The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sabrina

“ Y ou take me to all the best places, Lewis,” I said with a smile more brittle than spun sugar.

I scooted into the cracked red vinyl booth across the table from FBI Special Agent Lewis Wright. I tucked my purse and small backpack under the dingy table. Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed, and the smell of stale coffee lingered in the air. A limp plastic Christmas wreath hung behind the long eat-at counter, the only attempt at seasonal decorations.

The Oceanfront Diner wasn’t anywhere near the ocean. In fact, the closest body of water was the stormwater retention pond between its parking lot and the highway off-ramp. The diner epitomized the idea of a bad greasy spoon joint from its black and white linoleum floor in need of mopping to the water-stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling.

“Somewhere quiet is best in your situation.” Lewis’s serious tone and deadpan expression didn’t make me feel better. “You took an Uber, right?”

I nodded.

Special Agent Lewis Wright was the only person I knew in law enforcement. We’d gone on one date years ago and realized that we both liked good food but shared no romantic spark. Such was dating in your forties. The only reason I’d saved his phone number was to text him when I learned about cool food events in Miami. He’d attended a few of them and we’d always said hello. When I couldn’t live with what I’d seen on that boat and I decided to tell the authorities, Lewis was the first and only person I had to contact. My story wasn’t something you told a stranger.

“I want out of this situation as fast as possible. Please tell me that can happen.” When I’d called Lewis a few days ago, I’d never imagined it would lead me here to a shitty diner on the far west side of Miami waiting to get picked up by witness protection. That’s what I get for doing the right thing.

“Sabrina, I won’t make you any promises that I can’t keep.”

“Sure, I get that.” The grimace on my face had to betray how I felt. Telling him what I’d witnessed was about to ruin my life. But not calling him would have made me hate myself—eaten away at my soul. It had already started; the nightmares weren’t getting better.

The classic catch twenty-two. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“You’re doing the right thing. He killed that woman. And frankly, you need to be protected.”

“I should never have taken that stupid catering job. Definitely not worth the money.” I swiped a knuckle under my eye to keep a tear from falling and stilled my bouncing foot under the table.

“You’re opening a restaurant; all jobs are important, even a little one.” His sympathy made me want to flip over the table and scream. It was only slightly better than crying.

“Am I starting a new restaurant?” I hated how whiny I sounded. “Witness protection is a big stumbling block between me and opening day for Viande.”

“It’s temporary.” Lewis reached across the table, pushing our sweating plastic glasses of water aside to take my hand.

I swallowed hard, pushing down the lump of frustration in my throat. Life was so unfair.

“Morning, folks, can I take your order?” The server rummaged in his ratty burgundy apron for a pad and pen, not bothering to make eye contact with us. He was fifty-something years old with a potbelly and a bad comb-over.

I slipped my hand off the tabletop and into my lap. Lewis reached for his plastic-coated menu. He glanced down at the faded print.

“Any specials?” Food wasn’t what I wanted. I’d rather crawl back in bed and hide from life. But I’d go through the motions. It was one way to stay sane. A bit of normalcy in a day that was out of control.

“Sure. The breakfast casserole.” The server shrugged, his expression dubious, like you’d be risking Listeria if you chose the special.

“Casserole works for me. Keep the coffee coming,” Lewis said, returning his menu.

“For you?” The server pointed at me with a pen that had a chewed plastic cap on one end. Gross.

“Two eggs poached. One slice of buttered white toast. Dry if you don’t have real butter.” It was the meal my mom would make for me when I got sick as a kid. It was about the only thing I might manage to eat this morning. If I’d ever needed comfort food, it was today.

“Got it. Any meat?” The server pointed again with his nasty pen.

I shuddered to think what a place like this would do to bacon or sausage.

“No, thank you.” I passed him my menu and took a sip of my water. I wasn’t a food snob, but any professional chef had a certain level of expectations, even at a greasy spoon.

The server, who’d not bothered to introduce himself, turned on his heel and headed for the swinging doors leading into the kitchen, ripping off our order sheet as he walked.

I’d started out in a kitchen not much different from the one behind those doors—a summer job washing dishes. Short order cooking was an art, a combination of efficiency and timing that, when done well, turned out vast quantities of delicious simple food. I was doubtful this chef was going to impress me with his artistry.

“Sabrina, if there was another way…” Lewis trailed off.

“When I agreed to cook brunch for six people on a yacht, my biggest concern was how to tactfully invite the yacht owner to the opening of Viande. I wish I’d never heard the name Rafa Sandoval.”

“You’re not the only person to make that wish. Sandoval is bad news on a global scale. I’m not confident the FBI can protect you from his network. That’s why I sent your information up the chain of command and called in witness protection. This isn’t permanent.” He met my gaze and placed a hand over his heart.

“I know. That’s what you told me. But I’m so close, Lewis. My dream of opening a restaurant is coming true. The construction at Viande is almost done. You should see the space. The imported marble counters, the hand-painted tile behind the bar, and my kitchen: it’s glorious. I picked every detail. And now I’ve had to put everything on pause.” I took my frustrations out on a paper napkin, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it down on the table. Not only were there the delays in construction and menu testing, but I’d had to cancel all the holiday catering gigs I had booked. The lost revenue was going to hurt for a long time.

“Doing the right thing isn’t easy.”

“Damn, I hate this.”

“I’m sorry.” He bowed his head, breaking our visual connection.

We sat in silence, my leg bouncing under the table. Waiting for food I didn’t want and the agents from witness protection who would hide me away until Sandoval was brought to justice . That phrase was so vague a measure of time as to be almost laughable. Even a few weeks away from the restaurant would ruin everything. I shouldn’t have called Lewis. Shouldn’t have told anyone that I knew who killed that actress. Having a conscience sucked.

“The breakfast casserole. And two poached eggs.” Without ceremony, the server dropped our plates in front of us.

I stared down at my bowl of eggs. The two white mounds floated in a few teaspoons of tepid water streaked with filmy egg whites. A triangle of pale toast was wedged next to the bowl on the plate. My lip curled as I blotted at the water with a paper napkin.

“Ugh, why sell poached eggs if you can’t do it right? How’s yours?”

Lewis shrugged and covered the congealed cheese on top of the casserole with hot sauce. “You don’t really come here for the food.”

The excess water sopped up, I cut into the eggs. Instead of the magnificent rush of golden yolk I’d anticipated, my fork stuck in a rubbery overcooked lump more like a tennis ball than a poached egg.

I pushed away the plate. “I can’t.”

Normally I’d have accepted that this was as good as I was getting but today—nope. Those over cooked eggs were the difference between sanity and a full breakdown. Everything I worked so hard for at Viande was in jeopardy and these shitty eggs had done it. They pushed me over the edge. No matter how temporary my time in witness protection might be, it could ruin everything. Just like these eggs were ruining breakfast.

From my backpack’s outer pocket, I retrieved my chef’s thermometer. I stood and grabbed my plate. “I’ll be right back.”

Lewis froze, a fork full of potato and egg mush held inches from his mouth. “Sabrina.”

I didn’t hesitate. I marched the offending eggs toward the kitchen. The chef was about to get schooled.

I burst through the swinging doors and into a humid fog I knew well, the combination of dishwasher steam and cooking grease. Immediately, I could tell the back of the house was as ill-kempt and poorly run as the front. A large man in a dirty sleeveless undershirt and grimy white-ish apron stood over the grill shouting at his staff. The diner wasn’t even half full. His poor kitchen management was the only reason for the chaos back here.

The chef had his back to me. I tapped his sweat-slicked bare shoulder and braced for the explosion.

“Who the fuck are you?” His shouted words bounced off my armor. I’d had scarier men than him come at me in the kitchen.

“A better cook than you.” I shoved the eggs at him. “This is an embarrassment.”

“You think you can do better?” He propped the fist clutching a spatula on his hip and looked down his nose at me, ignoring my over-cooked eggs.

“Any half decent cook or culinary student can.” I jabbed the rubbery egg with my finger. It sprung back into shape and jiggled in its slimy, wet bowl.

On the back of the flat-top sat a stainless steel, half-length, 6-inch-deep hotel pan filled with whitish water. My lip curled in disgust. That was not how to poach eggs. “When was the last time you changed out the water in that cesspool?”

The chef grunted and plated a pair of sunny side up eggs from the other side of the flattop. It was the best food I’d seen come out of this kitchen today.

I shoved my thermometer into the poaching pan, the temperature well below the ideal of 180 degrees. The wispy ghosts of egg whites past clouded the water so badly I couldn’t see the bottom. I took a clean saucier pan from the station to my left and filled it with 2 inches of hot water from the reservoir on a back burner and put it on the heat.

“One hundred and eighty degrees, just under a simmer. Now give me a fine-mesh strainer and cold eggs. These will not work.” I waved at the flat of sweating eggs resting on the counter.

“Like I have time for this shit.” The cook grumbled, not moving to get me what I asked for.

“Cooking is all you have time for. It’s your job. Show some pride.”

I spun to a younger man who was prepping veggies with a modicum of skill and snapped my fingers. “A mesh strainer and an egg from the walk-in. Now.”

“Yes, chef,” he replied and dropped a paring knife to do my bidding. It was all about the tone of voice.

The chef exhaled a groan of annoyance but didn’t move away. He was willing to at least watch my demonstration.

I checked the temperature of the water in my saucier pan. Perfect. I tried to return my thermometer to the chest pocket of my chef’s jacket, only to remember I wasn’t wearing it. Instead, I hooked it in the V-neck of my tee shirt and took the strainer and cold egg from the prep cook.

“Now, crack the egg into the strainer.” I demonstrated holding the strainer over a stainless bowl. “Then gently swirl it until all the excess white drained off. It leaves you with a nice, tight egg ready to poach.”

I lowered the strainer with the egg into the saucier pan, moving it back and forth before I carefully rolled the egg out into the water. “No need to swirl the water or—”

“Run!” A busboy slammed through the swinging doors from the dining room, not pausing to see if anyone listened. He was out the back door before the first gunshot.

“Go. Now!” shouted the chef.

After a moment’s hesitation, everyone surged toward the exit. Screams from out front, the sound of breaking glass and more gunshots fed the panic. The chef, prep cook, and the rest of the kitchen staff crowded between me and the way out. No way I would get to the back door before whoever was out there came in here.

Debilitating panic rooted me to the spot for a split second. A trickle of sweat slid down my spine. Worst-case scenarios that all ended with me dead filled my head. The egg in the saucier pan was almost ready to plate and in an action that was pure reflex, I slid the pan off the heat in a futile attempt to preserve the gooey yolk.

A fresh round of gunfire broke my momentary trance. I spun, looking for another way out of the kitchen. Nothing.

The walk-in cooler.

I grabbed one of the thick jackets hanging on the wall and raced inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind me. I dragged on the jacket and crawled into the darkest corner, hiding behind stacked cases of milk, pallets of eggs, and bins of produce. Cowering in the shadows, I drew my legs up. Curled in a tight ball, I gripped my knees to my chest so hard my arm muscles shook. For once, being the smallest person in the kitchen was an asset.

From inside the musty cooler, the gunfire sounded harmless, like the cells of a sheet of bubble wrap being popped in the next room. I closed my eyes and came the closest I had to praying in a very long time.

“Please, please,” I whispered on every icy inhale and exhale. Not sure if I was begging for my own life or that of everyone in the Oceanfront Diner.

After the shooting stopped, I stayed huddled on the ground of the cooler until the sweat coating my body turned cold. Unwinding my trembling limbs, I stood, feeling light-headed.

I put my hand on the door handle, but my fingers refused to work the latch. Beyond my cold, dark cave was a reality I didn’t want to face. On an inhale, I closed my eyes and, with a million fears breathing down my neck, forced open the door.

The first thing I saw in the empty kitchen was the chef sprawled face down a few steps from the back door. Blood soaked the back of his white shirt and trickled over the concrete floor. I kneeled, careful to stay away from the blood, and pressed my trembling fingers to his limp wrist. No pulse.

The edges of my vision grew dark, and I shook my head to clear the light-headedness. No man deserved to be shot in the back.

I staggered up and out into the main room. People cried huddling together under tables and on the floor. The smell of blood and gunpowder mixed with stale coffee and sticky sweet pancake syrup. I fought back the desire to retch.

At our table, Lewis was on the floor, his back propped against the side of the booth. Blood streamed from his shoulder, and he gripped a second wound in his upper thigh. More blood seeped from between his fingers. His eyes were closed against the pain.

God, so much blood. The heavy iron scent filled my nose. I could almost taste it. This was infinitely worse than the scene on the yacht.

“What can I do for you?” I snatched a handful of paper napkins from the table and fell to my knees next to him, pressing the wad to his bleeding shoulder. Red immediately soaked through the napkins and stained my hands.

“Jesus, how are you alive? Get the hell out of here.” His dark eyes blazed as he searched me for injury. “Sandoval sent them for you. You need to get away. Now. No cops. No FBI.” His tone was harsh, almost an accusation.

Of all the things Lewis could have said, that was what I feared most.

This was all my fault; I shouldn’t have told anyone what I saw on that boat. The dead cook. Lewis’s injuries. All my fault. More guilt.

“What about the witness protection people?” I twisted, looking around like I expected them to suddenly appear dressed in head-to-toe body armor and save me. But there was only shattered glass, bullet casings, and victims.

“Someone sold us out. You can’t trust anyone.” He gasped.

Over the bad Muzak version of Jingle Bells , I heard the faint whine of police sirens.

“In my pocket, get my wallet.” Lewis tipped his head toward his left side.

I wiped his blood on the leg of my jeans and fished the wallet from his jacket.

“Behind my ID. There is a business card. Go to them. Tell Smith I sent you.”

My fingers were clumsy, and it took me a few tries to free the scrap of paper. The card was worn, the corners rounded, and the white paper dull from life in Lewis’s wallet. The bold black lettering said, “The Smith Agency” and gave a downtown Miami address.

“I can’t leave you. I’ll tell the police—”

“Nothing. Go. I didn’t take two bullets so you could be stupid.”

Lewis Wright’s eyes fluttered closed and his head sagged against the booth, his labored breathing the only sign he was alive. The sirens were getting louder. It was now or never, and I’d be damned if Lewis risked his life for nothing. I’d started this; I’d see it through or die trying.

The cold reality was if these men had found me, I'd be dead right now. The realization of my situation hit home with the force of a freight train. Sandoval wanted me dead. All my worries about my new restaurant suddenly disappeared.

I was running for my life.

Shuffling backward away from Lewis, I fled into the kitchen. I leaped over the cook’s body and slammed out the back door into the fresh air and bright sunlight. Fear flooded my veins like a powerful drug. I had to get the fuck out of there.

Leaning against a power pole near a row of parked cars was a red ten-speed bike. It probably belonged to one of the dishwashers or something. I didn’t care. I jumped on and started pedaling like my life depended on it, because I was pretty sure it did.