“OK,” said Cleo, “let’s buytwocans of Sprite, and pour out half each, then add the gin and get rid of the water bottle.”
“You’re a genius,” said Isaac.
They sat on the steps of the Met to finish eating their hot dogs. It grew cool as the sun set, and Cleo wrapped the trench coat around her shoulders. They sipped their gin-and-Sprites. “I’m all for spy games,” said Isaac, “but why is investigating your sister’s fiancéyourproblem?”
Cleo sighed. “I’m not great with boundaries,” she admitted.
“Are you jealous?” ventured Isaac.
“Christ, that’s what my new therapist asked me!” said Cleo.
“It is a fair question,” said Isaac, gently.
“I have Danny!” said Cleo miserably. “Why would I be jealous of Sylvie marrying some British billionaire?”
Isaac remained silent.
Cleo rose. “Let’s nail this perp!” she said, finishing her can and tossing it into a trash can. Isaac followed as Cleo walked toward the address they had found for Thisbe Rampling: The Bellemont on Madison and EastEighty-sixth. “The Bellllllle-mont,” drawled Cleo, making the name of the building sound even snootier than it already sounded when you pronounced it normally.
“It’s newish,” said Isaac when they reached the building.
“I do love the limestone,” said Cleo.
“I have a friend here,” said Isaac. “It’s gorgeous inside.”
“OK, so the property records showed her in 5C,” said Cleo.“Sold at sixteen million three.” She gazed up at the stunning building. “I mean,” she said, “it’s not the penthouse. If I had a billion dollars and could live in the penthouse of the Belllllllle-mont, I would be so happy.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” said Isaac.
Cleo nodded and shrugged. “Fair,” she admitted.
“We done here?” said Isaac.
“What do you mean?” said Cleo. She removed Isaac’s father’s sunglasses from her hair and put them on. “We’re going in.”
“We arenotbreaking and entering,” said Isaac.
“Of course not,” said Cleo. “We’redelivering.” She scanned the street, spotted a Starbucks. “Wait right here,” she said. Isaac pursed his lips, seeming equally charmed and weary. Cleo reemerged with a bag. “It’s a mug,” she said.
“We’re delivering a Starbucks mug to Thisbe Rampling,” clarified Isaac.
“Yup.”
They nodded at the doorman as he pulled open beautiful metalwork doors and ushered them into a small but tasteful lobby. “I have a delivery for 5C,” said Cleo to a mustachioed man behind a black granite desk.
“I can take that,” said the man, obsequious but firm.
“Need a signature,” said Cleo. “I’ll wait.”
He picked up a phone. Cleo walked to a low-slung orange couch and draped herself across it. Isaac sat in a matching orange chair. Cleo grinned at him wickedly.
“Ma’am,” said the concierge. Cleo turned her head to the side and raised an eyebrow, listening, but did not rise.
“She says you can leave it right here at the front desk. I’ll sign,” he said.
“No,” said Cleo. “I’m not getting fired over this. She needs to sign or come pick it up another time.”
“What exactly is the delivery?” said the man, peeved.
