When the Smoke Clears

Chapter 13

Frank adjusted the bowtie around his neck for what must have been the hundredth time. Had he known the wait staff at this shindig had to dress as fancy as the attendees, he might have reconsidered his approach. Now, in a tailored black tux and pristine white undershirt, he felt like a monkey in a suit.

"Stop tugging." Karen's voice sounded in his ear. They were connected via wireless earpieces, courtesy of Lieberman. "You'll wrinkle the rental."

It was a rental Frank had every intention of returning. All the other cocktail servers and busboys were dressed the same, black suits meant to be non-descript, meant to make them interchangeable among the elitist party goers who called on them. It all left a sour taste in his mouth.

"I feel like a goddamn choir boy in this thing." He grumbled.

"I think you clean up pretty nice," Karen replied.

She was standing near the bar in a pewter dress that made Frank's stomach squeeze every time he saw her. The satin gown was floor length, accentuating the subtle curves of her graceful figure. She wore her golden locks down in thick waves gathered over one shoulder. She looked like a Greek goddess, carved from marble and doused in magic.

"You don't look so bad, yourself," Frank said. Understatement of the century.

To avoid gawking, he grabbed a tray of champagne flutes and took a turn around the room. He'd been observing for almost an hour, now, with nothing to report except for the fake smiles of the city's elite. He'd noticed a few people coming and going from the elevators, disappearing into the lower levels before eventually resurfacing to the main floor. He suspected there was another party going on down there, the kind they didn't want the tabloids knowing about.

"Black market auction, probably." Karen had said. "Where they sell the stuff they don't have to report."

It was a troubling thought, considering just what kind of "stuff" might be down there, but that wasn't Frank's concern. At least not yet. His main focus was Poindexter. The son of a bitch had yet to show his face, but Frank suspected he was around here somewhere. He could feel it, like an ache in his joints on a cold day. It was a cold day– the weeks had brought with them a temperature drop and the dusting of snow flurries– but it was nice and warm inside the Levesque. Fires going, music playing; perfect for getting cozy. This feeling of his definitely wasn't from the chill.

"Any sign of Eleanor?" Karen asked. She'd ordered a drink at the bar and was now taking a turn of her own, walking around the room, offering a smile here and a nod there. She passed through conversations, lingering just long enough to be noticeable but not long enough to be memorable. She was good at this, swimming with sharks. Frank wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"Not that I've seen," he said. "Probably wants to be late to her own party." Statement making, and all that.

Soon, things were underway. An auctioneer took the podium, and the bidding started. Art, artifacts, even a watch supposedly worn by the late Tony Stark himself were up for grabs. All this, and still no sign of Eleanor. Karen was beginning to wonder if she was being stood up, if "E" had only invited her here to send another cryptic message.

Then, a woman's voice sounded from beside her.

"Miss Page," it said. "I'm so happy you could make it."

Karen turned to see a tall brunette with a chin-length bob cut standing in a blood red gown. Her face matched the pictures Karen had seen online. "Mrs. Bishop."

Eleanor smiled and extended a hand in greeting. Karen accepted, shaking her hand while simultaneously assessing the woman in front of her. She tried to read between the lines and see if she could sniff out the truth beneath that smile, but all she got was sincerity, or at least a great illusion of it.