the “right” subjects for a Boston blue blood.
His companion turned out to be a mind reader. “Art history, classical music, foreign languages.”
Mathis grunted.
George Huxley continued. “Desiree lives at the right address, works at the right place, even wears the right designers. Nothing flashy, of course. Mostly Chanel or Armani.” The distinguished sexagenarian behind the rosewood-inlaid desk paused and drew a breath. Then he shook his head from side to side and admitted, “Damned, if she doesn’t do all the right things.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“According to her parents—and it’s her parents who contacted me—my goddaughter did all the right things.”
Mathis couldn’t help but notice the use of the past tense. “I repeat, what’s the problem?”
“The Hotel Stratford.”
His brow crinkled into a studied frown. “The Hotel Stratford here in Chicago?”
“The very one.”
Mathis had .only been in town a week but he’d heard of the Stratford. “It’s a landmark.”
“More like an albatross,” his client confessed. “The founder was Desiree’s great-grandfather, Colonel Jules Stratford, late of His Majesty’s Bengal Lancers. Colonel Stratford served King and country in India well over half a century ago. Apparently the gentleman felt if he could command a regiment, he could run a hotel. He retired from the military, emigrated to this country, bought an old hotel, which he refurbished, and named it the Stratford.”
“After himself?”
“Yes. Anyway, the Stratford was once the premier small hotel in Chicago. Then the Colonel got older and began to fade, as we all do, and the hotel did likewise. The gentleman passed away some twenty years ago. His widow—she was his second wife, his first preceded him in death—tried to keep up with the business, but it became more difficult with each passing year.” George Huxley paused for perhaps a quarter of a minute. “Anyway, Charlotte died a few months ago and Desiree inherited the Hotel Stratford, lock, stock and dilapidated barrel.”
Mathis waited. He was good at waiting.
“Desiree is an adult. She can spend her time and money any way she wishes to,” Ambassador Huxley declared. “That is her prerogative.”
Mathis agreed.
“However, her parents are concerned that she is allowing sentiment to override her usual practical nature. I’ve reminded them that their daughter is not only beautiful, but amply endowed with brams.” In an aside, the man said, “She graduated magna cum laude from my own alma mater, Harvard.”
Mathis was suitably impressed.
George Huxley picked up the thread of his conversation. “I have also pointed out to her mother and father that Desiree’s whole life has been spent preserving the past.” The one-time ambassador stroked his chin as if he were tugging on an invisible beard. “It’s no doubt the reason Desiree is so good at what she does.”
“Which is?”
“She’s a curator for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Her specialty is document preservation.”
Mathis stared at the black-and-white photograph again. Strange, the woman didn’t look boring.
“Anyway, my goddaughter has taken a leave of absence from the museum and is now here in Chicago, trying to find a way to restore the Stratford to its former glory. Frankly, none of us believes Desiree realizes what she’s let herself in for. That’s why I called on Jonathan and Hazards, Inc. for help.” It was another minute or two before the former diplomat said, “Your cousin once did me a great favor.”
“Jonathan was the special agent who smuggled you out of Beirut,” Mathis stated matter-of-factly.
That brought a raised eyebrow from the man behind the desk. “Yes.” It was no more than ten seconds before George August Huxley’s curiosity obviously got the better of him. “Although it was a long time ago, I can’t imagine Jonathan telling anyone, not even his own family, about the mission.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then how did you know?”
Mathis shrugged his shoulders. “I used to know a lot of things back in the old days.”
His companion thumped his knee and laughed out loud. “Back in the old days?” Robust laughter filled the office. “How old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
Mathis gave a semblance of a nod. The renowned emissary to several of the world’s trouble spots had hit the nail neatly on the head. Mathis had turned thirty-six on his last birthday.
“You Hazards are all alike.” Despite his many years of diplomatic experience, and nearly as many as the driving force behind the Kemet Museum in Chicago, George Huxley evidently couldn’t make heads or tails of the Hazard clan.
The ambassador wouldn’t be the first person who had found his family, with its assortment of brothers, half brothers, cousins and nephews confusing, Mathis acknowledged. Confusing and intimidating, if the truth be known.
“I assume that’s a compliment,” he said.
The white-haired gentleman came forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk. “Of course it is. There isn’t a man I admire, or trust, more than Jonathan Hazard. Hell, if push comes to shove, I want Jonathan on my side.”
“He was.” Mathis absently brushed at the brim of the hat he was holding in his left hand. “He still is. But I’m sure he considers the debt long repaid, especially since the ‘situation’ involving the Egyptologist and the Egyptian antiquities.”
“Marryng Samantha Wainwright was an added benefit of that assignment,” the older man offered up with a delighted smile. “I understand that Jonathan is on paternity leave.”
Mathis returned the smile. “He’s taken several months off to spend with Samantha and their new baby.”
“Where’s Nick?”
“On his honeymoon with Melina.”
“And Simon?”
“Simon was never really part of the agency. Besides, he just got back from Thailand.”
“With a wife, I hear.”
“He married Sunday Harrington.”
George Huxley leaned back again, raised his eyes toward the ceiling and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, keeping tempo with his own words. “Sunday Harrington? Sunday Harrington? The name sounds familiar.”
“Sunday was a model. Sports Illustrated. Now she’s a successful fashion designer.”
“So while the others are out of the office, you’ve been left in charge of Hazards, Inc.?”
“Let’s
