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“Sure. What’s the plan?”
The plan was perfect. They met at Cy’s Place. Uncle Cy was in on it. He seated them at a little, round table that Cy liked to say was “perfect for lovebirds, big enough for two cocktails and two pair of elbows.” Cy’s club didn’t always have live music on weeknights, but what good was “dance night” without live music? The musicians were older than Theo might have booked, but most of Cy’s contacts had gone on to work that great gig in the sky, so he’d done the best he could. They played tunes that were meant for dancing, at least in Cy’s book, and after twenty minutes of holding hands and moving across the floor to Gershwin, Jack and Andie needed a break, and the octogenarian orchestra was ready for oxygen. Andie went to the “little girl’s room,” and Cy brought two fresh cocktails to Jack at their table.
“What do you hear from your nephew?” asked Jack.
“Nothin’ since Halloween. Been two weeks now.”
“Are you worried?”
“Should I be?”
Jack doubted the old man knew the full extent of the danger. “Theo can take care of himself.”
Andie returned, and Cy retreated to bring refreshments to the boys in the band.
“What are you smiling at?” asked Andie.
She’d caught him staring. “It’s weird,” said Jack.
“What’s weird?”
Jack had witnessed a good many “Andie transformations” over the course of their marriage, all connected to her undercover work for the bureau. The blonde and blue-eyed Andie who’d donned a wig and contact lenses to infiltrate a neo-Nazi organization. The henna-tattooed Andie who’d “joined” a cult. But it was the little things, not the huge makeovers, that made him smile—like the way she’d brushed her dance-swept hair into silky perfection.
“Guys go to the bathroom, and they go to the bathroom. Women go to the bathroom, and they come out looking like a million bucks.”
“One of the world’s great unsolved mysteries. Right up there with ‘where is Cleopatra’s tomb?’”
Jack tasted his drink. Strong. He’d have to nurse this one. It was back to work after Cy’s Place.
“Are we ever going to finish the conversation we started when I was in London?” he asked, choosing the word “conversation” advisedly.
“It’s finished.”
“It didn’t feel finished.”
“I figured out the solution.”
Jack was taken aback. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Yes. When your trial is over.”
“Why are we putting this off?”
“Because the conflict of interest between your trial and my investigation is real. Until that conflict goes away, we can’t say the things that need to be said.”
“Then what’s up with tonight?”
“A reminder.”
He waited for her to say more, and if she thought he was enjoying the way she was forcing him to pull it out of her, she was mistaken. “A reminder of what?”
“That we have something worth fighting for. Not just about.”
Jack smiled uneasily. It was too Pollyanna for Andie, and it made him worry about the unilateral “solution” she was holding close to the vest. “It’s great to hear you say that. Really great. I feel the same way. But—”
“But what?”
“Look, I’ll be the first to concede: you’re smarter than I am. But that doesn’t mean you should figure out all the answers without me.”
