The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (30 page)

“You’re sure?” I pressed Gaige.

“Positive. I did grow up on the island, Stass. It’s not a big place. We’re only the second generation of the syndicate, so I know the names of most everyone who has ever lived on Branson. Jacobson isn’t a last name I’ve ever heard. We should double-check with Molly when we get back, but I’m certain I don’t know anyone by that name.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Let me see that repair order again, though.”

I handed him the repair order for the cufflinks. Gaige nodded, as though a suspicion of his had just been confirmed.

“M.L. Worchansky. Him, I do know.”

“Seriously? You have a buddy from the early twentieth century?” I asked doubtfully. “This repair was picked up in February. Unless he’s passed in the last two months, Worchansky is alive now.”

“No, not a friend. I wish, though. M.L. Worchansky is famous, you haven’t heard of him?”

“Famous for what?”

“He was an adventurer, for lack of a better term. And a very rich dude. Like go-for-a-swim-in-his-vault-of-money rich,” Gaige explained. “He funded, and went on, a lot of explorations. The guy actually discovered an Amazonian tribe at one point. He also lived with a group of natives in what will one day be Alaska, and learned how to ice fish up there. And, if I’m remembering correctly, he had something to do with finding some pharaoh’s tomb. Worchansky is a legend. He’s been
everywhere
. Which is quite a feat for someone in this time.”

“And he’s apparently a hero of yours,” I teased.

“Just as I will one day be some young, impressionable boy’s hero,” my partner replied.

“Scary thought.” I patted my partner’s arm affectionately. “Anyway, Worchansky lives here in France, according to the address on the repair order. I’d have to look it up to be sure, but I don’t think his place is too far from here.”

Gaige jumped to his feet. “Let’s go talk to him!” he exclaimed.

“We can’t right now, Gaige,” I told him, my heart sinking. “We have a novel to find, a rogue runner to locate, and a killer to stop. I’d say our dance card is pretty full at the moment.”

Even as I said the words, I wished I could take them back.

People in hell want a cold front,
I thought wryly.

In the jewelry store, when I’d first realized Worchansky lived nearby, I’d been just as keen to head right over. The second flower delivery and the taunting poem that had accompanied it were game changers for me. I wanted nothing more than to hear anything and everything Worchansky had to say about his cufflinks, their possible connection to my locket, and this J. Jacobson person. So badly, in fact, that remaining seated on that sofa while Gaige was all but begging to go find the guy was physically paining me.

But the run came first. It had to. This run, specifically, was too dangerous to allow distractions to divide my attention.

“Besides,” I added quietly, “Cyrus is pissed at me, isn’t he?”

Gaige wrinkled his nose and flopped back down on the sofa. “Yeah, sort of. Well, not really pissed, exactly. He’s more…I don’t know, maybe scared?”

“Cyrus? Scared?” I asked doubtfully.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Last night he was practically pulling his hair out when you didn’t show at the car. He freaked when I said we needed to leave because of the cops. We waited at the rendezvous point for almost an hour. He only agreed to leave when I suggested you might be trying to reach us back at the townhouse.

“When we got back and woke up Ines, he bit her head off when she suggested we wait until the morning to worry. After she lit up for the third time, he tore the cigarette out of her mouth and crushed it on the coffee table. Which was, admittedly, pretty entertaining, in hindsight. Regardless, it was scary, Stass, we didn’t know what happened to you. And yeah, Cyrus was wicked pissed. Not actually at you, though, more in general.”

I was speechless. Cyrus was imposing, maybe even intimidating, but he was always so cool, so together. I’d long suspected he had a temper, though I’d never actually seen him angry. Nonetheless, I was positive I didn’t want to be within the fallout zone when he lost it.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” I said defensively. “And we just got separated, it wasn’t
that
big of a deal. Honestly, I don’t know where I would’ve gone if not Bonheur’s. The police really were close to catching me.”

Gaige held up his hand in a placating gesture. “Don’t shoot the transporter. You asked, I’m just telling you what happened. Oh, one other thing.” My partner smiled devilishly. “A letter came for you this morning.”

My heart skipped a beat. Mitchell Baylarian had sent flowers twice the day before, and the second delivery had been less than twelve hours earlier. What the frack was his obsession with me?

“Oh, no, no,” Gaige said, seeing my alarmed expression. “Not from the psycho. It’s from lover boy.”

“Lover boy?” I asked. “I have no clue who you’re talking about.” I was trying to play it cool, but my voice came out high-pitched, like a cartoon character.

Still grinning like a moron, Gaige withdrew a creamy white envelope from beneath the electronic tablet he’d been using to read Rosenthal’s manuscript. Slowly, he extended his arm towards me. I reached for the letter, only to have Gaige pull it back.

“Stassi and Charles, sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s—oww!”

He rubbed the back of his head where I’d smacked him with a throw pillow. Taking advantage of his distraction, I yanked the letter free, scooped up the leather portfolio from Bonheur’s, and headed back upstairs.

“After you’re done fantasizing about Mr. Tall, Mysterious, and Frightfully Proper, we need to talk about our lunch plans,” Gaige called after me.

I paused at the top of the steps. “Lunch plans?”

“Yep. We are revisiting Closerie des Lilas.”

“Why? So you can indulge your mancrush on Rosenthal?” I asked. “Gaige and Andre sitting in a tree….”

I ducked when the same throw pillow came sailing up over the second floor balcony.

“
So
mature, Stass,” he intoned. “No, some of us have our minds on
work.
After finding the one at Shakespeare and Company, I’m betting there’s another piece of the manuscript hidden at the café. It’s at least worth looking in to. There are like four other bars or restaurants in his rotation of writing places, so we need to start checking them off.”

“Give me an hour,” I replied. “I’ll ask Felipe to do something quick with my hair and makeup.”

Before I hopped in the bath, I paused to open the envelope I’d absconded with. The letter was, in fact, from Charles. He wanted to know if I would join him for dinner Monday evening, and included his phone number and address for me to send a reply.

It took a moment for it to fully sink in.

Charles DuPree was asking me on a date.

Though he was technically an asset, spending time with Charles wouldn’t advance the mission whatsoever. For that reason alone, I should’ve declined. The fact that I still wanted to go, even when it wouldn’t be productive, was even more of a reason to decline.

Call him, Stassi. Tell him no.

Instead of listening to my inner voice of reason and heading straight down to the phone, I tucked the card from Charles in the drawer of my nightstand and went to get ready.

GAIGE AND I
strolled into the restaurant an hour later.

“Sit wherever you like,” a man behind the bar called.

Thankfully, it wasn’t the same bartender who’d helped us the other day. This made it considerably less awkward when we darted straight for Rosenthal’s favorite booth in the far back corner. The bartender brought us menus and took our drink orders with polite indifference, for which I was immensely grateful. The less interested he was, and the less conversation we made, the less likely he was to remember us later. We definitely didn’t need him and the other bartender comparing notes on the newest Americans in towns.

“Where do we start?” I asked, once Gaige and I had minuscule cups of espresso in front of us.

My partner shrugged sheepishly. “I was sort of hoping you’d have an idea. You are the smart one, after all.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

If I were a secretive, paranoid writer, where would I hide something? Where could you hide something in a public place?

Reaching beneath the tablecloth, I ran my fingers along the sides of the table, looking for some sort of secret compartment that might unlatch. The surfaces were all smooth, without any hint of a concealed opening. I leaned down further and did the same along the bottom of the table, hoping for something similar, or even a hidden ledge. A sticky wad was all I found.

“Gross!” I exclaimed. “Why do people do that?”

“I honestly couldn’t say,” Gaige replied, not even pretending to hide his amusement.

My partner sat back, sipped his coffee and observed with rapt attention as I continued my search of the table. I tried to check under the seat cushion of the chair beside me, but it was attached. Another strike.

“You’re scary good at this,” Gaige commented as he watched. “I would’ve immediately dismissed the table altogether.”

Across from me, Gaige plucked the butter knife from his place setting. He spared a furtive glance at the bartender, who wasn’t paying a bit of attention to us. Wedging the pointed end of the knife beneath the attached cushion, my partner attempted to pry the seat loose from the base of the extra chair beside him.

“Really?” I asked, torn between disbelief and amusement. “You think no one would have notice a guy dismantling the furniture?”

“Really?” he parroted. “You think it’s any less ridiculous than attaching it to the underside of a table where countless people sit every day?”

I glared. “Do you have any better ideas?” I asked sweetly. “Maybe you could go check the men’s room. Maybe it’s hidden in the back of a toilet tank.”

Gaige scrunched up his nose at the thought of searching the public facilities. I didn’t envy him a bit, particularly since we were in a time when personal hygiene was just beginning to be a thing of importance.

“The women’s room is just as likely,” he shot back, managing to keep a straight face despite the absurdity of his comment.

I stared wordlessly at my partner until he let out a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he said, drawing out the word. “But I want it on the record that you owe me.”

“You’ve got it, Gaige. I will state in my official report that you did your job,” I deadpanned. “Just be sure you’re extra,
extra
thorough when searching the toilets, or no gold star for you.”

With a glare that would’ve melted rock, Gaige stood. As he passed me on his way to the restrooms, my partner paused and leaned down so his mouth was right next to my ear. “You owe me,” he repeated.

“You threw me off of a bridge!” I called pleasantly after him.

The sound of a throat clearing made me jump, and I turned to find the bartender standing just behind me with a confused look on his face.

“Mademoiselle? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, y-yes,” I stammered. “My brother knows of my fondness for swimming and was just encouraging me to take a dip, no harm done.”

“Very good,” he replied, looking at me as if I were utterly deranged. “But you misunderstand…is everything okay with your table?”

“Oh yes, quite lovely,” I responded with a pleasant smile.

“It is just…. Well, I saw you looking around,” he replied tentatively. “Is there perhaps any way that I may be of assistance?”

Great, even the quintessentially disinterested French guy noticed our search,
I thought.

“Everything is lovely,” I repeated.

“Very well. Your meals should be ready shortly, I will go and check on them.”

“We’re in no hurry,” I said, again with the pleasant smile that was starting to make my cheeks ache. “My brother is in the restroom, so feel free to take your time.”

The waiter raised one eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

“He has a delicate stomach,” I added unnecessarily. “He might be in there for a bit.”

My remark on Gaige’s bathroom habits drew a brief look of disgust, but the man nodded and left without another word. Though I always enjoyed messing with my partner, that wasn’t exactly why I’d said something. My partner’s supposedly-weak stomach would hopefully keep the guy out of there, reducing the likelihood that Gaige would be interrupted while searching the bathrooms.

The bartender returned twenty minutes later to refill my coffee. My dining companion still hadn’t returned, prompting the Frenchman to look even more repulsed by us gauche Americans. Truthfully, I was beginning to wonder what was taking Gaige so long. Was he checking the ceiling tiles? Dismantling the plumbing? How many toilets did Closerie des Lilas have?

I breathed a sigh of relief when Gaige’s shadowy form finally materialized in the hallway. He strode confidently to the table, his dark eyes alive with giddy excitement.

“Ah, here is my brother,” I said to the waiter. “We are ready for our entrées, whenever they are ready for us.”

Picking up on my dismissal, the man turned to leave, though not before giving Gaige a long, lingering appraisal.

“Would monsieur care for some ginger ale?” he asked.

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good with coffee,” Gaige replied. He waited until the man left to give me a bewildered look. “That was a weird question.”

“Uh huh,” I said innocently. “So what’d you find?”

“Stassi, you are a fracking genius,” he declared.

My eyes widened with surprise, even though searching the bathroom had been my idea. I’d relished the thought of Gaige touching so many unclean surfaces more than I’d actually believed he might find something in there.

“You found it?” I asked.

His expression was triumphant, akin to Alexander conquering Persia. It seemed a little excessive for a man who’d found a handful of pages in a toilet instead of building an empire, but who was I to judge?

Gaige glanced furtively around, ensuring no prying eyes were spying on us. The café had no other patrons, and the bartender was still in the kitchen checking on our meals. Confident we were alone, my partner withdrew one of the syndicate’s handheld scanners from the interior pocket of his suit coat.

“The pages are already scanned and ready for the forger,” he said gleefully, waving the device around like a wand.

“I’ll be damned,” I breathed. “Rosenthal and I must share a brain or something.”

“Poor guy,” Gaige said with a grin.

A bell chimed in the distance, making both of us jump. Gaige quickly stuffed the device back into his jacket pocket as the bartender emerged from the kitchen with our lunch.

Giddy with excitement over our latest find, I was practically bouncing in my seat. The bartender eyed me suspiciously when he placed the croque monsieur—a fancy grilled cheese with ham—on my placemat.

“May I get you anything else?” he asked politely.

“The bill, please,” Gaige and I said in unison.

Surprise flitted briefly across the bartender’s face, but he recovered quickly. Speaking to Gaige instead of me, he nodded and said, “Very good, sir.”

I inhaled my food at an alarming rate, tasting nothing and practically choking on every bite. Across the table, Gaige was keeping up with my manic pace. It was like we were contestants in one of those hotdog-eating competitions, except neither of us resorted to dunking our food in liquid to consume it faster.

Coffee and highbrow cheeses don’t really mix well, anyway.

When the bartender returned with our check, a piece of ham flew out of my overstuffed mouth as I attempted to thank him. The meat landed on the table directly in front of the appalled man. It was not one of my finer moments in life.

“Wow,” Gaige said when the server left, laughing so hard he nearly choked. “That was almost as embarrassing as the first time you went cliff-diving.”

I threw a piece of croissant at Gaige in mock outrage. He wasn’t wrong, though I’d always maintained that someone—
anyone—
should’ve mentioned it would be a bad idea to jump from two-stories high into the water while wearing a bikini. After braving the feat, I’d emerged triumphantly from under the water, fists held high above my head in victory and my bathing suit top nowhere in sight.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, had the island children not been off of school that day. Mine were evidently the first boobs the tweens and teens had ever seen, so naturally they’d followed me around for weeks with googly eyes and hopeful grins on the off-chance I might flash them again.

It also had not been one of my finer moments.

When we left Closerie des Lilas ten minutes later, the waiter didn’t ask us to visit again soon.