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“Does he know that?”

Zach grimaced.

When they reached a pair of empty seats at the bar, Flint said, “The bodyguard left in the Bentley right before your cheese plate arrived.”

Zach forgot his own woes. “Left?”

“What’ll you have to drink?” the bartender asked.

“Whisky highball.” Flynn added to Zach, “I’ve got this.”

Zach told the bartender, “Dirty martini.”

Flint’s mouth twitched as though this confirmed something. His three-martini-lunch jibe?

Zach said, “Alton finds beerdisappointing, and I don’t want to mix my drinks.”

“Very prudent. So yeah, Martinez took off like a bat out of hell in the Bentley not long after you arrived.”

“That seems weird.”

“Not for a chauffeur. For a bodyguard, yeah. But tell me something about this gig thatisn’tweird.”

“I’ll have to rack my brain.”

“No sign of Rusty Jordan. No sign that anyone followed you or is watching you.”

That was a relief. Well, twin reliefs. Flint had actually memorized the photos Zach had provided. “Okay. Thanks.”

Their drinks arrived, and Zach took a bracing swallow of chilled gin, vermouth, and olive juice.

Flint sipped his highball, cocked an eyebrow. “You know, it’s really unlikely anyone’s going to try to take Beacher out in a crowded restaurant with over sixty witnesses.”

Zach made a face. “I know. It’s not like I think we’re going to come under siege over the main course. But I can’t get rid of this nagging feeling that something’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong, yeah.” Flint shrugged. “Something’s usually wrong when people feel they have to hire a PI.”

He was a little surprised at Flint’s casual acknowledgment—and acceptance—of his unease. Zach had fully expected his doubts to be dismissed as inexperience and nerves. Which, for the record, wasn’t necessarily untrue.

He admitted, “It turns out I don’t like being responsible for someone else’s life.”

“You’re not his bodyguard.”

Zach nodded, swallowed the rest of his drink. “I should get back to our table.”

“Right.” Flint added casually, “I’m going to hang out here. Beachermighthave made me.”

“Ohhell.”

Flint shrugged. “Be cool. Even if he did, it doesn’t mean I’m here for him. Besides, PIs have to eat, too.”

“Somehow I don’t think this would be your kind of place to grab a meal.”

Flint tilted his head, studying him. He said quite seriously, “You don’t know anything about me, Zachariah. I don’t need to be a millionaire to know my way around a cheese plate.”

Which…yeah. He probably deserved the smackdown. Zach admitted, “True.”

“We should debrief this evening.”