“Lest you forget, I am actually doing two jobs. The one I’m paid quite handsomely to perform, thank you, and then, of course, your job,” Flynn said through a yawn as he straightened his tie. “Naturally, I am quite indebted to you for the opportunity, but I am not particularly adept at napping in a car. So which one is he?” he asked, squinting through the windshield.
Joe handed him the binoculars. “Tall guy, black suit.” Flynn looked through the binoculars. A tall man in a black suit was hugging a trim woman in a tight skirt and high heels. As he watched, the woman reared back, said something, then went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. Their prime suspect tightened his arm around her waist and held her to him, kissed her for what seemed awfully long for a man who had just buried his wife, and, presumably, his wife’s dog, as that little bugger had also had the bloody bad misfortune to have been murdered.
“Ready?” Joe asked as Flynn lowered the binoculars.
“Quite.”
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “You know where to find me,” he said with a grin. Flynn opened the car door, and as he stepped out, Joe leaned over and said, “Hey, bring me something back, will ya? Like a turkey sandwich, something like that. And a piece of pumpkin pie.”
“Righto,” Flynn said cheerfully, and slammed the door shut, knowing full well—as he was certain Joe knew—that he had no intention of lugging any sort of food item back from this posh little Thanksgiving gathering. It was not his style to diddle food.
In his breast pocket was the invitation they had secured (through “channels” Joe said). At the front steps, a footman in an American Indian suit opened the door for him. Flynn stepped inside the marbled foyer and was instantly greeted by Mr. Edward Feizel (of Feizel, Goldman, and Bernstein), and presumably, Mr. Feizel’s wife, both of whom looked exactly like the file photos Joe had shown him.
The Feizels were hosting a holiday party for their more lucrative clients and consorts, which, apparently, they did with annual regularity. It was, by all accounts, quite a smashing do.
Feizel squinted up at Flynn, a blank look in his eye as he searched his memory banks. Flynn handed him the invitation, and with one look at it, Mr. Feizel immediately nodded. “Aha! Honey, it’s the guy I told you about. Mr. Oliver, is that right?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Feizel,” Flynn said, shaking his hand, then extending it to the wife. “Good evening, madam, and thank you for allowing me to attend.”
“Oh,” she said, touching her ear as she smiled up at him with big brown eyes. “You’re quite welcome!”
Feizel’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re British? Shit!” he exclaimed, and leaned into Flynn to whisper, “I didn’t know Wasserman was in that kind of dutch!”
Flynn leaned into Feizel and said pleasantly, “Actually, we’re not entirely certain Mr. Wasserman is involved in any sort of dutch, so it’s probably best to keep it all hush-hush.”
“Right, right,” Feizel said, lifting a finger to his thick lips to show how hush-hush he intended to keep it. “But between you and me, Ollie, I never much liked the bastard.” He clapped Flynn on the back. “The party is just through there,” he said, nodding at a pair of double open doors that led into what looked like a ballroom. “Help yourself to food and booze and have a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Feizel said, smiling like she’d eaten a canary.
Flynn gave her a subtle wink, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled into the party.
It was packed already, with half the guests milling around in some sort of ridiculous-looking pilgrim hats, the very same sort of hat that a maid tried to put on Flynn’s head. He politely declined, walked farther into the room, and had a look around, thought to himself that Joe would be sorely disappointed if he knew what beauties were milling about inside. There were plenty of them, all wearing tight dresses and sweaters that showed their rather curveless frames to their best advantage.
And there were plenty of blokes, too, dressed mostly in dark suits that made it impossible to distinguish one from the other. Fortunately, Wasserman’s height made it quite easy to spot him, and he was, remarkably, already in deep conversation with another woman.
There was plenty of time for Wasserman, Flynn figured, and he was a bit ravenous, so he walked to the buffet, helped himself to a plate full of grilled shrimp and little pastry cups with something mushy in them, as well as a cup of the black ooze Americans called coffee. He was just polishing off the last of the shrimp when a woman behind him said, “How very boring of you.”
Flynn turned to see who had said it and was pleasantly surprised—she had long blond hair that hung straight past her shoulders, a skinny black dress that barely covered her bum and dipped almost to her navel. She was holding a martini in long slender fingers and sucking on the olive. He smiled, held up the coffee. “It’s rather chilly out.”
She pulled the olive from her lips, dipped it into the martini, and slowly put it in her mouth again. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Marlene Reston.”