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Chapter 8

Matheson’s secretary was standing off to the side, looking…wistful? Yeah, he was pretty sure that was the expression. She was a beautiful woman who resembled a young Ingrid Bergman. Beautiful women shouldn’t look wistful.

He crossed the room. “Merry Christmas,” he said to her.

She startled. “Oh! I didn’t see you there, Browne.”

He scowled. He didn’t mind being addressed by his surname, but how come she called Matheson Mr.? Come to think of it, so did Vincent’s secretary.

“Merry Christmas,” she added.

“Do you have plans for the holiday?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I guess pretty much everyone does.” He’d probably take in a movie and have dinner out at a nice restaurant. “Can I…uh…get you some punch?” Earlier, that glance in Max’s direction had revealed Schmidt, standing at his side, pouring something into the punch bowl, probably vodka. That was a cheery thought. No one would realize the punch had been doctored until it was too late.