FORTY-FOUR

I regarded Matt’s confident smirk with curious skepticism.

“So?” I prompted. “Enlighten me. If Hunter is in this club, where is he?”

“Look, I figured the woman he’s with must really be something if he’s dumping out on his wife while her father is in the hospital, which means he would have booked the most intimate private booth in this club.”

“I doubt Hunter is with a woman. The man promised Sophia he would come to the hospital as soon as his ‘important meeting’ was over. Why would he make that promise if he was on a romantic tryst?”

“Maybe he lied about joining her. He sounds like a real cad.”

“Uh-huh. Well, on that particular subject, I bow to your expertise. So where is this special booth?”

“In a secret room.”

“Go on. Or is the secret room a secret?”

“Not anymore—although it was during the Prohibition years. This club was never shut down by the feds because they could never find any booze on the premises. When the doorman saw agents coming, he sounded an alarm, and the barmen activated a lever and pulley system that dumped all the upstairs booze into the sewers. Meanwhile, downstairs they kept the rest of their hooch safely hidden in a camouflaged wine cellar—and that’s where the special booth is.”

“You called it Jimmy’s booth?”

“Jimmy Walker, the mayor of New York. He was a regular here, but he didn’t think he should be seen drinking in public—given that it broke federal law—so the club gave him his own little booth in their secret cellar. Apparently, he also used it to dine with his lady friends, which is why I’m convinced Hunter is down there with another woman.”

“That history is depressing, another example of a hypocritical politician skirting laws he expects the rest of us to follow—it makes me wonder how many public servants have done the same through the years.”

“Don’t expect to find out. Taking down the powerful is no easy feat, Clare. The feds once raided this place while the mayor was in his secret booth. Jimmy got so angry that he called the NYPD and had all the agents’ cars towed—before going right back to his evening cocktails.”

“Okay. I’m impressed you know the secret room’s secret history, but does getting us into that room have to be a secret, too?”

“Why so eager?” Matt asked slyly. “Are you finally ready for that Slow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall?”

“I’d kick you under the table, but I’m afraid these Cruel Wing shoes would sever an artery.”

“That’s your response to a friendly proposition?”

“Focus, Matt. How do we get to Hunter?”

“We don’t. We wait until Hunter gets to us. That room can only be reached through a hidden passageway below the kitchen, and the entrance to the kitchen is . . . right over there.” Matt pointed to the open doorway fifteen feet away. “Believe me, this is the best place to collar Sophia’s husband. We just have to wait him out. So, like I said, we might as well sit back and enjoy the wait.”

Thus began the most delicious stakeout I’d ever been on. Our drinks arrived, and I proposed a toast to Matt’s promising detective skills then sampled my Southside. The cocktail was bright, like a mint julep, but with the fruity, juniper berry flavor of gin instead of woody bourbon.

“Wow. This is nice.”

Matt nodded. “They really know how to mix a drink here. Now . . .” He rubbed his hands together, and his sly smile broke wide. “What shall we order for dinner?”

“Hold on. I don’t feel right about putting this on your wife’s tab.”

“And how did you feel last Christmas?”

“Excuse me?”

“When I was in Nairobi for the December auctions, Breanne sent you and the flatfoot invitations, remember?”

I groaned. “Trend magazine’s big holiday party. I was surprised she invited me.”

“So was I, until I learned that your invitation was the only one sent without the glossy insert card bragging how Driftwood’s star baristas would be serving drinks made with Driftwood Coffee—which also happened to be one of Bree’s advertisers.”

“And one of our competitors. God, it was awful . . .” I shuddered at the memory. “I spent an hour dodging attempts by Driftwood staffers to tweet me drinking from cups with their logo, until I begged Quinn to get us out of there.”

Matt met my gaze. “You don’t actually think your ‘special’ invitation, sans any mention of Driftwood, was an accident, do you?”

“You’re right. She owes me.” I snatched up a menu and opened it. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

Though I didn’t know much about 21’s history, I knew about some of the most famous items on its menu.

This club had invented the concept of the “haute” burger, so common now in high-end restaurants, but I began instead with another of their signature dishes, a crab cake. The meat was the highest quality, as juicy as the sea and as fresh as an ocean breeze, and the peppery cucumber-ginger salad made a wonderful complement.

Matt almost went with the soup du jour, a traditional Senegalese curry and cream bisque. But ultimately he went full carnivore, starting with sweetbreads served with creamed corn and a sauce made of veal stock and truffles, followed by a dry-aged, grill-sizzled New York strip steak with a creamy peppercorn sauce, and a potato whipped to fluffy perfection with seasoned olive oil.

Since I needed comfort after my stressful day, I chose one of the club’s most famous comfort foods for my entrée: Chicken Hash with Mornay sauce—a béchamel with plenty of Gruyère, which made the hash so creamy and rich that I pushed all thoughts of calorie counts out of my head (the bottle of Pinot Noir helped). A golden, cheese-crusted topping continued the Gruyère theme and was so delicious I decided this was something I’d try at home. Even the bed of spinach was special—Bloomsdale, grown since 1925, glossy, deep green leaves cooked to perfect tenderness.

I thought I was hungry, but Matt devoured his meal so fast I doubted he’d actually chewed.

We were debating dessert (over shots of liqueur) when I noticed a man emerging from the kitchen doorway who, for once, wasn’t wearing a white jacket.

Young and olive skinned, this strongman wore a fine black blazer over an open-necked black shirt and slacks. His inky eyes scanned the Bar Room with such intensity that I pegged him as a bodyguard.

But whose body was he guarding?

I poked Matt when more well-dressed men began exiting the kitchen.

Wearing designer suits and sporting watches and bling I couldn’t afford in a lifetime, three of the men were stout, middle-aged, and wearing traditional Arab head scarves.

The keffiyeh-wearing trio was followed by someone I did recognize.

In his fifties, this slight man sported salt-and-pepper hair, a hawk nose, and a snow-white beard that looked even brighter against his aggressively tanned complexion. He wore no tie with his pin-striped suit, but the lavender silk handkerchief in his pocket exactly matched the open-necked shirt, where gold chains flashed, even in this low light.

It’s Eduardo De Santis, I realized, the nightclub-owning drug dealer whom Quinn once tried to take down. What is this guy doing back in New York?

Just then, a younger man came through the door, joining the rest of the group in backslaps and handshakes. Matt and I immediately tensed.

The last man was Sophia’s errant husband, Hunter Rolf.