The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (32 page)

“I’m confused,” I admitted. “Unless he’s diabetic, I don’t understand why eating an excessive amount of candy is significant?”

“He’s devolving,” Cyrus explained. “As you both know, the combination of sucrose and cocoa will stave off time sickness and lessen the symptoms. Judging by the sheer volume of wrappers I found, I’d guess he’s dealing with a bad case of it. Probably from jumping too frequently within a short period of time.”

“So he’s curing himself?” Gaige asked skeptically.

“Not exactly. Chocolate is neither a vaccine nor a cure, more like a bandage. It treats the symptoms, but not the disease itself. Like using painkillers to treat a broken leg—a cast is still needed for the bone to heal properly.” Our boss shook the plastic bag. “I found at least forty of these wrappers on the floor of the second hotel room. It means that Lachlan at least somewhat cognizant of the fact he’s suffering from time sickness, which suggests he hasn’t devolved completely. Or, at least, he hadn’t as of yesterday. The chocolate left on the wrappers has been exposed to air for between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.”

I didn’t bother asking how Cyrus had reached that conclusion; he’d brought all sorts of things with him from the island that were atypical on an ordinary run.

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t strike last night?” I proposed.

“That’s my guess, as well,” Cyrus agreed.

“Do you think he’s so far gone that he won’t be able to stage another one of his deadly performances?” Gaige asked.

Cyrus shook his head regretfully.

“I have no idea. I wish I did. I showed the photo to the staff on duty today, but no one remembers seeing him in the past twenty-four hours. The maids said the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign has been on the door for days, so they haven’t been inside either room in some time.” He sounded exasperated.

“Maybe he’s bribed the staff to say they don’t know anything? I mean, he is a runner, after all. He knows the tricks of the trade,” Gaige said.

Cyrus eyed him pointedly. “That is precisely why I offered them a substantial amount myself. Lachlan may know the tricks, but I
invented
the game.”

For the second time in ten minutes, Gaige turned scarlet.

“What else did you find?” I asked, drawing our boss’s attention away from my partner.

“Nothing too helpful, in terms of telling us where he might be now.” Our boss reached inside the train case and pulled the remaining evidence bags out, one at a time. Cyrus held them up as he rattled off the contents. “A lock picking set, night vision glasses and contacts, a handheld scanner—all syndicate-issue, from the mission kits that runners can check out from customs.” He laid the items in a line on the coffee table.

“Is the Paris station missing a kit?” I asked. “They are extremely organized. Sort of seems like they’d have a record of the theft.”

“According to Ines, all of their inventory is accounted for. My guess is Lachlan stole the items from the Montgomery Syndicate before he left. I’ll send a message to Bane to confirm they’re short.” Cyrus withdrew four more plastic bags from the train case. “Stage makeup, also syndicate-issue. Shepard is most likely using it to change his appearance, which might explain why no one at the Ritz can recall seeing him recently.” The next bags he pulled from the case were much larger, and contained men’s clothing. “The style and fabrics of Shepard’s clothes are consistent with this time period. And definitely authentic, not reproductions. Again, he could have stolen the items from customs. Or he could have purchased them once he was here.”

“All of this was in the second room?” I asked, leaning closer to inspect the vacuum-sealed evidence bags.

Cyrus nodded.

The bags with the clothing were closest to me and immediately drew my attention. One contained a pair of men’s dress pants in navy, while another had a very ordinary white dress shirt. But it was the contents of the third that caused my heart to skip a beat.

Inside was a beautiful silk handkerchief, checkered in shades of scarlet and gray. I’d seen a handkerchief in the exact same pattern peeking out from the pocket of a suit with a coordinating lapel lining.

Charles was wearing it the night we all went to
Exotique
.

I swallowed hard. There was no way. Charles was definitively
not
the Night Gentleman. He’d been sitting right next to me when the killer had made his villainous speech at
Exotique
.

Baylarian didn’t make that speech himself,
a voice inside my head reminded me.

I shoved the thought aside. It didn’t matter. Charles couldn’t be the Night Gentleman. Lachlan Shepard, alias Mitchell Baylarian, was the Night Gentleman.

Right?

As I struggled to keep my thoughts from galloping wildly away with the notion that my handsome suitor could be a killer, I remembered an irrefutable fact: the Night Gentleman was a new addition to the time period. His existence wasn’t documented anywhere in the history books on the island, nor on the syndicate’s vast intranet. Since Charles was a native citizen of this time, if he’d gone on a mad killing spree, it would have already happened. It would have been recorded in the historical archives. It
couldn’t
be him.

Right?

“Stassi? Is something wrong?” Cyrus asked.

“Hmm? Wrong? Me? No, I’m good.”

Cyrus leveled his patented stare on me. The one he used when communicating to an underling that he knew they were withholding information. The one that said it would be in everybody’s best interest if he didn’t need to ask again. The one that made the unlucky recipient wish for the power of invisibility.

If I were capable of communicating even a tenth of what my boss could with a single withering look, I would never have to speak again.

“I recognize the handkerchief. I’ve seen it. Or, rather, I’ve seen one like it. It couldn’t have been this one. Obviously it wasn’t this
exact
one. No, definitely not. That’s impossible.”

My, oh-so-eloquent diatribe came out in a single breath.

Gaige snickered and I shot him a glare. I’d taken the heat off of him, but he couldn’t repay the favor?

“Where did you see it?” Cyrus asked calmly.

The lump in my throat proved nearly impossible to swallow around.

“On Charles DuPree,” I whispered, feeling impossibly traitorous.

Admittedly, the sudden onset of guilt didn’t make a whole lot of sense; I’d only known Charles a few days. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about the guy, except that his touch made me all tingly and warm inside. And his fascination with my necklace had kind of weirded me out. Nonetheless, Charles had put his reputation on the line for Gaige. That sort of genuine kindness was rare, and spoke volumes about his character. Dragging him into an inter-century murder investigation was a terrible way to repay a man who had been nothing but a solid friend to both me and my partner.

“And who is Charles DuPree?” Cyrus prodded, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

With Cyrus’s attention on me, Gaige began making kissy faces and licking his lips suggestively. The gestures would’ve earned him several smacks in the face with a pillow, had my boss not been sitting with us.

“Stop that, Gaige,” Cyrus warned, without turning. That rumored second set of eyes in the back of his head missed nothing. Gaige jumped in his seat. Without skipping a beat, my boss added, “You look constipated.”

“Charles is a man on the periphery of Rosenthal’s circle,” I explained. “He appears to know all the same people as Rosenthal, and attends the same parties and events. DuPree also has a casual friendship with the author.”

“And?” Gaige prompted, drawing out the word for several seconds.

“And he seems to like me.” I closed my eyes and sighed. Was this really happening? Was I actually dishing about a cute guy with my boss?

Cyrus cleared his throat loudly. Twice. I opened my eyes to only the smallest of slits and peeked through, like a child afraid to face the scary monster lurking at the foot of her bed. Cyrus opened and closed his mouth several times, as if the words were stuck on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t quite manage to knock them loose.

My eyes popped fully open and I stared at my boss in astonishment. Cyrus rendered speechless was a sight worthy of my undivided attention.

“I know the rules about getting involved with someone on a run,” I was quick to add. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Cyrus sighed. “The rules regarding fraternization are our least followed. Understandably so. Which is why I don’t enforce them, as long as care is given and discretion shown.” He shifted position, as if the armchair he’d been comfortably sitting in for the last fifteen minutes had suddenly developed lumps. “How do you know he likes you?”

“He asked her on a date,” Gaige chimed in helpfully.

“How did you know that?” I demanded, rounding on him.

My partner shrugged and, with no remorse whatsoever, said, “I read your letter.”

The letter had been sealed when he handed it to me. Meaning Gaige had used an infrared optical character recognition scanner to read through the envelope.

Revenge would be mine.

“I thought it might be relevant to the run,” Gaige was saying, sounding practical and matter-of-fact. “And Stassi misspoke. Charles DuPree is closer than a casual friend to Andre Rosenthal. In fact, he might even know where the final piece of the manuscript is. I think it’s worth checking out.”

“That’s farfetched, Gaige,” I quickly replied, hoping to keep Charles off of our boss’s radar. “Hadley Richardson is more likely to know the whereabouts, and I’m having lunch with her on Tuesday.”

“Oh, I agree, Hadley is a good bet. But you have an opportunity to meet with Charles before you see her, so why not take it? He might even be the killer,” Gaige intoned with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“He is
not
the killer,” I shot back, then repeated the words directly to my boss. “Cyrus, he isn’t the killer.”

“My idea is no more farfetched than yours about the toilet bowl,” my partner replied innocently.

“Toilet
tank
,” I corrected. “Though it’s nice to hear you went playing in the toilet bowl for fun.”

Cyrus had been silently watching our exchange with the rapt attention of a line judge at Wimbledon.

“You two bicker like a pair of old ladies,” he declared. “And what’s this about a toilet?”

I opened my mouth to explain, but Cyrus cut me off before I got out the first syllable.

“Actually, don’t answer that. I am confident that I don’t want to know. Stassi, accept the date. Ask Mr. DuPree where he shops for his dress clothes. Then we can go to the store with Lachlan’s picture and see if they remember him. Perhaps he’s even ordered clothes that haven’t yet been picked up, or maybe they have a delivery address for him. Though it’s a long shot, it could end up being well worth the trouble.”

“Yes, Cyrus,” I dutifully agreed. “I will.”

“So that’s it?” Gaige asked, as if he hadn’t just thrown me under the bus. “What’s our next play?”

“There are a couple other theories I want to explore,” our boss hedged. “Left untreated, time sickness can be lethal. From what Bane has told me about Lachlan’s running schedule, and the numerous chocolate wrappers in his hotel room, I have no doubt he has the disease. It’s very possible he’s already succumbed. I am going to check the morgue.”

That sent a shiver up my spine.

“For now, let me worry about Lachlan Shepard. You both should focus on finding the final piece of
Blue’s Canyon
. Gaige is right.” My partner sat up a little straighter at Cyrus’s praise. “Cover your bases and ask Charles DuPree about the manuscript.”

That night, hand shaking badly enough to smudge the ink, I responded to Charles’s invitation, accepting his date.

“YOU LOOK…LIKE
a girl.”

The next night, my assignment was back to parties, champagne, and a handsome guy instead of death and a psychotic killer.

I spun to find Gaige standing in the doorway to my bedroom, a broad smile on his face.

“She looks beautiful, a true vision,” Cyrus added, joining Gaige in the entranceway. His grin matched my partner’s, though it lacked the half-stunned, half-amused quality.

I turned again to look in the freestanding oak-framed mirror, feeling very self-conscious. The dress Naomi selected specifically for the evening was stunning. Unlike most women’s clothing for the time period, this dress had a natural waist. Layers of black taffeta hung just past my knees, almost like a ballerina’s best tutu. Two-inch straps of blue and white crystals started at the small of my back, trailing up over my shoulders and down over the bodice to an oval broach at my waist. With the sparkling embellishments, we’d decided against adding additional bling with jewelry.

My auburn hair—something I still wasn’t used to—was pinned up in a sleek bob with a deep side part, so that a portion of my hair was swept across my forehead. Felipe completed the look with minimal makeup, save a deep crimson lip. The overall effect was spot-on for the time period; I’d be just another wealthy woman who had nothing but time to look beautiful.

Honestly, I barely recognized myself.

“Are you sure I look okay?” I asked the two men studying my appearance.

Cyrus pushed past Gaige and walked over to get a better look. He took my hand to spin me back around to face them. In my stacked black heels, I only had to tilt my head slightly to meet his gaze. My boss had a faraway look in his eye, as though his thoughts were somewhere else.

“Your boy is going to have a hard time keeping his hands to himself with you in that dress,” Gaige declared as he stepped into my room, snapping Cyrus out of his reverie. He shot my partner a warning look.

“Is that necessary?” Cyrus asked him, releasing my hand and taking several steps backwards. “I would not put it quite so crassly, but yes, Mr. DuPree will undoubtedly be quite taken with you.”

Gaige snorted. “He already is.”

“Which,” Cyrus continued as if Gaige hadn’t spoken, “will make it easier for you to get information out of him. If, of course, there is any information to be had.”

“Oh, Stassi will be able to get more than information out of him,” Gaige interjected with a wicked smile. With Cyrus’s attention on me, my partner began thrusting his hips, proving his mental age had yet to catch up with his shoe size. I guessed his expression was supposed to be ecstasy. It missed the mark entirely, landing somewhere closer to pain.

“Gaige,” Cyrus snapped, his tone devoid of all traces of amusement.

“Sorry, sir.” Gaige straightened and gave our boss a small salute.

Cyrus turned his attention back to me. “Are you ready, Stassi? I believe Mr. DuPree will be here soon, but take as much time as you need.”

“Actually…,” I started, hesitating. “I will be meeting Mr. DuPree at the restaurant.”

As expected, this drew a stern, disapproving look from Cyrus.

“He offered to pick me up,” I rushed on. “But I thought it might be best to just meet him there.”

My boss appraised me for another long minute. He glanced over at my juvenile partner, who was clearly a bastion of embarrassment.

“I suppose I can understand that,” Cyrus said. “Though I strongly disapprove, particularly with a killer on the loose.”

“I’ll be fine,” I promised him. Without thinking, I reached out and gave Cyrus’s hand a reassuring squeeze. When I remembered myself—he was my
boss
, not a doting father seeing his daughter off on her first date—I yanked my hand back and began stuffing random items in the matching crystal clutch from Naomi.

Gaige stayed behind when Cyrus went to see if the car Charles was sending had arrived yet.

“You are such a weirdo,” he joked, slinging an arm over my shoulder. He turned us both so we were facing our reflections. For a long moment, he looked me over from heels to head, then studied my face.

“What?” I asked uncertainly. I wondered simultaneously if the outfit and styling were too much, or possibly not enough.

“I am damn good looking,” Gaige said finally, putting his dimples on full display.

“You’re an idiot,” I declared, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “Come on, I’m going to be late.”

As it turned out, the car had not yet arrived. Against my better judgment, I waited in the living room with my motley crew. Ines also came over to see me off, compounding the awkwardness. Luckily, she was her usual self, chattering away about random nonsense.

“Hadley is quite taken with you, my dear,” she told me between drags of her cigarette. “Have you decided what you will wear for your lunch with her?”

“Hadn’t crossed my mind,” I replied. “I’m sure Naomi will have something lined up.”

“She certainly did an exquisite job tonight,” Ines said kindly. “Really, Stassi, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, desperate to deflect the attention away from my appearance. “You’ve spoken to Hadley?”

“Indeed,” Ines said with enthusiasm. “She is positively giddy about seeing you tomorrow.”

I was positively giddy about our lunch as well, only for a very different reason. I liked Hadley well enough, from the brief interaction we’d had, but I was far more interested in information about Rosenthal and the last piece of the manuscript. If I could get her to tell me about other places he went to work, or other haunts he frequented, we could resume the search and get out of the 1920s. I was ready to go home. This run had been the oddest I’d ever heard of, let alone encountered. Once we had the complete work, we could leave all of the weirdness behind and go back to our own time.

I thought about my other reason for remaining in Paris after the run was complete.

My locket.

Somehow, after almost two years of searching, I had a lead. Maybe not a very good one, but something was better than nothing. I needed to follow it, to find the great adventurer whose cufflinks were somehow linked to my necklace.

Without thinking, I rubbed my throat, where the necklace should have been. Naomi had been so insistent about not ruining the neckline of the dress that I’d relented and taken off my most prized possession. Without its light weight against my chest, I felt empty inside. The necklace was a part of me. I missed it terribly.

“I mean, even Alice loved—” Ines was saying.

“Excuse me, I forgot something upstairs,” I blurted out, jumping to my feet.

Our Parisian guide was visibly affronted by my rude interruption. She huffed out two plumes of smoke. In the kitchen, Cyrus stopped pacing long enough to say, “The car will be here any moment, don’t take too long.”

“I’ll be quick,” I promised, running for my room as quickly as the heels would permit.

Once the necklace was securely around my throat, the disjointed feeling melted away. Just as Naomi had predicted, it did not match the dress. It actually looked a little ridiculous between the jeweled straps, but I didn’t care. Stupid as the notion was, I felt more confident with my locket on.

I hurried back downstairs to find a short, pudgy man in a chauffeurs’ uniform standing in the living room. He bowed slightly when he saw me, his cap clutched between meaty fingers.

“Ah, my dear sister has graced us with her presence,” Gaige proclaimed grandly, as if I’d been hiding out upstairs all evening.

I shot him a withering glare.

“I apologize for the delay,” I said to the driver. “I am ready whenever you are.”

“It is no problem, Ms. Prince, I assure you,” the man replied.

There was a round of air-kisses from Ines and a hearty pat on the back from my partner. The affectionate squeeze from Cyrus came with a whispered reminder to pump him for information. They all stood at the door as I descended the steps to the curb, as if they couldn’t help but take every opportunity to be embarrassing.

I gave the group one last wave through the window as the car door closed behind me, feeling a simultaneous rush of affection and mortification. We pulled away and, finally, I was off for my date with Charles DuPree.

The restaurant,
La Coupole,
was straight from the history books. From the waiters’ white gloves and airs of superiority, to the impeccable coattails worn by the men and latest designer fashions worn by the women, it was classically Parisian. In the middle of the vast dining room, a blue domed ceiling of stained glass overlooked a metal statue of two curved men. The entire space was rife with art deco designs that almost seemed out of place with the old-world elegance, but I sort of loved it.

“Anastasia Prince, here to meet Mr. Charles DuPree,” I told the maître d’ in French.

Apparently, my grasp of the language was sufficient for his liking—or he found my attempt amusing—because his lips curved into a friendly grin.

“Mr. DuPree has already arrived. If you will follow me this way?” he replied, also in French.

The English translation whispered in my ear as I smiled and nodded deferentially. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach as we wound our way through tables of diners.

Breathe,
I told myself.
You have done this before. This is nothing new.

Okay, so that wasn’t
exactly
true. I’d only had occasion twice to truly sidle up to men on a run to gain information, but neither had the charm of Charles DuPree. They hadn’t been fascinating, or alluring, or so damned good-looking. This was definitely new.

I saw him before he saw me. I had only a moment to admire the strong line of his jaw and perfect slope of his nose before his head turned and our eyes locked. A slow smile spread across his handsome face, and then he stood.

My breath caught.

What have you gotten yourself into?