Amberlough(70)

“Mother’s tits,” hissed Müller, reaching for the jewels. “Where did you get them?”

Cyril drew the citrines away from Müller’s outstretched hand. “That hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal, to a police officer.”

“What ought to matter more,” said Cyril, settling back into the cracked leather cushion of the booth, “is where they’re headed next.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear Taormino’s latest lover is a bit of a dandy.” In the low light, the gemstones shivered like falling drops of honey. “And she’s got the means to decorate him. How do you think it would come out if he was found in possession of Keeler heirlooms?”

Müller’s eyes narrowed, the crow’s-feet at his temples deepening. “Not well for Taormino. The case is too high-profile. There’d be an inquiry; she might be forced to resign.”

“Handy for you.”

Müller sucked his teeth, but said nothing.

“Less handy,” said Cyril, “if the person caught in possession was your wife.”

Müller froze. “You wouldn’t. You need me.”

“Not if I have Harlee and Karst.” Half a lie. If he got Müller arrested, the situation would still be precarious. Two out of four assistant commissioners might not get him what he needed. But precarious was better than nothing at all.

Müller’s fists clenched. “And what about Taormino?”

“What about her? With you in the trap, and two of the assistant commissioners … Most of the department chiefs are already mine. How long do you think Taormino will last, even with Eronov and Tembu backing her?”

Spreading a wide, blunt hand across his face, Müller slumped and said, “You can promise me a clean force?”

“I can’t personally vouch for the morals of every officer,” said Cyril, “but the Ospies won’t take kindly to misconduct. Their system is straight and the change of power should purge most of your troublemakers.” It might be true.

“Doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“You didn’t get into police work for pleasantries.”

Müller’s laugh was a single, dry exhalation. “No,” he said. “No, I did not.”





CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

At the breakfast table, Aristide didn’t even get his coffee to his lips. He caught sight of the Clarion’s headline and froze with his cup hovering just above its saucer.

Police commissioner pockets stolen goods. Investigation reveals collusion with impeached primary.

Putting his coffee down with a snap of china, he flicked the paper open. The headlining article ran the length of the front page. He was so intent on his thoughts that when Finn dropped a cool, damp kiss on the back of his bent neck, he started violently.

“Sorry.” Finn laughed and ran a hand through Aristide’s curls. Aristide tipped his head back and let Finn kiss him properly. Water spiked the younger man’s freshly barbered hair. He had a towel wrapped around his hips, and that was all.

Utterly delicious, and Aristide had no patience for him. He turned back to the paper while Finn settled into the seat across from him.

Hebrides was scratched. Amberlough had always been very polite about looking the other way, but no one could ignore embezzlement and graft so blatant, not when hard evidence was presented in the trial of the decade. Because there would be a trial. And that was leaving out possession of controlled substances and soliciting unlicensed prostitutes. The hounds had been thorough; someone must have been egging them on, coaching them, encouraging them. Someone with a stake in Hebrides’s downfall. The Ospies, of course, but who among them could manipulate the ACPD so deftly? This was someone who understood the intricate web of mutually assured destruction between lawmakers, lawbreakers, and Amberlough’s police.

“Wind blows cold, your face’ll freeze that way.” Finn applied butter to a scone with brisk strokes of his knife. “No good for a man who trades on his looks. What’s in the paper that’s got you so pestered?”

“The same thing that’ll be p-p-pestering you at office today, I imagine.” Aristide folded the paper back on itself and handed it across the table. He watched Finn’s bright eyes flick back and forth across the words.

“Holy stones of the Lady’s cairn.” He set down his buttered scone and dusted his fingers clean on the edge of the tablecloth.

Aristide pushed back his chair. “Ilse’s brushed your suit,” he said. “Can you show yourself out?” When Finn looked up, trying to hide his wounded expression and failing, Aristide added, “No rush.”

It didn’t take the hurt out of Finn’s face. Exasperated, Aristide bent over the table and pressed his lips to Finn’s forehead. “Terribly sorry, but we’re both going to be b-b-busy for a while. And anyway, if I spend all my time with you, I’ll wear off your shine. So scurry along, my dove, and g-g-get to work.”

*

When Ilse came in to take the breakfast tray and told him, “There’s a young woman calling, sir,” her expression communicated quizzical disgust.

Aristide wondered who on earth it could be. “Show her in.”

Within minutes, a dirty-cheeked girl of maybe twelve was sitting on Aristide’s brocade chaise. She held one of the leftover breakfast scones and was gnawing it to bits. Crumbs showered down into the canvas sack of newspapers at her feet.