Spectre Black by J. Carson Black Page A

hair from falling down. She was nice-looking. Slender, with a strong face that he had seen on some Brazilian models, bold but narrow, high cheekbones, a flare at the end of her long, thin nose, dark lipstick. She wore a deep cerise blouse, collar out, under a dark navy suit. Expensive leather shoes, lots of support. Hose. In this heat.
    A professional. The question was, a professional what?
    He stood up and walked over to refill his cup at the coffee-and-tea station near the window. Took his time, looking out at the parking lot—
    And saw what he expected to see. One row back, sun glinting off the windshield.
    Landry felt a motion behind him, a misplacement of air. The slightest rustle. An expensive sound. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sliver of her suit jacket and a hand with short nails polished smooth. He caught her scent—subtle but enticing.
    She filled her coffee cup and reached past him for the half-and-half jug. No perfume, just the clean scent of soap.
    He looked back at the car under the hot glare of the New Mexico sun. It was black, a plain-wrap Crown Vic. He couldn’t see the back plates, but he knew what they would look like. They would be white.
    The lady was an FBI agent.
    He felt the air whisk against him and she was gone.
    He did not look around, but kept his eyes on the plate-glass window. The interior of the donut shop was reflected in faint outlines. He saw her pull out her chair and sit down. She did not look back at him.
    As he walked back to his table, Landry kept track of her out of the corner of his eye. Looking for eye response but getting none. She seemed absorbed in her iPad.
    He set his cup on the edge of his table. Three-quarters of the ceramic mug teetered in thin air before falling to the floor with a crash.
    He hunkered down, head low, scanning the room. Looking for a quick eye response, and seeing it everywhere: “flash focus.” Everyone’s eyes turned immediately to the sound of the ceramic breaking. Except for the woman. Instead of looking at him, she was assessing everyone else’s reaction. He liked that, too.
    Finally, she turned her head slightly in his direction. Their eyes met. He threw her a rueful smile as he helped the busboy pick up shards of ceramic.
    The busboy apologized and Landry told him he didn’t need to, it was his fault, no problem. All the time, watching the woman out of the corner of his eye. The boy bustled back with a replacement mug, and Landry walked back to the coffee station.
    Once again, his eye went to the window, the ghostly reflection of people behind him. But she was fast. Already beside him, reaching for the half-and-half. “Your handle should be closer to your belt,” she said. She poured the cream into her cup and walked away.
    Landry fought the urge to look down at his shirt, looking for a telltale shape, but ultimately, he did. As God intended, the knit material puffed out over the band of his polo shirt, completely concealing the H&K snugged underneath. She’d seen nothing. He assumed she’d made him because he had come dressed for the show. That was all.
    Maybe he could get her to tell him what she knew about Jolie’s disappearance, if she knew anything at all.
    Landry stared into the plate-glass window. She had her phone out, her head tipped forward, engrossed in whatever she was doing. Then she looked up at him, and their eyes met through the window’s reflection.
    It was faint, a ghostly image, but Landry saw that her face was impassive. Not just impassive. She held him with a cool stare that his body responded to.
    She dismissed him and looked back down at her phone.
    Landry remained where he was, staring into the window. She did not look up again. She ignored him. He stood there, shaking a packet of sugar, eyes holding her reflection. Then he put the coffee mug down next to the coffee machine, turned around, and walked in her direction. She sat at a table where people had to funnel past her to get to the door. As he passed