Preston, Douglas - The Obsidian Chamber by Preston Douglas

Author:Preston, Douglas [Preston, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2016-09-21T04:00:00+00:00

36

DIOGENES PENDERGAST, IN his carefully curated identity as Petru Lupei, stepped out onto the private terrace of the tenth-floor suite of the Corcoran Hotel, then paused—as was his long habit—to scrutinize his surroundings with obsessive care. The Atlantic Ocean stretched from north to south in an unbroken line, its creamy breakers reflecting the pink of the evening clouds. The bustle of Miami’s South Beach neighborhood surrounded the hotel on all sides, salsa music floating up to him on the freshening late-afternoon breeze. Nothing appeared amiss.

He probed his own sixth sense for danger, the internal psychic alarm he trusted more than anything else. It was quiescent.

Except for the sudden appearance of the NYPD lieutenant at Riverside Drive that morning—an event Diogenes, compulsive planner though he was, had been utterly unprepared for—everything had gone well. Even that unwelcome surprise turned out to have a silver lining: he had been gratified by how quickly, and without hesitation, Constance had acted to neutralize the threat.

He glanced over at her now, sitting on a deck chair, wearing a knee-length white skirt and a pale lemon-colored blouse, large-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face and dark glasses. One slender ankle was crossed over the other, and an iced glass of tart limeade sat on a nearby side table.

It was the outfit he had suggested she wear when they checked into the hotel. He had chosen this location—Ocean Drive, the very heart of the South Beach Art Deco District—because of how easy it was to hide in plain sight among the chic, flashy, self-absorbed crowds. And he had chosen this hotel not only for its elegance and comfort—it was the old Vanderbilt Arms, done over, as had been most of the hotels on Ocean Drive, in Streamline Moderne, although thankfully with a degree of restraint—but because it was large. A cruise ship full of German tourists had just arrived and was occupying the staff’s full attention. He’d considered booking the penthouse, which occupied the hotel’s entire top floor and came with four bedrooms, a seven-foot grand piano, and an infinity pool, but he’d decided that might attract attention. Instead, he’d settled for one of the dozen grand suites, with three bedrooms, rainfall showers, Frette linens, and cedar saunas. It seemed a good stepping-stone between the austerity of Constance’s Riverside Drive rooms and the understated luxury of Halcyon.

Flying first-class to Miami had been straightforward. Thanks to the ironclad, unquestionable veracity of his Petru Lupei identity, it had not been necessary to “break his profile” for the flight. Everything was going according to plan—and yet, as he looked at Constance, he felt a tug of concern. Beneath the hat and behind the Bulgari sunglasses it was impossible to see her expression, but the stillness of her limbs, and the very way she was staring motionlessly out to sea, drink untouched, brought to mind the impenetrable stillness he’d noticed when he had watched her packing, preparing to take her final leave of 891 Riverside Drive.

Looking at her, he wondered if perhaps South Beach had been the right choice to stay during his harvesting of the cauda equina.

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