Bergdorf Goodman was exactly as Vera liked it: aggressively air-conditioned, hushed, and completely intolerant of the poor.
She stood at the accessories counter, examining a pair of black lambskin gloves lined with cashmere. They were elegant, seamless, and completely smooth on the fingertips. Ideal for winter. Even more ideal for ensuring no biological traces were left for the police to find.
A young clerk wearing a slim-cut, impeccably tailored suit gently offered Vera two different limited-edition colours of the same gloves she was admiring. "You have a wonderful eye, madame."
Vera blinked, his voice breaking her dark reverie. "Thank you. I'll take the black ones," she told the clerk, handing over a sleek black card.
Chloe, meanwhile, emerged from the fitting rooms looking like a chaotic explosion of sequins and feathers. A Jackson Pollock painting was logical and coherent compared to her outfit. "What do you think? Too much for a Tuesday?"
"It's loud," Vera said simply. For Chloe, that was a compliment. To Vera, it looked as though a posh unicorn had vomited on her.
Three hours and several thousand dollars later, the two women found themselves in the back of a black cab heading downtown towards Chelsea. Their destination was an opulent contemporary art gallery that had closed for the evening. Or so the sign on the door claimed.
Chloe tapped a specific rhythm on the reinforced glass door of the alleyway entrance. Three quick, sharp raps followed by one heavy, lingering strike. Ta-da-da-DAAA. Beethoven's Fifth. The sound of Fate knocking. A moment later, a heavy deadbolt clicked, and a man in a tailored suit ushered them inside.
They bypassed the dusty canvases and art installations and walked down a narrow, dimly lit staircase that smelled faintly of oil paint, expensive cedarwood, and something metallic. At the bottom lay The Collector's Room—an underground, invite-only speakeasy.
To the untrained eye, it was just a VIP lounge for eccentric millionaires and bored socialites. But to those who knew how to look, it was a sanctuary for predators. There were no official memberships, no secret handshakes. You were simply invited if your particular brand of madness was refined enough and if you had something valuable to offer. Information, usually. Or silence.
The lighting was a sultry amber. Soft jazz played from a vintage phonograph in the corner, masking the hushed conversations.
Vera slid into a curved burgundy leather booth, placing her Bergdorf bag carefully beside her. Chloe immediately flagged down a waiter to order a bottle of the most expensive champagne available.
Vera's eyes scanned the room. It was a fascinating terrarium of psychopaths, sociopaths, and people living double lives both in the spotlight and at the margins of society.
In the far corner, sitting entirely alone in the shadows, was Adrian. He was a pale, hollow-cheeked young man dressed in a velvet vest and a finely decorated, billowing black shirt. He was slowly sipping a thick, dark red liquid from a silver goblet. The bartender called it a "pure Bloody Mary," but Vera knew Adrian didn't consume alcohol or tomato juice. He had a documented obsession with blood, convinced it was the only substance that kept his organs from failing. He was pathetic, a slave to his delusions, but occasionally useful for disposing of biological evidence. He was, essentially, a biological disposal unit. Or, as Vera preferred to call him, "a bin on legs."
"Look who just dragged himself out of the morgue," Chloe whispered, nodding toward the entrance.
Dr. Victor Choclaire descended the stairs. He looked immaculate in a charcoal suit, though Vera's sharp nose could still detect the faint, sterile scent of formaldehyde clinging to him, mixing unsettlingly with his expensive, dark, woody cologne.
He spotted them and glided over, sliding into the booth next to Chloe.
"Ladies," Choclaire smiled, his eyes crinkling. "A pleasure, as always. Vera, you are looking exceptionally radiant tonight. Murder certainly agrees with your complexion."
"Keep your voice down, Victor," Vera said coldly, signalling for a glass of sparkling water. "And it wasn't murder. It was an exquisite preservation project."
"Oh, call it whatever helps you sleep, my dear," Choclaire chuckled softly. "But I thought you might want an update on our mutual friend, Detective Lais."
Chloe leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with malicious curiosity. "Did he buy the coffee theory? I told you we should have planted something in his scotch."
"Paul Lais is many things, Chloe, but he is not an idiot," Choclaire replied, steepling his long, surgical fingers. "He smelled the coffee. He bagged it. But my lab confirmed it was completely clean. Naturally, I had to tell him."
Vera's expression remained a flawless mask of indifference, though she calculated the variables instantly. "And what did you tell him about the cause of death?"
"I gave him just enough truth to keep him trusting me, but enough ambiguity to keep him frustrated," Choclaire purred. "I confirmed it was a flaccid paralysis. A neurotoxin, very likely. But here is the interesting part, Vera. I told him the ingestion window was between forty-eight and six hours prior to death."
Chloe let out a low whistle. "Oh. So the office is a dead end."
"Exactly," Choclaire said, his eyes locking onto Vera's with a mixture of admiration and twisted glee. "Lais realised Arthur Brown didn't consume the poison at his desk. He is now retracing Brown's entire afternoon up to two days before his aesthetic end. His commute. His dinner. Anyone who handed him a drink."
Vera took a slow sip of her water. The ice clinked softly against the glass.
Two days before his aesthetic end. That was exactly when Arthur Brown had stepped out of his black SUV in the suburbs. That was when Lena and Lea, the insufferable twins, had ambushed him on the sidewalk with their little wooden lemonade stand.
"He's going to check the neighbourhood," Vera stated, her voice steady.
"He is," Choclaire confirmed, leaning back. "He is very thorough. He will flip the neighbourhood inside out. He will ask who saw Arthur. It's only a matter of time before he stumbles upon whatever brilliant delivery system you engineered."
"Are you worried, V?" Chloe asked, tilting her head. She sounded almost hopeful, eager for drama.
"Worry is an emotion reserved for people who make mistakes," Vera replied smoothly, picking up her new pair of lambskin gloves from the shopping bag. The leather was soft, perfect, and unyielding. "Detective Lais is looking for a phantom. Let him look. By the time he asks the right questions, the answers will have already floated away."
Vera stood up, leaving a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table for a glass of water she barely drank.
She had to get back to the suburbs. If Detective Lais was going to knock on doors tomorrow, Vera needed to ensure her lovely neighbours remained in the dark. She had some draining intel groundwork to lay before daylight.