Read Online The Lucifer Sanction by Jason Denaro - Free Book Online Page B

vet says, your
dog’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ!” Blake said, wide eyed. “You’re
kidding me – it died from the bump the golf cart gave it?”
“Yeah,” Dal continued, “and Eddie says, ‘so what
do I owe you, doc?’ And the dude says four hundred and
fifty bucks.”
“Four hundred and fifty? That seems a bit steep,”
Blake scoffed. “Why so much?”
Dal jabbed a finger into Blake’s chest. “He says fifty
bucks for the visit, and four hundred for the cat scan.”
****
    “These guys have good taste,” Bellinger said in
an effort to quell Dal’s incessant whining. “Noise aside,
it isn’t too bad. Wait until you see the suites, you’ll forget
about the noise.”
    Dal gave her a doubting glance. “The suites?” he
asked. “When did you stay here?”
“Last year . . . with Hunter.”
Blake and Dal sauntered off to a magazine store
in the lobby area, leaving Bell to handle check-in details.
Bell’s adeptness had a touch of class, an attribute sadly
lacking in her male counterparts. The CIA had recruited
Patrice Bellinger straight out of high school. Her father,
a High Court Judge, was aware of the agency’s interest in
his daughter. He enthusiastically supported their intent.
Her valedictorian status and many accolades placed her in
good standing with the CIA and her current employer – the
American Interpol Division.
She’d attended Harvard on a scholarship and had
come away with a Doctorate in Political Economics &
Government. She excelled as captain of the fencing team
and had taken her final season off to train for the Olympic
team. As a junior she joined the First-Team All-Ivy
League.
The United States Fencing Association announced
Patrice Bellinger’s selection to the team, and as a sophomore
she won the individual championship with a victory over
Ohio State’s, Magdalena Vichikov. Bell’s performance
catapulted the Crimson to its first ever combined NCAA
team championship. She was a two-time All-American,
a two-time All-Ivy League selection and was Ivy League
Rookie of the Year.
Blake and Dal returned to the reception counter as
Bell finished up with the concierge. Dal gave a disbelieving
shrug as his eye caught the daily rate - $541. He leaned into
Bell and chuckled, “With Hunter, huh? I didn’t realize you
and him had that kind of disposable income.”
****
    Their adjoining suites were stylishly elegant with
sumptuous decor and marbled bathrooms. The complimentary mini-bars were an instant hit with Dal. He
kicked off his loafers, pulled an Absolute Vodka and a
Jim Beam, unscrewed the caps, and switched from one to
the other as Blake flicked through channels trying to find
anything in English.
    Thirty minutes later made their way to the hotel’s
restaurant where Bell sat waiting. At eight forty-seven they
scrutinized the haute cuisine menu of the hotel’s Restaurant
Français. Blake ran tired eyes over the offerings, settling
on roulade, meat thinly sliced, rolled around a savory
filling secured string and browned and braised in wine. Dal
salivated over tournedos, a piece of tenderloin beef four
inches in diameter, the artistic presentation alone negating
the bank-breaking cost. Bell ordered shellfish prepared à la
nage, literally swimming in court bouillon, flavored with
herbs and served hot in its broth.
    Blake worked slowly on the roulade, his eyes
lowered as he asked, “Bell, don’t you kind of miss
Hunter?”
She ignored the question and focused on the soup.
    A little later, Dal said pointedly, “I spoke with him
last week, says to give you his, uh...”
Bell dropped her silverware and stared him dead
in the eye, her voice cutting through him with surgical
precision. “Give me his what?” And she spat the word
‘what.’
Dal nearly choked on a chunk of tenderloin, his
eyes bulging as he tried washing it down with a half-glass
of Cabernet. “His eh – his very best. Yeah that’s it. Said to
give you his very best,