The Mirror and the Mask by Ellen Hart Page A

zaftig, larger-than-life persona to get what she wanted.
    Every morning—as late in the morning as possible—she crafted and costumed herself for maximum effect, depending on what she had planned for the day. There was one rule, and only one: No fading wallflower clothes were allowed, unless dictated by a necessary role. Not that Cordelia ever performed on the legitimate stage. She was a director, not a performer. She understood the difference between real life and acting, although in her opinion, the line was often a tad fuzzy. The world was Cordelia’s stage, and she commanded it like a diva.
    Today, for a little round of sleuthing, she’d chosen the Wagnerian cone-breasted look, the one seen on nurses in the fifties and in modernbondage flicks. She wanted to project sexual power and menace. Toss a low-cut red blazer over a tight skirt and sell it with black fishnet stockings and stripper spikes, and it was an image made in heaven for a jaded bartender sick to death of the long parade of excess derma and nightly ass grabbing.
    Cordelia was smokin’ and loaded for bear when she left her loft. Nobody knew the bars along West Seventh better than she did. Theater people were creatures of the night, and the night, after a show, was made for bars. A few of the best bars in that neighborhood were just off Seventh, and some were attached to restaurants. This Annie Archer person might have missed one of them. Cordelia intended to be thorough. She intended to find the father dude.
    By one thirty, the huge head of steam she’d worked up had dwindled to a puny puff. She was fed up with all the twelve-year-old, second-string bartenders, their eyes falling out of their sockets as they gaped at her alpine cleavage. Sure, her breasts might be exclamation points honed for maximum effect, but
pullease
.
    The Promised Land, half a block off Seventh, was the last place she intended to visit. She had a meeting at the theater at two—with a pastrami sandwich, extra mustard, no pickle.
    Sauntering into the glitzy, neon-lit interior, Cordelia caught the bartender’s eye. Or, rather, her breasts did.
    â€œWhat can I get you?” he asked, wiping the counter with a soft cloth.
    She pulled out the photo, handed it to him. “You know that guy?”
    He took a quick look. “Nope.” His eyes snapped back to attention.
    â€œLook at it again,” said Cordelia. She’d said the same thing in at least ten other places. “Picture the man a dozen years older. Maybe he has a mustache or a beard. His hair might be longer or shorter, or gray, or whatever. Maybe he wears glasses.”
    Grudgingly, the bartender took another look. “Now that you mention it, I do recognize him. He doesn’t have a beard, but his hairis graying. What’s his name. Oh, jeez, it’s right on the tip of my tongue.” He snapped his fingers. “Bowman. Jack Bowman.”
    Cordelia did a double take. “Bowman? As in Jack Bowman of DreamScape Builders?”
    â€œYeah, I think that’s right. The guy’s in construction.”
    â€œHe a regular here?”
    â€œHe comes in fairly often. Sometimes early, for one of our bar burgers, sometimes late at night, usually with a woman.”
    â€œThe same woman?”
    â€œNah, seems like it’s a different one every time.”
    Cordelia didn’t need to ask anything else. She already knew. “You’re my man,” she said, smiling triumphantly.
    â€œI am?” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
    â€œIt’s just a figure of speech. Later.”

7
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    J ane had just come back to her office with a fresh mug of tea when Cordelia phoned.
    â€œAre you sitting down?” came Cordelia’s excited voice.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou need me, Janey. I . . . am . . . freakin’ . . .
indispensable
. After this, neither you nor Nolan will
ever
want to sleuth on your own again.”
    Jane