Chapter 27

“When you came? You called out someone else’s name.” He didn’t look angry, merely contemplative.

“I…uh…I did?” Please tell me I did not call for—

“Quinton, cher m’sieur. You cried out for Quinton.”

Fuck. I sat up, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Pete. That was…that was a shitty thing to do.”

“Mark, mon ami. Ecoutez. In our profession, death walks always at our shoulders. I do not begrudge any warmth you may find.”

“No, Pete. You don’t understand. There’s no warmth between us. Quinton Mann is fucking CIA.”

“But you are fascinated by him, non?”

“No. No.”

“No?” he echoed. “Perhaps you would care to explain this to me?” He held up the copy of a photo Portia Mann had shown me when she’d thought I was Skip Patterson. She’d allowed me to photograph the original. I’d resized it and printed it out, and scrawled on the back Mann, Hampton Classic, 1981.

“You’ve been snooping in my wallet, Pete? I’ve killed men for less.”