Then, there was the matter of Cordelia turning up with Minna Keeler’s stolen earrings. She had probably told the truth, about receiving the earrings as a gift. She couldn’t afford them, even secondhand. But from whom? I knew she looked familiar. He turned that over, examining it. Sofie’s picture had been all over the papers. She must have given Cordelia the jewels; he was sure of it. As payment? For what? Whatever the bargain, someone had introduced them. And Cyril knew exactly who. Ari had been moving refugees for months.
Sinking below the surface of the water, Cyril held his breath until his heart slowed. He’d deal with Aristide later. For now, he wasn’t going to let anything dampen his victory over Müller.
Freshly scrubbed and buttoned into well-brushed evening wear, Cyril hopped a streetcar and held the rail for a few blocks. The tails of his evening coat whipped behind him. At Orchard Street he let go and dropped easily back to the pavement, quickstepping until he shook the momentum of the trolley.
Müller was waiting for him in the Kelly Club, tucked into a corner booth with his back to the wall. “What do you want?” His face was sour, the glass of port in front of him untouched.
“Cold veal and pickle,” said Cyril decisively. “You? It’s order from the bar here, right?”
“Don’t get cheeky, DePaul. This day’s been a beast and I’m in no mood.”
Cyril put his fingertips to his chin. “Really? Ragtaggers giving you more trouble than you care for? Or is it something closer to home?”
Müller sighed, his nostrils flaring. “Taphir Emerson was released yesterday afternoon, by some damn constable who wouldn’t know from. ‘A mix-up with the paperwork,’ they tell me. And now he’s disappeared like an elver into jelly.”
Cyril scented Aristide’s perfumed hand in this. However angry he might be about Ari facilitating Cordelia’s latest foray into lawlessness, Cyril still thanked Ari for sticking this sharp pin in Müller’s ass—the last of many. The one that, along with some elegant blackmail, might change his mind about the Ospies.
“Too bad,” said Cyril. “And you have no idea where to look?”
“Oh, I have ideas,” said Müller. “But getting the force to follow them is like dragging a ram at the end of a rope. It’s not going to happen. And don’t say you can offer me a better position. I told you, I won’t—what are those?”
Cyril had taken the earrings from his pocket and was dangling them over the candle at the center of the table. Their facets winked and flared in the wavering light.
“Pendeloque-cut citrines, set in yellow gold with diamonds—that’s the description in the insurance claim made by Minna Keeler, following a recent robbery. A robbery accomplished during the kidnapping of her eldest daughter.”
“Mother’s tits,” hissed Müller, reaching for the jewels. “Where did you get them?”
Cyril drew the citrines away from Müller’s outstretched hand. “That hardly matters.”
“It matters a great deal, to a police officer.”
“What ought to matter more,” said Cyril, settling back into the cracked leather cushion of the booth, “is where they’re headed next.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear Taormino’s latest lover is a bit of a dandy.” In the low light, the gemstones shivered like falling drops of honey. “And she’s got the means to decorate him. How do you think it would come out if he was found in possession of Keeler heirlooms?”
Müller’s eyes narrowed, the crow’s-feet at his temples deepening. “Not well for Taormino. The case is too high-profile. There’d be an inquiry; she might be forced to resign.”
“Handy for you.”
Müller sucked his teeth, but said nothing.
“Less handy,” said Cyril, “if the person caught in possession was your wife.”
Müller froze. “You wouldn’t. You need me.”
“Not if I have Harlee and Karst.” Half a lie. If he got Müller arrested, the situation would still be precarious. Two out of four assistant commissioners might not get him what he needed. But precarious was better than nothing at all.
Müller’s fists clenched. “And what about Taormino?”
“What about her? With you in the trap, and two of the assistant commissioners … Most of the department chiefs are already mine. How long do you think Taormino will last, even with Eronov and Tembu backing her?”
Spreading a wide, blunt hand across his face, Müller slumped and said, “You can promise me a clean force?”
“I can’t personally vouch for the morals of every officer,” said Cyril, “but the Ospies won’t take kindly to misconduct. Their system is straight and the change of power should purge most of your troublemakers.” It might be true.
“Doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“You didn’t get into police work for pleasantries.”
Müller’s laugh was a single, dry exhalation. “No,” he said. “No, I did not.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
At the breakfast table, Aristide didn’t even get his coffee to his lips. He caught sight of the Clarion’s headline and froze with his cup hovering just above its saucer.
Police commissioner pockets stolen goods. Investigation reveals collusion with impeached primary.