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A woman with a veil of smooth, shiny black hair exits the first Range Rover. A tall dark-haired man drapes a full-length fur around her shoulders. From my position, I count four men of similar age and build. The woman in fur is Gemma Toro.
One of the men steps up beside her, and they enter the lobby side by side. He’s slightly shorter than she is, but she’s wearing spiked high-heeled boots that have no place near snow and ice. The man wears a Canada Goose black coat, dark slim-fitting jeans, and snow boots. He pushes sunglasses up onto his close-cropped dark hair. It’s Rafael.
I glance down at my phone and consider tapping out a quick text to Damian, but there’s no point. Rafael and Gemma approach the lobby desk, hands linked. Four Hispanic men, ranging in height from approximately five-foot-seven to six-foot-two, enter behind them and gather around the water and hot chocolate table. One man wears sneakers, one has on loafers, and the other two wear snow boots. They all wear thick winter coats.
The woman behind the lobby desk taps furiously at her keyboard and frowns. From where I am perched, I can’t hear what’s being said, but as a frequent traveler, I can piece together what’s happening. As I predicted, Rafael Toro is demanding a private residence.
Originally, the Toros reserved an enormous home on the mountainside, but the analysts determined it was too far away for us to ensure we would run into them. Thanks to clandestine efforts, the unit had an unexpected pipe burst less than twelve hours earlier. We had a good hunch the Toros would fall back on the Four Seasons, as Rafael and his father are both private residence owners, which gives them priority at all Four Seasons. But the Whistler location only has four private residences available as rentals.
The woman behind the desk fervently taps the keyboard, but she can’t exactly kick out existing VIPs for another set of VIPs.
Gemma leans into her husband. She perches her head on his shoulder, and from this distance it appears she’s kissing the side of his neck.
Fisher enters from the back of the hotel. His helmet and goggles are shoved under one arm. His outer coat is unbuttoned. His ski boots are off, and in their place are snow boots. His ruffled hair and ruddy complexion tell the story of a day on the slopes.
As he trudges past the table of Rafael’s friends, one of them asks, “How’re the conditions out there?”
“Phenomenal.” Fisher continues, eyes locked on me. His behavior tracks exactly like a guest heading to meet his wife for a late lunch.
One of the men holds up his hand and high-fives the guy standing closest to him. The other two stand off to the side checking their phones. These four men accompany Rafael everywhere. Our file includes photographs of their wives, but the wives have been conspicuously absent from public outings since Rafael married Gemma.
Damian arrives and loops an arm around my back. The wiry hair on his beard tickles my earlobe and my body reflexively leans into him, like this is normal and natural for the two of us, even though it’s anything but.
His dark blue eyes assess the table, and as he takes his seat, he scans the area. He lifts his phone to access the menu. “You waited to order?”
“Of course.”
A deep voice echoes through the lobby, and I take advantage to turn and observe, as does everyone else within hearing distance.
“Rafe.” Gemma loudly states her husband’s name, and it’s a mix of reprimand and calming. “The suitees fabuloso.”
It’s clear she’s calming him down. He points to his motley band of friends, and one man, I believe his name is Carlos, leaves the others to join at their sides. They’ve got a suite next door to Rafael and Gemma. In theory, they could all stay in one suite, but based on what we could dig up, Rafael and Gemma never share their accommodations.
According to our file, Rafael is forty-three years old, but a casual observer wouldn’t guess it. There are no grays in his thick, black hair. He’s got a zestful energy that comes off as more kid-like than mob boss. In the surveillance photos, he’s often moving, head down. Here, in person, he holds his head high, uninhibited, and his dark eyes are observant.
The employee checking them in somehow miraculously creates satisfied customers. Rafael smiles wide, revealing straight, bright white teeth. He bumps fists with Carlos and scoops up Gemma. Both her legs wrap around his waist, and she squeals.
She glances back in our direction, seemingly aware others are around. Rafael shuffles, carrying a giggling Gemma, back to the elevator bank. The Four Seasons employee leads the way, while Rafael’s entourage remains at the lobby desk, presumably picking up copies of room keys.
As Gemma bounces, laughing, her gaze continues to flit in our direction at the bar. But it’s like I’m invisible. She sees right past me, or maybe she’s simply surveying the room to get a feel for how many eyes are tracking her, the most beautiful woman in the lobby.
I’m familiar with her type. Gemma Toro flaunts her wealth. Her six-carat diamond with a diamond band sparkles across the lobby. On the other hand, stacks of sparkly diamond rings glisten under the golden chandelier lighting. I’m almost positive those spiked leather boots are Louboutin.
If I’m going to make a connection with her, I’ll need to up my wardrobe game. I visited my father’s home in San Diego before departing on this assignment and packed a few pieces of jewelry. The CIA team offered up some pieces, but I didn’t want to deal with logging them, and they also lacked a certain finesse. Pretty much everything in the CIA warehouse are items confiscated from criminals.
On my finger, my mother’s engagement ring sparkles. It’s not quite as obvious as Gemma’s monstrosity, but it’s elegant, as is the diamond band. The three-carat earrings in my ears are mine. A college graduation gift from my dad and stepmom. The diamond Rolex on my wrist is a gift from my uncle when I graduated from high school. My father cut off all contact with him after we discovered his role in fostering a gun smuggling operation, but he still sent gifts.
When the Toros round the bend out of our view, clinging to each other like a pair of over-the-top newlyweds, I ask Fisher, “Do you think we’ll see them again?”
“Maybe in a few hours.” He studies the menu on his phone.
“They didn’t seem to notice us, but he seemed observant. Will it be weird if we’re still here?”
“We’re staying at the hotel. Shouldn’t be odd. They open up wine tasting in a couple of hours. We’ll commandeer the two chairs by the fire. Enjoy some wine. Those are the best seats. If they come down, we’ll be here.”
“After lunch, I’m going shopping.” I shift my stool closer to Damian’s. I want to be able to talk to him without having to speak loudly above the televisions and voices. “You know, they weren’t exactly what I was expecting.”
“What do you mean?”
