The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart

other.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Johnson. I think we do. Now, when could we meet?”
    Another thing Peter hadn’t considered. “I live in the Midwest. It will take me a day or two to tie up some business here. Why don’t I give you a call when I can free up some time?”
    â€œMay I ask what you do for a living?”
    â€œI work in investments.”
    â€œHave you worked in the field long?”
    â€œFourteen years.”
    â€œWell, then, I’ll wait for your call. If you have a pen handy, I’ll give you a different number where it will be easier for you to reach me.”
    Peter pulled a pen out of the pocket of his bomber jacket and wrote the number on the edge of a flyer tacked up on the grocery store’s bulletin board. No wonder Shifflet hadn’t been able to get Cabot on the line. He wasn’t asking the right questions. Cabot had a public number he used to screen calls and a public office he used as a front, but his real dealings were performed off the radar.
    Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected to come out of their conversation, but he’d never anticipated that he would need to fly to New Jersey. He’d stumbled into it, but he knew instantly that this was his best chance to get the information he needed. He’d have to figure out some excuse so that Sigrid wouldn’t ask too many questions, but that wouldn’t be difficult. He was, after all, in the middle of a job search. He was glad now that his father hadn’t called him back about that job offer. Peter wanted to work for the campaign, but the meeting with Cabot came first. One way or another, he intended to find out what had happened to Margaret and bring her home where she belonged.

 
    Â 
    C ordelia scanned the dim bar looking for Melanie. It was going on 1:30 in the morning, but for Cordelia, whose life in the theater had made her a creature of the night, her evening was just getting started. The Unicorn bar was a mixed scene; gay, bi, lots of straight bikers, the usual after-theater suspects, and a few brave suburbanites out for a murky urban experience.
    The place was also a dive. In the cold light of day, the dirt, the fungus growing in between the cracks in the wood floor, and the stink of stale beer and even staler sweat would chase anyone with normal sanitary requirements out. But at night, with loud music pumping, the darkness disinfecting the local color, and lots of colored lights reflected in the mirrors behind the bar, it was as good a place as any.
    The bar itself was in the shape of a “U,” with tables crammed close together around it, and one long row of booths that spread across the back of the room. There was no pool table or dancefloor. People who came to the Unicorn came to drink, talk, or hustle. As it happened, Cordelia was interested in all three.
    Melanie had called her around six and they’d agreed to meet at the Unicorn. It was an odd choice. Melanie’s tastes were usually a little more upscale. Standing just inside the door, Cordelia surveyed the room, finally spying her sitting at the bar nursing a beer. She moved up behind her and whispered into her ear, “Turn around slowly.”
    As usual, Melanie did the exact opposite. She whipped her head around. “Good God, woman!”
    Cordelia touched her newly cut and died hair. “Do you like it?”
    â€œLike it, I love it!”
    â€œThought you would.”
    â€œYou look incredibly hot.”
    â€œI know.”
    She nuzzled in close, gave Cordelia a long, lingering kiss. “You want something to drink?”
    â€œActually, I thought maybe you’d like to go back to my place.”
    â€œCan’t,” said Melanie, easing off the stool and moving her drink and briefcase over to an empty table. “Not just yet?”
    â€œWhy?” Cordelia pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.
    â€œI promised to meet a guy here. He said his name was Smith, but I