Chapter 48

I found the correct room number, steeled myself, and knocked. The fellow who opened the door didn’t immediately ring any of my alarm bells. He was neither old and stuffy or young and pumped. In fact, he looked to be a few years older than I was, and quite average looking. Brown hair, neat little mustache, wire-rimmed eyeglasses, and one of those corduroy jackets I tend to think of when I imagine professors, with leather elbow pads.

“Bernard Fleming,” he said, extending a hand. “Come inside, Mr. Bettencourt.”

I stepped into the suite, which was every bit as elegant as gossip purported. The doorway opened into the living area. I took a seat in one of the easy chairs, leaving the sofa to Bernard. He’d read up on my likes, I saw, and had a bottle of Three Ships, a sugar bowl, and a bottle of lemon juice, with an extra bowl full of cut lemons and oranges ready to serve as garnish.

Bernard gestured to the array on the coffee table. “Help yourself. We’re actually waiting for someone.”