The Fifth & Fifty-Nine was a dimly lit, overpriced, trendy Irish pub located halfway down East Fifty-Fourth Street, tucked between a law office and a discreet boutique hotel. The positioning was strategic. It sat precisely in the purgatory between the gleaming corporate monoliths of Madison Avenue and the dreary brick facade of the Midtown North Police Precinct. Inside, the air smelled faintly of polished wood, aged leather, and bourbon, the low murmur of bankers blending with the soft clink of crystal against marble.
Detective Paul Lais, currently drowning in a sea of dead ends, sat at the far end of the mahogany counter, staring into the amber depths of a double bourbon.
He was officially off the clock, taking Dr. Choclaire's advice to "clear his mind." It wasn't working, though. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arthur Brown's pristine, empty driveway on the security footage, or the macabre still-life exhibition of crime scene photos back in his office.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the pub swung open, letting in a draft of crisp city air and a sharp, incredibly irritated voice.
"Tristan, I swear to God, if you throw up on my Louboutins, I will personally bury you in your garden and then have a picnic on your corpse. Keep it together."
Lais couldn't stop himself from glancing toward the entrance. A familiar woman draped in a cherry-red structured midi dress was dragging a pale, sweating man in a grey tailored suit through the door.
"I just need to sit down for a moment, Chloe. I'll take you to the King Cole Bar in a minute," the man groaned. He was visibly in pain, clutching his stomach and looking thoroughly green. "I don't know what was in those oysters..."
"I ate the exact same oysters, Tristan, and I am a picture of radiant health. You are just biologically fragile," she snapped, rolling her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the back of the pub. "The restrooms are over there. Go. I'll order you some water. Don't rush back."
Tristan scrambled away, looking utterly miserable.
Chloe let out a long, dramatic sigh, massaging her temples. She hated whiny men. She had slipped three drops of a mild, tasteless laxative into his champagne at lunch just to see if he would ruin his own business pitch, but now his constant complaining was ruining her day. She was so profoundly annoyed that she briefly considered leaving him there and taking a cab home.
She slid onto an empty leather barstool near the entrance, crossing her long legs and tossing her designer clutch onto the counter.
"A French 75, please. Extra gin," she told the bartender, her voice dripping with irritation. "And a tap water for the hypochondriac in the men's room."
While waiting for her drink, she lazily turned her head, scanning the room for something less boring than her current situation. Her eyes landed on the man sitting at the far end of the counter.
She took in the cheap suit, the loosened tie, the exhausted posture, and the distinctive, tragic aura of a man carrying the weight of the city. She let out a crisp, bright laugh, recognising him from Victor Choclaire's vivid, mocking descriptions and from her own manipulative little diversion at the country club.
Detective Paul Lais. In a fraction of a second, Chloe's profound annoyance vanished, entirely replaced by the electric thrill of a predator spotting a shiny new toy. This was the man hunting Vera. This was the man running in circles.
A wicked, brilliant idea sparked in her mind.
When the bartender slid her cocktail across the wood, she picked it up, shifted her posture, and sauntered toward her prey. The annoyed girlfriend disappeared. The bubbly, slightly tipsy, gossipy socialite was back.
"Well, what a nice surprise, Detective. Fancy seeing you still alive," she purred, leaning slightly toward him and letting the scent of her exotic perfume drift into his space. "You look like a man who is either planning a murder or miserably failing to solve one."
Lais grunted, not looking up from his bourbon. "I'm off duty, ma'am. And I'm not great company at the moment."
"Oh, I love terrible company," Chloe laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that contrasted sharply with the hushed atmosphere of the bar. She took a delicate sip of her drink. "Besides, I know exactly who you are. Don't you remember me from that morning at the country club?"
Lais's posture instantly stiffened.
Oh, that's where I saw her, the detective thought. He forced a polite smile. "Well, I have interviewed quite a few people, but how could I forget such an elegant woman?"
He remembered her perfectly, and his cop instincts immediately flared. During their last encounter, she had fed him a monologue of useless gossip that had left him with more questions than answers. Chloe: the Eastern European heiress. A weapon of mass distraction. And now, she was standing right next to him. He decided to play along, but he knew he needed to tread carefully.
"I do have that effect on people," she said, taking the empty seat right next to him. Her eyes sparkled with feigned excitement. "And I have to say, watching you police run around the suburbs looking for a phantom poisoner is the most entertaining thing on TV right now."
"It's not a TV show, Chloe. A man is dead. Three, actually," Lais said sharply, his patience wearing thin.
"A shark is dead," she corrected him, tracing the rim of her glass with an opaque black nail. "Arthur Brown wasn't a man; he was a financial predator. And you, Detective, are looking in the wrong ocean."
Lais paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. He finally turned to look at her properly. "Excuse me?"
Chloe leaned in, dropping her loud persona. Her voice lowered into a conspiratorial whisper, the classic tone of an Upper East Side socialite ready to spill a devastating secret.
"You are wasting your time looking at his wealthy neighbours or his little office assistants," she said. "Sharks don't get killed by coral reefs. They get killed by bigger sharks. Do you really think a guy like Arthur gets taken out with zero physical evidence by a random psycho in Westchester?"
"If you have information pertinent to a homicide investigation—"
"I have gossip, Detective. What you do with it is your problem," she interrupted with a sharp, dazzling smile. "Arthur Brown was heavily shorting a rare earth minerals company in southern Brazil. He played dirty. He undercut Julian Ashcroft. Do you know who Julian Ashcroft is?"
Lais knew the name. Ashcroft was the CEO of Vanguard Capital, a ruthless billionaire known for his aggressive corporate takeovers.
"Arthur cost Ashcroft close to two hundred million dollars last quarter," Chloe continued smoothly, feeding him the beautifully fabricated lie. "Two weeks ago, at the Met Gala after-party, Arthur and Julian had a screaming match in the coatroom. Julian told Arthur he was a dead man walking. And a fun fact about Julian Ashcroft? He employs a private security firm entirely staffed by former army intelligence operatives. The kind of people who know how to make a heart stop without leaving a fingerprint."
Lais felt a sudden, electric jolt travel down his spine. The migraine behind his eye vanished.
A professional hit. Corporate espionage. An untraceable neurotoxin administered by ex-intelligence agents.
It made perfect sense. It explained the absolute lack of evidence. It explained the sophistication of the poison. It explained why the neighbourhood footage showed nothing—a professional wouldn't have struck at the house; they would have infected Arthur's car, his clothes, or his office air supply.
"Why are you telling me this?" Lais asked, his voice low, completely hooked.
"Because Julian Ashcroft is a tasteless boar who wore a navy tuxedo to a black-tie event," Chloe sniffed disdainfully. "And because I despise seeing working-class people like you running in circles while the billionaires get away with murder."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan emerging from the hallway, still looking pale and clutching the glass of tap water the bartender had poured for him.
Chloe picked up her crystal-encrusted clutch and stood up, immediately snapping back into the role of the doting partner. "Oh, honey, there you are! Are you feeling better?" she cooed loudly at Tristan, who just nodded miserably.
She turned back to Lais, giving him a theatrical, secret wink.
"Check Vanguard Capital, Detective. You might actually solve your little mystery. Have a lovely rest of your day."
Lais watched her guide her sick boyfriend out the heavy oak doors, a crimson blur of sequins and confidence, until they disappeared into the city.
He looked down at his bourbon. He didn't drink it. Instead, he pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he dialled his partner.
"Donna, wake up," Lais barked into the receiver, his voice alive with new energy. "I need everything we have on Vanguard Capital, Julian Ashcroft, and any private security contractors he uses. Now. We've been looking at the wrong damn motive."
Outside, standing on the sidewalk while Tristan hailed a cab, Chloe pulled out her phone. She typed a quick, encrypted text message and hit send.
The dog has a new bone to chew on. You're welcome, V. xoxo