Page 73 of Victorious Vice

Perhaps even with McAllister.

And that person is here.

Evil is something that can be smelled. When you’ve been around it your whole life, you learn to recognize it, even if it’s not physically present. It slinks like a shadow, weaving in and out of consciousness. You can smell its foul odor, like something rotting beneath the floorboards of an abandoned house.

I move through the crowd, scanning faces, studying body language, listening to whispered conversations. I catch a whiff of that stench. The scent isn’t strong enough to pinpoint the source, but I know he’s close.

Luckily, I have Raven’s seating chart. I make my way to the table where Jack Smith is assigned. There are three middle-aged women dressed lavishly sitting at the table, but that’s it.

“Pardon me, ladies,” I say. “Was there a gentleman seated with you this evening? A Mr. Smith? I’ve found one half of a pair of monogrammed cufflinks that I believe belong to him, but I don’t know what he looks like.”

The lady in the center, wearing a mink stole over a light-green gown, shoots me a smile. “Goodness, we certainly are getting our fill of handsome gentlemen tonight, aren’t we girls?”

The other two ladies giggle.

“You’re very kind,” I say, “but I am serious about the cufflinks. They look very expensive. I’m sure Mr. Smith would hate to be missing one of them.”

The woman on the right, wearing purple and a diamond necklace, runs her hand through her platinum blond hair. “Are you talking about Jackie?”

I press my lips together. “Jack Smith? Possibly.”

“Yes, he was here,” the woman on the left—this one in crimson and wearing an enormous star-shaped sapphire brooch—responds. “Gladys, Henrietta, and I were so happy to have him at our table. Very handsome, very tall, very charming.”

The woman in green—Gladys, possibly—takes a sip of champagne. “Prudence here might have just found her fourth husband.”

All three of them erupt into laughter.

God, they’re drunk.

“Was he wearing anything special?” I ask. “Most of the men here are in tuxes, but if he had a colorful bow tie or something…”

“No special bow tie.” Henrietta wrinkles her nose. “And what a nice change of pace to see a man in traditional black tie. These days you have all these wacky fashions?—”

“But he did have that lovely pocket square, Henny,” Prudence retorts.

There’s my in. “What did the pocket square look like?”

Gladys bites her lip. “Black and white. A… Oh, what do you call it? A dogleg pattern?”

“Houndstooth,” Henrietta says.

“That’s it,” Gladys says. “Houndstooth.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That should help narrow him down. How long ago did he leave the table?”

“Not long ago.” Prudence checks her slim Rolex. “Maybe ten minutes ago. He was headed to the dance floor, I believe.”

“He invited us, of course.” Gladys fans herself. “But these old knees have danced their last polka.”

The three of them start cackling again.

“What about his hair? Was it dark, blond, gray?”

“Not a gray hair to be seen, darling,” Prudence says. “Very dark hair. Couldn’t be more than thirty-five.”

“Thank you, ladies. Have a pleasant evening.”

I give them a wink, and that of course sends them into another fit of laughter.

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