At that moment, Hogan let out a brief laugh and looked up… Claire blinked, trying to avert her gaze. Too late! His deep gray eyes had already locked onto hers.
Casually resting his elbow on the back of his chair, Hogan then said:
— The mayor's presence speaks well of your restaurant. What did she order?
— Oh, you know my niece! exclaimed Petula with enthusiasm.
An enthusiasm far too forced, in Claire's opinion. Not to mention that innocent look of hers, which only served to exasperate her!
Hogan glanced from one woman to the other, searching in vain for a family resemblance, then noted:
— We met this morning.
Frowning, Petula then declared:
— Don't rely on my niece's taste! She only eats greens. Show him your salad, Claire.
With a tight smile, Claire replied:
— I'm sure Mr. Hogan has seen lettuce before, Aunt Petula.
— Indeed, he chimed in. Rarely on my plate, though.
Turning back to Petula, he added:
— I'll have the fried grouper, fries, and an iced coffee.
— Excellent choice! I'll save the lettuce for another time, Petula concluded with a mischievous tone, before retrieving the menu and heading toward the kitchen.
Under Jack Hogan's heavy gaze, Claire's appetite had deserted her. Swallowing was becoming increasingly difficult, and she had to sip her tea to avoid choking.
Since Jack wouldn't take his eyes off her, she finally said:
— From your seat, you have a breathtaking view of the Gulf of Mexico. Surely, that sight is far more appealing than a bland salad.
Agreeable, Jack cast a glance out the window before turning his gaze back to her.
— To be honest, I was hoping you'd invite me to your table, he explained. Aside from the two ladies at the agency, you're the only friend I have here.
Good thing Claire didn't have food in her mouth right then—she would've choked for sure.
— Your friend? she said with irony. Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Hogan: our friendship—if such a thing even exists—depends directly on how many of my fellow citizens you've managed to bother today.
At that, Hogan stood up and, rounding his table, came to sit at Claire's.
— You're the only person I've bothered this morning, he said playfully. But the day's not over yet, and I still have time to get on the mayor's bad side.
Claire didn't doubt that for a second. It had been a long time since anyone had irritated her quite like this. Still, she remained seated—though every fiber of her being wanted to walk away.
Petula reappeared, a glass of iced coffee in hand. Setting it down in front of Hogan, she said cheerfully:
— So you've finally decided to share a table! I can only approve. Eating alone is so sad…
Claire seized the opportunity to ask for the bill.
— Of course, darling. I'll bring it as soon as I have a minute.
There were only eight people in the room, all of them served—except Hogan. How could Aunt Petula be "too busy"? She then added:
— Do you still want me to pick up Jane after class this afternoon?
— If you're available, yes, Claire replied. That way, Jane can come home with you.
— No problem, Petula replied.
Feeling some explanation was necessary, her aunt turned to Hogan and added:
— Jane is Claire's daughter. A delightful child. Bright and clever. Thanks to her, we stay up to date with everything.
Hogan smiled as he added sugar to his coffee. A polite reaction, Claire thought, given that he didn't know Jane and likely couldn't care less.
— The bill, Aunt Petula! she insisted. Can you bring it to me? I can see it from here on the counter.
— Right away, said Petula with an impatient tone as she walked off. Why are you in such a rush?
— My shop won't open itself, Claire replied.
She paid the bill, then turned to Hogan:
— Enjoy your meal.
She gave him a brief, polite smile.
— Thank you, he replied, returning the smile.
— And try to enjoy our peaceful lifestyle. It's the greatest gift this island offers its visitors.
— I'll do my best to follow your advice.
Claire didn't believe a word of it. Under his friendly exterior, this man would never lose sight of the house he'd been assigned to handle.
After finishing his meal, Jack mingled with the crowd strolling along the sidewalks. Some of the passersby were carrying video cameras. There was no doubt this tiny island off Florida's west coast had a picturesque shoreline. As for Jack, he wasn't fond of filming or souvenir photos. In fact, though he had visited many countries, it was rarely as a tourist. And he certainly hadn't come to this island for fun—even if his exchange with the mayor had been unexpectedly entertaining. He had a mission to fulfill, and no matter what happened, he would see it through.
In the early afternoon, the temperature was high, and the air humid. Taking off his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder, Jack pulled out his phone from its case and pressed the first number saved in his contacts.
A clear, confident voice, typical of Manhattan's Upper West Side, answered immediately.
— Adelson Enterprises, good morning. Who would you like to speak with?
— Hi, Sophie!
— Jack! How are you? Or rather, where are you?
As she spoke, he glanced at the facades of the restaurants and souvenir shops lining the waterfront, noting the nautical gear decorating the storefronts. Weathered by the elements, the signs and decor looked decades old. But thanks to the in-depth research he'd conducted, Jack knew this area had only been built about ten years ago—unlike the historical part of town.
— I'm on Blue Heron Island, he finally replied.
— Never heard of it. Where's that?
— Florida.
He recalled the two-hour drive from the Tamiami airport that morning, most of it on a narrow country road with a 50 km/h speed limit. Barely paved and flanked by mounds and limestone formations, it had eventually led to a two-lane bridge connecting to the island.
— It's far from anything you'd know—unless you're a geography buff, he added .