THE RESTAURANT was an old-school steak house on the first floor of the Market Street building that housed the offices of Kaplan, DePaulo, and Marchese. It had charming waitstaff in vests, portraits of local notables hung on the walls, excellent cheesy bread in a basket offered gratis. So many of the attorneys dined here regularly, it was the firm’s de facto cafeteria, the place to be seen. If you wanted privacy, you headed to the fringes of downtown. Or possibly to New Jersey. For now, however, Lisa Marchese would have to settle for the quiet zone of the corner booth near the kitchen.
“Is that thing off?”
“Here you go. Powered down completely. If you want, I can dunk it into your double martini. Now, tell me what you’ve got.”
Marchese frowned. “I’m not going to tell you, but I can show you. If you promise—and I can’t stress this enough, Cooper Lamb—if you promise this information will stay inside your skull. No cute leaks to the press, none of your usual bullshit.”
“If it helps Francine, then yes.”
Lisa dug into her briefcase. Cooper thought she was about to bring out a file folder marked CONFIDENTIAL or something absurd like that, but instead it was an iPad. She quickly entered a password, then another one to open a vault file, and then looked into the camera to activate the facial-recognition software.
All of which was a huge relief to Cooper, because if it existed digitally, his man Victor would have no problem snagging a copy. He could pluck information from an Apple device as skillfully as a Dickensian pickpocket lifted a wallet.
She rotated the iPad toward him. “You want to know about the real Archie Hughes? Read these.”