The Mansion is a stylish complex featuring a renowned restaurant with an adjoining cocktail lounge that is understated and elegant, the walls lined in polished wood awash in muted lighting, the ambience reserved. It provided an ideal spot for a private discussion, the exorbitant cost of drinks ensuring that none of LaBelle’s subordinates would be inclined to stop by. He was waiting at the bar, nursing a glass of club soda, when the two agents arrived. The teleconference in Byrnes’s office did away with the need for formal introductions. After shaking hands LaBelle led them to a table off to the side, where they took their seats and ordered drinks. Raabe asked, “Is your office a mess or are you just embarrassed to have the likes of us visit?” LaBelle laughed. “Even in this age of interdepartmental cooperation there’s no way to eradicate petty jealousies.” “We’re stepping on toes by getting involved here, is that it?” “Stomping is more like it.” “Too bad,” Bergenn said.
