Page 15 of A Touch of Treachery (Section 47 #3)

CHARLOTTE

I slung my tote bag onto my shoulder and grabbed my purse. Then I left the bullpen and rode the elevator up to the lobby.

A few people were still browsing through the shops in the pedestrian mall, but Evelyn wasn’t sitting on the dais. Her coffee mug was gone, the monitors were turned off, and her chair was pushed up to her desk. Maestro had left the building.

I wondered what she thought of General Percy taking over her station, but I doubted she would tell me.

Evelyn never revealed anything she didn’t have to, and she was the kind of person whose secrets had secrets.

I also wondered if General Percy would figure out she was Maestro—and what he might do with the information.

But those weren’t my problems, at least not anymore.

Another wave of sour anger washed over me, and I shoved through the revolving doors and stepped outside.

The evening air was bitterly cold, even for mid-January, and the winter wind whistled against my body like a pack of wolves trying to tear through my clothes with their sharp, icy teeth.

I shivered, tucked my chin down, and walked faster.

A few minutes later, I reached my building and went up to my apartment, which I’d inherited from Grandma Jane.

I eyed the lock, but no scratches marred the metal, and I didn’t sense any threats lurking inside with my synesthesia, so I opened the door.

I slapped on the lights, punched in the code for the alarm system, and slung my things down on the kitchen island.

At the front of the apartment was a sizable kitchen, along with an even larger living room and a fireplace.

The entire space used to be filled with comfortable furniture, cozy blankets, and cute knickknacks, but I’d literally sold everything that wasn’t nailed down to help pay Grandma Jane’s medical bills.

A few months ago, when I’d exposed the Section moles, I’d seen a chance to finally get out from under that crushing debt, so I’d accessed the agents’ secret bank accounts and stolen all the bribe money they had accepted from Henrika Hyde.

After paying off my debt, I’d still had a nice chunk of change left, and I’d splurged and replaced some of the items I’d been forced to sell.

A couch, a TV, a new yoga mat, a set of dishes to eat on instead of a single, mismatched plate and bowl.

But my favorite purchase had been the blue recliner sitting by the windows.

I went over and stroked my fingers over the soft, plush fabric. I’d bought the exact same chair Grandma Jane had had, and rocking in it always made me feel close to her. A crystal mockingbird that matched the figurine on my desk at work was perched on the nearby windowsill.

The apartment would still look like an empty shell to a normal person, but I liked the open, minimalist feel.

If nothing else, Grandma Jane’s illness had taught me that stuff was just stuff in the end, and I could do without a lot of things I’d once thought essential.

A hard lesson in heartache, loss, and humility, but I could see the value of it now, and it had made me stronger.

I dropped my hand from the recliner, went into my bedroom, stripped off the borrowed Section pantsuit, and hung it on a rack to return to the armory.

Then I changed into my uniform for the rest of the day: a short-sleeved powder-blue shirt with an oversize white collar, round white plastic buttons, and a matching knee-length pleated skirt.

Given the blustery weather, I pulled on a thick pair of white tights and slid my feet into white sneakers. I also shrugged into a dark blue fleece coat and shoved my hands into a pair of gloves. Then I returned to the living room, grabbed my purse off the kitchen island, and left the apartment.

Once again, the bitter cold motivated me to walk fast, and a few blocks later, I reached an old metal train car squatting at the back of a parking lot filled with cracked black asphalt and potholes deep enough to swim in.

Over the train car’s front door, a sign burned like a neon-blue beacon, highlighting the many dents in the battered metal.

The words Moondust Diner lit up one bright cursive letter at a time, along with a white half-moon and several pulsing stars.

In the windows, smaller neon signs shaped like burgers, fries, and milkshakes glowed atomic red, adding more cheery pops of color to the dark evening.

I went up the steps and tugged the front door open, and a small silver bell chimed out my arrival.

A few months ago, everything inside the diner had been threadbare, bordering on falling apart, but after some massive remodeling over the holidays, the interior now sparkled with a brand-new air, from the chrome booths with red cushions that lined the windows to the long counter with matching chrome stools, also topped with red cushions.

Even the cutesy glass salt and pepper shakers shaped like half-moons and stars glimmered.

I stepped around the end of the dining counter and moved past the cash register, the coffee pots, napkin holders, and tubs of silverware spaced along the back counter. I slid my purse onto a shelf below the counter, then exchanged my coat and gloves for a white apron I tied on over my uniform.

“Hey, boss lady,” a deep voice murmured. “It’s about time you showed up.”

A twenty-something guy grinned at me through the open service window in the wall. A white chef’s hat topped his head, hiding most of his thick black hair, although his bronze skin gleamed against his white chef’s jacket.

“Hey, Pablo. What’s on the menu tonight?”

His grin widened, and his dark brown eyes crinkled with amusement. “Why don’t you tell me?”

I drew in a deep breath, tasting the scents in the air. My mouth watered, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation. “Pot roast with carrots and onions, along with some cheesy potato thing.”

“Cheesy potato thing?” Pablo clutched a hand to his heart in mock outrage. “That’s my potatoes au gratin with not one, not two, but three kinds of cheese.”

Like me, Pablo Suarez had been in desperate need of a paycheck, and he’d started working at the Moondust Diner several months ago to put himself through culinary school.

Pablo had a real gift for cooking, and the first thing I’d done after I’d bought the joint was give him a hefty raise and make him the head chef.

I’d also made Pablo the face of the diner.

The other chefs and waitresses thought Pablo was the owner and that I was just another employee, the same as them.

My father’s enemies had targeted me more than once over the years, and I hadn’t wanted my own work at Section 47 to put anyone at risk, so I’d kept my ownership of the diner as quiet as possible.

A few days after Thanksgiving, Zeeta Kowalski had informed the staff she was finally selling the diner and going to live with her daughter Penny in Florida.

I’d had to restrain myself to keep from jumping with joy.

Zeeta had been a seventy-something piece of work, and she hated me with a passion, criticizing every little thing I did, but I’d given her enough cash to persuade her to sell me the diner.

I’d also promised to keep the interior largely the same.

Zeeta might have been a battle-ax of a boss, but she had a surprising sentimental streak when it came to the diner, which she had opened with her late husband Mel decades ago.

I liked the old-fashioned look of the diner, so restoring the space to its former glory hadn’t been a chore, although I was far less enthused about wearing the same old waitress uniform. But Zeeta got what Zeeta wanted, and after some serious haggling, we’d come to terms.

Along with the remodel, I’d also upgraded all the appliances, with lots of input from Pablo and the other chefs. Word about the diner was spreading, and it was already turning a healthy profit.

I still wasn’t sure why I’d bought the diner, especially since I used to hate coming here.

Having to get a second job had felt like a huge failure, like I hadn’t been smart enough to figure out a way to take care of Grandma Jane without falling so deeply into debt.

Plus, Zeeta barking out orders every time I walked by hadn’t helped matters.

But as soon as I’d heard the diner was for sale, I had to have it.

Maybe I had just wanted something of my own, something that wasn’t tied to being a Locke or Section 47 or anything else related to the spy world.

Maybe I had just wanted to create my own legacy, however small it might be, and have a bit of distance and freedom from my father’s mistakes.

Although given General Percy’s disdain, I might be working full-time at the diner soon, especially if I couldn’t figure out Henrika Hyde’s next move.

“Charlotte?” Pablo asked. “Are you okay?”

Thinking about General Percy and Henrika soured my mood, but it didn’t diminish my appetite. “I’m sure the potatoes au gratin will be wonderful. But let’s talk about the most important thing: What’s for dessert?”

Pablo shook his head, still grinning. “I should have known you would want dessert first. You always do.”

He gestured at a glass cake stand on the back counter. “A three-layer chocolate cake with a whipped strawberry filling and drizzled with a dark chocolate ganache.”

The cake looked wonderful, and I had to close my mouth to keep a bit of drool from escaping. “You had me at three-layer.”

Pablo laughed. We chatted back and forth through the service window while he and the other chefs cooked and dished up food. I took orders and carried the finished plates over to customers, with the other waitresses who were working tonight.