“Kerighin,” Eli mumbled as he jogged down the stairs. “Switch with me. Second floor balcony, west side.”

“I thought you were staying up there?” Dawn said. He could almost hear her frown through the earpiece.

“I’ve got a lead.” He slipped into the first floor crowd as she climbed the stairs on the other side. Once she was up, he grabbed a glass of champagne off a server and pretended to sip, all while keeping a safe distance from Mr. DuPont and his bodyguard.

For all his smiling and glad-handing, the pallid DuPont was selective in who he actually stopped and chatted with. He bent forward as he listened to his chosen partner, nodding at all the right intervals and laughing at what Eli could assume were terrible jokes. Then he’d lean forward more, asking his own questions and telling his own jokes in a low, gritty tone. Once that dance was done, he was on to the next one, the bodyguard’s looming presence ensuring that no interaction lasted too long.

Eli huffed and took a frustrated swig of his champagne. His tracking had led him all the way to the edge of the dance floor at the far end of the museum, and as far as he could tell, none of these conversations were out of the ordinary.

But as he was about to turn away, DuPont did something unusual. As he conversed with the woman in the peacock mask—with a dress to match, as it turned out—he gripped her hand a second longer than he had with the others. As he let go and leaned back to laugh at another joke, his hand swung towards the bodyguard. Without so much as a blink, the guard took a small white card from his fingers and slipped it into his jacket.

Just as Eli stepped forward to squint at the motion, an artificially smiling face jutted in front of him.

“Canapé?” the server asked brightly. He glanced at her—not one of his, thank goodness. If anyone tried handing a tray to his undercover agents, they’d quickly find the smoked salmon decorating the front of their shirt.

“No, thank you.” He held up a polite hand and tried to follow DuPont over her shoulder—but the man and his guard had disappeared.

“Not a fan of salmon?” someone murmured next to him as the server moved away. Eli jumped.

“Dammit, Beake,” he snapped as he quelled his heart rate. The man was standing right next to him again, hands clasped behind his back as he faced the dancers. He now wore a black half-mask, adorned with the same type of beading that traveled down his jacket.

“I’m not partial to salmon, either.” Beake gave the slightest grimace. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice crostini…” He glanced at Eli, then frowned and glanced again. “Why don’t you have a mask?”

“What, you expect me to walk in here with one of those?” Eli pointed to a man across the way, whose mask jutted out in a series of sparkling gold lines a foot above and around his face. “I’m a detective, not a biblical angel, or whatever that’s trying to be.”

Beake held up something—a black mask that matched his own. “Put this on, then.”

“What?”

“Put this on,” he repeated. “We need to discuss DuPont. By the way, do you know this sort of dance?”

After weighing the pros and cons of arresting Beake now—and finding mostly cons—Eli sighed, slid on the mask, and nodded to the dancers. “What, a waltz or something? Kind of.”

“Good. I’ll lead.”

Eli stopped fiddling with the mask band. “Wait, what?”

Too late—Beake had already grabbed his wrist and was leading him out onto the floor as a new song was beginning. Sweat slipping out of the mask, Eli reached for his earpiece with his free hand.

“Oh, that won’t do.” Beake swiftly took hold of that hand, placed the first one on his own waist, then set his long fingers on Eli’s shoulder blade. “Can we not have a pleasant chat, you and I?”

Eli thought he caught a flicker of a smile on Beake’s face, and he strongly considered stepping on the man’s foot. But those around him glided so smoothly, and causing a scene here could send the criminal back into his disappearing act…

He kept his feet a good distance from Beake’s and instead settled for gripping the man’s hand too tightly.

“You want to talk about DuPont here?” he whispered harshly. “I can think of a dozen better places to have our pleasant chat.”

Beake returned Eli’s gesture with a vise grip of his own. Eli bit the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing.

“What, all of those shadowy corners with your agents lining up to shoot me? I don’t think so. We can talk here.” Beake’s voice was as smooth as his footwork as he led Eli firmly across the floor. Eli let out a breath and forced himself go along with it, and not spitefully push Beake out of sync. If he had known the evening was going to lead to him holding the man’s hand and feeling his breath on his cheek, he would have just gone for Beake on the balcony.

“So,” Beake said, one eyebrow raised, “who did DuPont speak with tonight?”

Eli set his shoulders and averted his gaze from the blue eyes piercing through the mask.

“Three people at length,” he said. “Delaney first. Bank mogul, he’s been chatting up everyone here. Sleaze, but if I read the lips right, he mostly talked about his new yacht.”

“Lovely. Second?”

Eli flashed Beake a brief glare at his brusque tone. “Mr. Ashton. Film producer.”

“Ah, are we getting a DuPont biopic soon?”

“The producer certainly pretended to want one.”

“Hm.” Beake’s gaze shifted around them, and it occurred to Eli that the man’s team might have him surrounded. Were they amongst the dancers? The servers? The guests watching them right now?

“The third person,” Beake continued as Eli tried to look out of the corner of his eye at the dancers passing them. “Who was it?”

“The third one,” Eli repeated. “Let me arrest you first and I’ll tell you.”

“So there was something about the third one?” Beake suddenly pulled him closer, snapping Eli’s attention back to him and his shimmering black mask. “What was it?”

Eli gripped his hand again. “I’m not telling you.”

“Stay quiet, and I disappear here and now.” Beake’s voice went dangerously quiet. “Wouldn’t that be a headline? Me, disappearing in a flash, right out of the arms of the detective sent to catch me. Pearce would enjoy that greatly, wouldn’t he?”

This time, Beake did smile—a humorless facade of perfect, threatening teeth. Eli wanted to punch them out of his mouth.

“Fine. A trade, then,” he growled. “Tell me about the mind control first.”

The smile evaporated. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, now you act stupid?” Eli hissed. “How you keep sending back altered agents after you capture them. Pearce has had to discharge four people on your case in the last two years because of it.”

Something twitched in Beake’s jaw, and the hand at Eli’s shoulder blade tensed. “Tell me,” he said, his tone clipped, “did you ever hear what the agents had to say?”

“Pearce said they—“

“No.” The word had a sharp point on the end. “Did you ever hear their words yourself?”

Eli felt his face heat up at the implication, but his attempt at an interrogation was coming to an end—the song was spiraling into its finale. Beake pulled him closer still, until Eli felt his breath on his lips. He caught a whiff of mint and another herb he couldn’t quite place.

“The third one,” Beake half-whispered. “Who were they and what did they do?”

Eli met his gaze. When he arrested Beake, he was going to get the first punch in. He’d make sure of it.

“Ms. Rochere, philanthropist. Secretly handed him a card when they met.”

“And their conversation?”

“Meeting in the lower east wing in thirty minutes.”

The song ended, and Beake released him abruptly. As Eli shook off a brief dizzy sensation, Beake gave a short bow.

“Thank you.” He strode off and melted into the crowd. Eli ripped off the stifling mask and tapped his earpiece.

“Kerighin, you copy?”

“Copy.”

“Meet me in the upper west wing in fifteen.”