Vidal isn’t in here, and I wonder if Nolan was wrong about this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t show his face this evening. Amateur detectives are a pain in the ass for a lot of reasons, but their basic lack of reliability is at the top of the list.

I slip out, just as the pianist stretches his long fingers. I’ve left my jacket at the corner of the room, and underneath I’m wearing a white collared shirt and a pair of black slacks. Both of which I borrowed from Leo’s closet, along with his shiniest dress shoes. With luck, I’ll be mistaken for waitstaff. Without luck, I’ll be tossed out because even Leo’s best dress shoes aren’t good enough for this postal code.

I’ve come too far to give up, though.

A staircase leading to the second floor is barred, but the lobby is empty anyway, so it’s nothing to throw a leg over the rope. In seconds, I’m up on the second floor. Down the hall from me, beyond a set of glass doors, there are two men smoking on a balcony. This floor isn’t lit as well as the first, and I am able to stand in the shadows, watching them smoke. Eventually they shake hands.

The door to the balcony opens, and Peter Vidal comes into the hall. The other man stays outside. I can’t see his face, but it doesn’t matter anymore because Vidal is walking toward me. What strikes me the most about him is his unfettered confidence. I can see him steering yachts all over the world, as comfortable on deck as he is in a boardroom. I step out of the doorway I’m standing in and am about to say something when the balcony doors open once again and the man Vidal was with calls out, “Nora Watts?”

Both Vidal and I turn to see playboy billionaire Bernard Lam striding toward us, a huge grin on his face. Lam grasps my hands in his large, soft grip. Before I know it, we’re embracing like old friends.

When I pull away from him and look behind me, Vidal is gone. No sign of him on the staircase, either.

Shit.

“You know,” Lam says, “I was just talking about you the other day. With our pal Brazuca.”

Brazuca may be his pal, but he and I are . . . I don’t get to think too much about it, because Lam is off again, walking toward the stairs, heading down to the lobby, to coat check, talking the entire time about what a gift to humanity Brazuca is for accepting money to do work for Lam. He shakes my hand at the doors while the bouncer who is still not Nolan looks on.

When he wishes me a cheerful good-bye, I want to murder him.