Page 2 of By Sin To Atone

He shakes my hand. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he says, then turns to Nora. “Truly. All the pleasure is mine.” He bends to kiss the inside of her wrist and I almost roll my eyes.

“Nora if you’ll take Mr. Shetland’s coat and hat?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” she says as Robbie slips his coat off and hands both it and his hat to her.

“You take good care of that, sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

“I will, sir. Can I bring you anything else?” she asks, but there’s a bottle of whiskey and a second tumbler already waiting on the table.

“Looks like I’ve got everything I need.”

Nora nods, turns and walks away.

Robbie watches her go. “Sweet little piece.”

“Inexperienced,” I tell him.

“Lucky for her, I’m a very patient teacher.” He settles into the chair across from mine.

I take my seat. “Remind me again why you make such a spectacle of yourself,” I say, pouring Robbie a whiskey before picking up my glass and leaning back in the deep, comfortable leather chair.

He glances around the room. Most of the patrons have resumed their conversations although a few still glance his way. He smiles, says a howdy to one, gaze steady. The man who was looking down his nose at Robbie clears his throat and turns away.

“Don’t know what you mean. I’m just a loud American tourist,” he says to me, sipping his drink.

“Right.”

He shrugs. “Better for me if everyone thinks I am at least. Easier, considering my line of work.”

He’s right about that. Robbie Shetland is one of the most cunning men I know. He came from nothing, no, less than nothing. His mother and sister probably cleaned toilets for men like those sitting here tonight. The elite of the elite with more money and privilege than brains. And he has a way of finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s known within The Society. Although not a member himself, he has worked privately for several members. It’s one of the reasons we’re meeting here tonight and not at a Society venue. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.

“What do you have for me?” I ask.

He takes a single, folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. It’s crumpled and he makes a point of setting it on the table and flattening out the creases.

“It’s fine.” I pick it up and when I see what’s on it, I raise my eyebrows. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” It’s some sort of computer-generated code I can’t make heads or tails of.

“That piece of paper tells us where those emails originated.”

I glance again at the sheet as he points out a couple of things and starts explaining.

“I don’t want a lesson in reading code. That’s why I hired you. I just need the answers.”

“I’m getting to it. You ready for this?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “The email you received originated from New Orleans.”

“What?” I ask. Judging from the look on his face, the shock must be evident on mine.

“From an unremarkable little apartment in a part of town I’m sure you, being Society folk, don’t frequent.”

“New Orleans?” Dread claws my gut.

“Oh, forgot one more thing.” He digs around in his pockets and takes out another crumpled piece of paper. “Here she is.” He unfolds the sheet and hands it to me. “Coincidence of coincidences, turns out she’s an employee of The Cat House.”

I take it from him. It’s a grainy, black and white printout on cheap paper.

“The Cat House? As in, The Society Cat House?”

“One and the same. Hell of a coincidence.”

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