Mirror Image

“Don’t worry about it. Yes, I talked to Dorothy Rae today. She said everything was fine. She can tell that Fancy’s up to mischief, but doesn’t yet know what it is.”

“God only knows.”

“Maybe God knows. Sure as hell nobody else does.”

“Good night, Jack.”

“Uh, Tate?” He turned back. “Since you’re not interested…” Tate followed his brother’s gaze down to the note he still held in his hand. Jack shrugged. “She might be willing to settle for second best.”

Tate balled up the paper and tossed it to his brother, who caught it with one hand. “Good luck.”

Tate had already removed his jacket, tie, and cummerbund by the time he opened the door to his room. “Carole? I know that took longer than five minutes, but… Carole?”

She wasn’t there.

* * *

When she saw the policeman, Avery averted her head. The sequin trim on her dress seemed to glitter as brilliantly as the golden arches outside the restaurant. “For heaven’s sake, put out that cigarette,” she said to Van. “He’ll think…”

“Forget it,” her friend interrupted, smiling crookedly. “If you were a whore, I couldn’t afford you.” He pinched out the burning tip of the joint and dropped it back into his shirt pocket.

While the policeman was busy breaking up the shouting match at the corner, Avery indicated with her head that they should slip around the corner and head back toward the Adolphus. With his slouching gait, Van fell into step beside her.

“Van, I need your promise that you won’t reveal my identity to anyone. One night next week, when we’re back home, I’ll arrange a meeting between Irish, you, and me. He’ll want to hear about my trip anyway. I’ll fill in the blanks then.”

“What do you think Dekker would pay for this information?”

Avery came to an abrupt halt. She roughly grabbed Van’s arm. “You can’t! Van, please. My God, you can’t.”

“Until you make me a better offer, I might.” He threw off her hand and turned away, calling back, “See ya, Avery.”

They were even with the hotel now, but across the street. She trotted after him and caught his arm again, swinging him around. “You don’t know how high the stakes are, Van. I’m begging you, as my friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Please don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to explain the circumstances.”

He pulled his arm free again. “I’ll think about it. But your explanation better be damn good, or I’m cashing in.”

She watched his sauntering retreat down the sidewalk. He seemed not to have a care in the world. Her world, by contrast, had caved in. Van was holding all the aces and he knew it.

Feeling like she’d just been blu

dgeoned, she crossed the street toward the hotel. Just before she reached the opposite curb, she raised her head.

Tate was standing in the porte cochere, glaring at her.

Thirty-One

His expression was murderous. After a few faltering steps, Avery moved toward him with the undaunted carriage of a criminal who knows the jig is up but is still unwilling to confess.

“There she is, Mr. Rutledge,” the doorman said cheerfully. “I told you she would probably be back any second.”

For the doorman’s benefit, Tate kept his voice light. “I was getting worried, Carole.” His fingers wrapped around her upper arm with the strength of a python.

He “escorted” her through the lobby. In the elevator, they faced forward, saying nothing, while anger arced between them. He unlocked the door to their room and let her precede him inside.

The security lock had a final, metallic sound when he flipped it forward. Neither reached for a light. Neither thought to. For illumination, they relied solely on the weak night-light burning in the bathroom behind a faux nautilus shell.