Murder in the Aisles by Olivia Hill Page B

search of an escape from the biting cold. None of them was Felicia Swift.
    Pushing out a breath he dug in his pocket for his phone and scrolled for his last outgoing call. He pressed the green phone icon and listened to the ringing.
    â€œI waited a full five extra minutes. It was much too cold to stand around,” Felicia said instead of hello.
    â€œTotally apologize. The traffic was insane.”
    Silence.
    He cleared his throat.
    â€œI ducked into the Art and Soul on New Jersey Avenue, N.W. Do you know the place?”
    â€œNo. But I can find it. Give me the address.”
    â€œ415 New Jersey Avenue, N.W.” She paused. “It’s inside the Liaison Capitol Hill Hotel.”
    Mark tapped the address into his GPS and froze for an instant when he heard the word hotel . “Yeah, got it,” he managed, pulling himself together. “See you in a few.”
    â€œI’ll be at the bar.”
    The call disconnected before he could respond. GPS read less than five minutes. This time he intended to make it. Six minutes later he was turning onto New Jersey Avenue, N.W. The hotel loomed on his right.
    For some odd reason his hands were sweating. He wiped them on his gray wool coat, then stuck his police placard in the windshield and got out.
    There was no reason for the lascivious thoughts that were trooping through his head and stirring his libido. Simply because she’d invited him to meet her at a restaurant in a hotel didn’t mean anything. Right? It was his fault that they weren’t meeting on the steps of the library. No reason to read more into it than what was in front of him. He was a detective that dealt in facts, although he’d been known to let his gut direct him.
    He climbed the three steps to the entrance of the boutique hotel. A hotel staffer who asked if he could help approached him. Instinctively and just to get a rise out of the staffer, he flashed his badge. The young man turned crimson.
    â€œI’m looking for someone.” He paused for effect. “Art and Soul. Where is it?”
    The young man, whose name tag read Josh, quickly sputtered out the directions and even volunteered to show Mark the way.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary.” He peered at his nametag. “Josh. You’ve been a great help.” He clapped him on the shoulder and then headed in the direction of the restaurant, barely able to contain his laughter. Every now and then he had to find ways to release some of the tension of the job. Poor Josh just happened to be his release.
    The dim mood lighting of the swanky lobby—with its low smoked glass tables, embraced by cushy, purple armchairs and loveseats arranged in conversational groupings—dimmed even further when he stepped into Art and Soul.
    It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and take in his surroundings. The restaurant was of average size with banquettes as well as round tables that could seat two or six. The seating was arranged around a circular bar that was the showpiece of the space. The double-sided Plexiglas shelving in the center of the bar was stocked with top-of-the-line wine and liquor and gave the setup a surreal feeling of looking into a mirror, except the reflection was not your own, but a person on the other side of the see-through divide.
    â€œGood evening,” the hostess greeted, materializing out of the dimness. “Can I show you to a table, or would you prefer to sit at the bar?”
    Mark gave her a quick once-over. Early twenties, five-six, hundred and five pounds, dark roots, blonde hair, green eyes. He smiled down into her practiced expression. “I’m meeting someone at the bar. But thank you…Carrie.” He watched her flush, her smile shifting from corporate greeting to tentative invitation while her long lashes dipped over her green eyes.
    â€œEnjoy your evening,” she said with a bit too much purr in her voice. She turned and walked slowly away.
    â€œDo you