Someone's Watching by Sharon Potts Page B

recess bell. And once again she was struck by how different he was from Jeremy.
    She pulled out the stack of “Missing” flyers from her satchel and put several down on each corner of the bar. Maybe she’d get lucky and one of the guests would recognize her sister.
    She sensed that someone was watching her and turned. Her eyes connected with Mister M’s watery ones. Maybe he didn’t like her putting flyers around at one of his events. Brett’s boss’s tight, unnatural face showed no emotion as he walked toward her.
    He picked up one of the flyers and studied the photo. “Call Robbie?” He glanced up at her. “Robbie you?”
    “Yup. Hope you don’t mind me leaving them out here.”
    “She looks like you. A relative?”
    “Kind of.”
    He twirled his thin orange ponytail around his fingers as he waited for her to say more. She didn’t. She didn’t want Brett hearing about Kate from Mike.
    “I’ll keep an eye out.” Mike folded the flyer and put it in his pocket. “By the way—it’s probably not a good idea for you to give out your phone number like that. Creeps can call you and bother you.”
    “Thanks, but that’s the advantage of having a boy’s name.”
    He walked away without saying anything else.
    Talk about creeps. Robbie wondered why Brett was so enthusiastic about working for someone like Mike.
    She left the bar and wandered over to an indoor atrium filled with exotic plants. There was a noticeable change in the affluence and sophistication of the crowd as it got later. The arriving women became taller, skinnier, younger; the men, by contrast, got shorter, stockier, and older.
    The room was filled almost to capacity, the noise level deafening. Gorgeous young women in short skirts and hot guys flexing their biceps beneath tight T-shirts moved through the crowd with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. One of the waitresses had long black hair and blue eyes. There was something familiar in the way she moved. Robbie got closer.
    The girl held out a platter of what looked like biscotti. She said something to Robbie.
    “What?” Robbie shouted.
    “It’s Indian Fry bread,” the girl repeated, louder this time. She was skinny, pale. Her eyes were wrong for Kate—too close together, no sparkle. Robbie took a piece of bread and a napkin. “Thank you.”
    There was no sign of Brett in the sea of black. Robbie sipped her drink. It was too sweet and a mint leaf had sunk to the bottom of the glass. She wiped the grease from her fingers on her napkin, left the half-eaten bread and her drink on a tray, then made her way outside.
    She stood on the hotel steps blinking against the strong sunlight. The heat made her sunburn hurt. It was after six p.m. but felt like midday. Tourists walked by in wrinkled shorts, snapping pictures of the hotels and South Beach scene. A black sedan with tinted windows pulled up in front of the hotel and a slender, graceful woman got of the car. There was something odd about the woman that made Robbie do a double take. Although neatly dressed in a black sheath with a white cardigan over her shoulders, the look was wrong for South Beach. In fact, the outmoded style was completely inconsistent with the woman, who was quite attractive. Her dress was toolong and her hair—ash brown and streaked with blonde—was in an upswept hairdo that was popular back in the ’60s.
    The woman’s driver was a young guy with a blond buzz cut, bloated face, and small eyes. He wore a dark suit that pulled under his arms, white shirt, and a tie that was loosened, probably to accommodate his thick neck.
    The guy took a ticket from the valet, then escorted the woman up the steps, passing close to Robbie on their way to the hotel lobby. The woman looked distracted as she adjusted a gold clasp holding the front of her cardigan sweater together.
    Strange pair, Robbie thought.
    She took her cell phone out of her bag and checked it. No missed calls. It would be another hour before Brett was free to