At 7:15 on Christmas morning, Shane stood in the dim side aisle of St. John the Divine, the grand Gothic cathedral on Amsterdam Avenue.
Colored shafts of light spilled through the stained glass windows, scattering across the marble floor in fractured patterns—crimson, gold, and sapphire. Among them, the faint reflection of a bronze plaque on the far wall read: United States Patent Office – Centennial Commemoration.
The low, solemn rumble of the church organ swelled through the vaulted stone arches, vibrating faintly in Shane's chest. From the confessional aisle, Deputy Director Harold Clemens emerged with his wife, the gilt buttons of his government-issued wool coat gleaming faintly under the nave lights.
They took their usual place—the cherrywood pew, second from the left in the third row—its armrest carved with a discreet recess for personal belongings.
"Please pray for the men who safeguard the future of American invention," the priest intoned through a slightly crackling microphone. The choir children turned their gaze, angelic faces fixed toward the Clemenses, the day's celebrated donors.
Mrs. Clemens, her gloved fingers wrapped around a leather-bound Bible, turned the page as the priest began his sermon.
When the offertory began, the organist shifted seamlessly into a solemn variation of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. The light through the stained glass trembled and refracted, glancing across Clemens's carefully trimmed sideburns, tinting them an icy blue.
As the congregation bowed their heads in prayer, Shane silently slipped into the empty pew behind Clemens.
The air smelled faintly of incense, candle wax—and Montecristo cigars.
"Mr. Clemens," Shane whispered, his voice soft as the flutter of a hymnal page. "You're missing a page from your Bible."
Clemens's shoulders stiffened. Without breaking his prayerful posture, Shane slipped a photograph into the pocket of his overcoat.
The corner of the image revealed a dim casino table—cards scattered across the felt, chips glinting in the smoke—and Clemens's unmistakable face caught mid-laugh beside a showgirl.
"Page seven," Shane murmured. "The Tenth Commandment. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house… nor his manservant, nor his ox, nor his ass… nor patent priority."
The older man's knuckles whitened on the pew rail. The colored light now fell squarely on the back of his neck, making the veins beneath the skin pulse visibly.
"I'll be expecting your call, Mr. Clemens," Shane said softly. "Lunch at the Metropolitan Club. Noon."
The organ thundered into Joy to the World, the choir's voices rising like a tide. By the time Clemens turned, Shane was already gone, swallowed by the shifting shadows between the pillars.
From above, the statue of Lady Justice glimmered in the candlelight, her bronze eyes fixed upon the altar—silent witness to an unholy confession.
The midday sun carved geometric patterns of light through the tall windows of the Metropolitan Club on Fifth Avenue. Shane Cassidy stood at the threshold, the polished brass clasp of his leather briefcase gleaming faintly as he followed the maître d' up the oak staircase.
Inside a private dining room paneled in dark mahogany, Deputy Director Harold Clemens sat alone. A portrait of Washington hung above him, its painted eyes seeming to observe every nervous flick of his hand. The bourbon in front of him was untouched; the ice had melted into cloudy ellipses.
"Mr. Clemens," Shane greeted smoothly, setting his briefcase down. "A Christmas gift."
From the case, he drew out a crystal decanter of 1921 Macallan, the amber liquid glowing like firelight beneath the chandelier.
The cork popped with a soft sigh. Clemens's eyes flickered—part awe, part dread. "The last pre-Prohibition batch," he said hoarsely.
As the waiter poured two glasses and departed, the room settled into an uneasy quiet. Outside, snow shovels scraped rhythmically against the curb—a slow, mechanical heartbeat.
"What do you want?" Clemens asked, voice rough.
Shane opened his briefcase once more, revealing a stamped document: Pioneer Optics Corporation—Application for Patent: Three-Channel Beam-Splitting Optical System.
"Your office usually takes nine months for approval," Shane said evenly. "We'd like to see it done in eight weeks."
Clemens's lips twisted. "Morgan's people came last week. They wanted six months—and offered the key to a villa in Atlantic City."
Shane lifted the second layer of his briefcase. Just enough to show the top edge of a photocopied IOU, Clemens's signature scrawled across the bottom.
"Let's call this a correction of odds," Shane said. "And a favor… within regulations."
Clemens's hand trembled. "This is blackmail."
"No," Shane replied, sliding the form toward him. "This is business. You're simply approving what the system already allows."
As Clemens reached for his pocket watch, his fingers brushed a stiff card instead—Citibank, embossed in gold. On the back, penciled in neat handwriting:
"$47,850 was credited to your wife's Swiss account this morning. You did review the patent documents by the book — didn't you?"
Clemens's breath caught. Sweat trickled down his temple.
Without a word, Shane dropped an ice cube into his glass. The faint crackle of melting ice filled the silence.
"By the way," Shane added, laying a second paper atop the first. "Morgan's Zurich account was flagged for audit last week."
Clemens's eyes darted to the numbers: a Credit Suisse transaction record—$108,000 transferred that morning. The sum matched the shortfall in Senator Fairbanks's campaign funds.
"Washington runs like a clock," Shane said quietly. "Every gear turns another."
He tapped a small brass key against the marble tabletop. "For example, the spare key to Judge Howard's mistress's apartment."
The sound of breaking china echoed faintly from the club kitchen. Clemens flinched.
"Eight weeks, Mr. Clemens," Shane concluded, circling the signature line with his fingertip. "That's all."
The deputy director stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a resigned breath, he uncapped his gold fountain pen. The ink glistened as he signed, each stroke heavier than the last.
Shane closed the briefcase, slid the signed document inside, and rose to leave.
At the doorway, he paused, turning back with a courteous smile. From his overcoat, he produced a small blue velvet box.
"The Christmas gift I ordered for your wife," he said pleasantly.
Clemens hesitated. The gilded letters on the lid caught the light—Tiffany & Co. Inside, a diamond brooch sparkled on dark red velvet.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Clemens."
As Shane descended the spiral staircase, the orchestra in the main hall began playing Auld Lang Syne.
In the private room, Clemens sat motionless. The Macallan bottle was empty, the glass forgotten. The diamond brooch lay in his trembling hand, scattering reflections across the ceiling—cold, perfect, and utterly without warmth.