessed, and what she noticed right away was how he wore his suit instead of the suit wearing him—an important distinction in LA, especially in Beverly Hills, where there were so many poseurs, guys desperately trying to look confident and powerful by wearing nice clothes and driving nice cars. One look at this guy, and she knew he belonged in that rare category of men who could have you erased from the earth. He gave off that distinct air of power and menace.

Ellie knew she wasn’t imagining it; she’d caught the pinched, nervous expression on the hostess’s face before she politely excused herself and walked away.

Ellie was about to slide out of the table when he said: “Please, don’t get up.”

But she did, anyway, because it was the polite and proper thing to do (and probably the smart thing, too). Ellie sensed that it pleased him. She extended a hand. “Faye Simpson.”

“I know.” He had a firm grip and rough, callused hands. “Frank.”

He didn’t offer his last name, and she didn’t ask. The man named Frank waited until she resumed her seat before sliding into Anton’s spot. He folded his hands on the table, his expression serious, maybe even dour. She caught sight of the platinum ring on his left hand—a pair of tigers or lions circling each other—and she immediately knew who he was: the man from the photo on her home office wall, the one sitting in the Buick.

He noticed her looking at it but didn’t say anything. He didn’t smile, either.

“Nice ring,” she said. “Never seen one like that before.”

“Thank you.”

“Does it have some sort of special meaning?”

He shook his head, said nothing.

Ellie forced a smile. “Such a nice place,” she said. “Fancy.”

“You like nice things?” His glare was as intense and unforgiving as an MRI scan.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You wear those clothes very well,” he said. “They definitely suit you.”

Ellie sensed a hidden meaning behind his words. “Did you purchase these for me, Mr. . . . ?”

“Frank is fine, and yes, I did.”

“I’m flattered,” she said. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“I’m sensing a but coming.”

“Well, I am wondering what I did to deserve such a lavish gift.” The smile remained on her face as she glanced quickly to her right, across the dining area, to the hall leading to the restrooms.

“Anton won’t be joining us,” Frank said. “It’s just you and me this evening.”

Why? Ellie wanted to ask. Faye Simpson, though, simply smiled. Waited.

The waitress came with their drinks. Frank leaned back in his seat so the waitress could set them down on the table. After she did, he turned to her and said, “We’ll have the prawn appetizer to start, followed by the Kobe beef. Michael knows how I like it. Thank you.”