Chevie couldn’t help it. The Queen of Hearts popped into her mind. It had been her father’s favorite bar on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Garrick clicked his fingers. “I have it. You were picturing the Ace of Spades. The card that signifies imminent and painful death.”

“No, I wasn’t,” argued Chevie.

Garrick twirled his butter knife. “You are now,” he said.

It was an exchange straight out of a penny dreadful, Garrick knew; but he had grown up on stage and had melodrama in his blood.

The food arrived, and Garrick tucked in with obvious delight, laughing as he ate, plucking morsels from several different plates—he ate sausages dipped in syrup and potato cakes smothered in hot chocolate. He was like a child at a party.

“There is no dirt, not a speck of grit,” he declared. “The odors are uniformly pleasant, and what is supposed to be hot is hot.”

Chevie watched the magician closely, mentally going over every detail of his face and mannerisms in order to commit it all to memory.

Middle-aged. Maybe early forties, hard to tell. Pale complexion. Teeth seem a little long. Yellowed. Dark eyes. Blue, maybe, deep-set, with a bulbous brow. Black hair starting to gray. Long and straight. Slim build, but wiry. Nothing obviously threatening about him. This guy would never get the part of a Victorian villain in a movie about himself.

Surely my chance will come, thought Chevie, but every time she was on the verge of launching herself at the magician, he saw the intent in her face. It was almost as if Garrick could read her thoughts.

“You are wondering if I can read your thoughts,” said Garrick suddenly, waving a nub of sausage at her. “I confess that I cannot, but I do have a certain expertise in the science of movement, what you might term kinesics or body language. Your violent intentions are as clear to me as the Times’s banner headline.”

Chevie glared at him. “Yeah? What’s my face telling you now?”

“The FBI often employ the term acceptable collateral damage,” continued Garrick calmly. “If we were to engage here, I can guarantee that at least half a dozen members of the public would be killed; the number could be as high as ten, if you really inconvenienced me. Felix assures me that you have a certain competence in the martial arts, but you are unarmed, and I have three pistols and a blade on my person. Do you think the Bureau would reward you for provoking me in a restaurant?”

Garrick was right, and Chevie knew it. She could not afford to be aggressive in such a public area.

Again, Garrick read her face. “You have come to the right decision, Agent. After all, these are real people all around us. People with families and loved ones.”

Garrick flinched as if struck, as his own words connected him to a memory of Smart’s.