She put the tips of her fingers across his palm. “Sublime.” The barest hint of a nasal drone hung around the “i”: the signature sound of Kipler’s Mew. She’d worked hard to leave it behind, and he could tell.
He raised her knuckles to his lips. She didn’t break eye contact, and neither did he.
“Cordelia Lehane,” she said, when he’d straightened. “Go on, bend your knees.”
Cordelia. Yes, that was it.
“Are you lunching late?” he asked, sliding into the chair opposite hers. “Or are you only here for an afternoon tipple?”
“This is breakfast.” Cordelia tapped the side of the champagne coupe. “So far.”
“A late riser. I have to admit, I’m envious.” It was almost too easy to play this part. The words and actions flowed like oil over the top of water, leaving him untouched beneath the veneer of his character.
“I get about as little sleep as you. Nights run late in my line of work.” Cyril raised an eyebrow, and she scoffed. “Please. If I was, you couldn’t afford me.”
He smiled at her grammatical slip-up—she might have climbed out of the Mew, but bits of it clung to her shoes. “You don’t know that.”
“True.” She dragged her gaze up his front, and he could almost feel her fingers catching on the cables of his sweater. “I don’t. What is it you do, Mr. DePaul? Ari didn’t say.”
He fought the urge to look around, make sure no one had heard her use Aristide’s name. “I can’t exactly talk about it.”
“A man of mystery,” she said. “I’m intrigued.”
“Intrigued enough for a second drink?”
“You don’t have to intrigue me for that.”
“Ah, but I’d like to. Even if it isn’t, strictly speaking, necessary.” He waved a waiter over. “Another glass for the lady—actually, leave the bottle. And … oh, hang it. Two of the stuffed lobster tails. And asparagus tips, with white truffle butter.” There was no menu, and if there had been, he wouldn’t have needed it. Bellamy’s was one of Ari’s favorite haunts.
“I was happy with just the fizz,” said Cordelia, as the waiter poured her a second glass.
“To tell the truth, I haven’t eaten yet either. And that’s from a man who was up and out with the sun.” He pulled his napkin from the table and spread it across his lap. “If you can’t do justice to your lobster, please know it won’t go to waste.”
He hadn’t been up early by necessity; he just hadn’t been sleeping well. So far, Culpepper wasn’t asking for anything beyond his initial debriefing. She’d sent him a note telling him to sit on his hands until Hebrides asked to see him. That summons had not been forthcoming.
His other task kept him hopping. Van der Joost had left his base of operations in Nuesklend under the watchful eye of a deputy and had relocated to Amberlough City under the assumed name of Karl Haven.
Cyril didn’t know where he was staying. They’d met a few times in public places, and he had been sending instructions daily and arranging rendezvous as if Cyril was a sponging younger son who needed to be married off. Cyril, who was used to a more lenient approach, ground his teeth and put up with it. The kitty was big in this game, and he had to bring it home.
Time was short, too. Van der Joost wanted things wrapped up by midsummer. Cyril thought it was ambitious, and told him as much. That conversation had been uncomfortable, and ended badly. Like it or not, Cyril was operating under a deadline.
Before lunching with Cordelia, he’d spent a cramped and smoky hour in a private room at the back of a down-market club, listening as the deputy chief of police for the fourth precinct—Eel Town included, poor man—listed his grievances against Taormino and haggled for the price of his service to the unionist cause.
Cyril knew the ACPD intimately: who was susceptible to bribery, who was not. Who had long-standing grudges, and who could be torn apart with a well-placed word. The fourth district would be easy to snatch, from the top. Getting the hounds on the beat to crack down on unlicensed pros … harder, especially when they made it so profitable for the force to turn blind eyes.
He realized he’d let his conversation stutter to a halt. When he looked up from smoothing the spotless napkin over his knees, Cordelia was watching him. She had her fingers pressed against rouged lips, her free hand hooked into the crook of the opposite elbow.
“You look sort of familiar,” she said.
“Would you believe I hear that all the time?”
“Must be you look like somebody in the pictures,” she said, so preoccupied her syntax slipped. “Come to think of it, you’re a dead ringer for Solomon Flyte. You know him? Murdered by his girl a few years back.”
“Are you trying to insinuate something, Miss Lehane?”
She smiled a cat’s smile, her carmine lips pulling into a shallow vee. “Don’t worry, Mr. DePaul. I ain’t that dangerous.”