Page 18 of Dead Beat

“Dawes comes with us,” Darlington said. “If it’s a problem, we can take it up with Alban Reed.”

“If I wanted her on the list, she would be on the list,” said a voice behind them.

The man standing by the elevator bank wore the new uniform of Wall Street: a dress shirt, khakis, and a fleece with a Yale Y embroidered over the heart, as if he were on his way to a hostile takeover followed by some light rock climbing.

“President Reed,” Walsh-Whiteley said, “I was so hoping we’d have a chance to chat. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this invitation, though the wait has been a long one.”

Reed looked baffled, and Darlington interjected, “Why wouldn’t our Oculus be included?”

“It’s okay,” Dawes said, predictably dismayed at being the subject of any discussion.

Alex folded her arms. “No, it isn’t.”

“It’s a little early in the evening for us to come to blows,” Reed said with a smile. “Ms. Dawes, no insult is intended, and I’m sorry there was confusion over the invitation. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be an issue, but we have serious matters to attend to tonight, and the alumni aren’t comfortable with a larger head count.”

“Sorry,” Alex said, “who are you again?”

He didn’t bristle, and his smile didn’t budge. “Alban Reed.”

Alex stared at him blankly. His smile widened.

“I’m the Lethe board president. Happy to finally meet you, Alex. I’m sorry we’re off to a rough start, but the alumni were clear.”

“It’s okay,” Dawes repeated.

“We need her there,” Alex said. “Why is this a problem?”

“The problem, Miss Stern, is Linus Reiter.”

“Who?” asked Walsh-Whiteley.

Reed ignored him. “The board would prefer discretion in these matters. I understand they’ve been quite generous with both you and your mother, so perhaps you might offer them a little latitude.”

Darlington saw the shift in Alex, watched her calculate her position.

“I didn’t want to go to this thing anyway,” Dawes insisted. She fumbled with the bag slung over her shoulder and half the contents spilled out—a book on Yeats and the tarot, highlighters, a battered compact, a single mitten.

Alban Reed bent to help her retrieve her things.

“You’re sure?” Darlington asked, kneeling to snatch up the mitten, though he knew she was telling the truth.

“Am I sure that I’d prefer to spend the next two hours reading instead of talking to strangers over mediocre steak au poivre?”

“Well,” said Reed, snapping the compact shut and handing it back to her, “when you put it that way, maybe I’d prefer to skip dinner too.”

“Good luck,” Dawes said, and then to Darlington’s surprise she turned to Alex and gave her hand a squeeze. “If the dessert is bad, don’t eat it. I have pavlova at home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex chided. “You know I’ll eat both.”

Dawes disappeared into the elevator, and they followed the board president to the Saybrook Room.

“I’m surprised you let that go so easily,” Turner murmured.

“I didn’t,” Alex said. “I never do.”

Darlington was very glad he wasn’t Alban Reed.

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