The Collector (14 page)

Talk soon. Oliver.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What merchandise? What client?”

“I guess I'm going to find out.”

“We,” she corrected. “I'm in this far,” she added when he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“All right.” He slid the note into the bag, slipped the key into his pocket. “Let's go to the bank.”

“This could be the why.” She trotted to keep up with his long strides. “Shouldn't you take the key to the police?”

“He sent it to me.”

She grabbed his hand to slow him down. “What did he mean, forging your signature like the old days?”

“Kid stuff mostly. School papers, that sort of thing. Mostly.”

“But you weren't his legal guardian, were you?”

“No. Not exactly. It's complicated.”

Not his guardian, Lila deduced. But the one he counted on.

“He knew he was in trouble,” Ash continued, “but then he was in trouble half the time. Touchy client, which means pissed-off client. Whatever he had he didn't want it on him or in his apartment. So he put it in a vault, sent me the key.”

“Because he knew you'd keep it for him.”

“I'd've tossed the envelope in a drawer, and I'd've been annoyed enough to toss it at him when he came for it and tell him I didn't want to hear about it. He'd know that, so that's just why he did it. Because he not only wouldn't have to explain to me, I wouldn't let him explain.”

“That doesn't make it your fault.”

“No, it doesn't. Where the hell's the bank?”

“We turn left at the next corner. They won't let me go with you to open the box. You have to be authorized.”

“Right.” Thinking it through, he slowed for a moment. “I'll get whatever it is, I guess we'll take it over to your place. For now. I'm going into the bank, get this done. You go into one of the shops, buy something. Look at me.”

He stopped her, turned her, moved in just a little. “It's possible somebody's keeping tabs on us—or one of us. So let's make this casual. Running errands.”

“That was the plan of the day.”

“Stick with the plan. Buy something, and when I finish in the bank, we'll walk to the apartment. A nice easy stroll.”

“You really think someone's watching us?”

“It's a possibility. So.” He leaned farther in, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “Because I bought you red underwear,” he reminded her. “Go buy something.”

“I . . . I'm going to the little market, just there.”

“Poke around until I come for you.”

“Okay.”

It was all like some strange little dream anyway, she told herself as she walked toward the market. Posing for a painting, red underwear, notes from dead brothers, being kissed on the sidewalk because someone might be watching.

So she might as well buy the wine, and see where the strange little dream took her next.

I
t didn't take long. Ash often thought Oliver could have made a living as a forger. The signatures matched—as would Oliver's version of their father's signature or countless others. The key worked, and once the bank official used her own, removed the box, stepped out, Ash stood alone in the private room staring at the box.

Whatever was in it had cost Oliver and the woman he might have loved, at least in his way, their lives. Whatever was in it had brought a killer into his home, and into the home of a friend.

Ash was sure of it.

He opened the box.

He glanced at the stacks of banded hundreds, crisp as new lettuce, at the thick manila envelope. And the box within the box carefully snuggled between. The deeply embossed rich brown leather case with gold hinges.

He opened it.

And stared at the glitter and shine, the opulence tucked perfectly into the thickly padded interior.

For this? he thought. To die for this?

Ash took out the envelope, slipped the documents out, read what he could. He thought again, For this? Pushing back the anger, he closed and fastened the box again. He took the tissue-wrapped purchases out of the shopping bag, laid the box inside, tucked the excess tissue over it, wedged the dress in the mail bag. He shoved the envelope, the money, in the shopping bag, making sure the tissue covered it. Hefting both bags, he left the empty safe-deposit box on the table.

He needed a computer.

L
ila poked around as long as seemed reasonable. She bought wine, two large and lovely peaches, a little wedge of Port Salut cheese. To string it out, she debated over olives as though they were her most important purchase of the day. Perhaps the year.

In the end, she filled her little basket with odds and ends. At the counter, she winced at what the poking cost her, made sure to smile at the counterman, then kept the smile going as she turned, glanced at the striking Asian woman in emerald-green sandals with high, glittery wedges.

“I love your shoes.” She said it casually as she lifted her shopping bag, exactly as she might have under any circumstances.

“Thank you.” The woman skimmed her exotic gaze down to Lila's pretty multicolored but seen-many-miles flat sandals. “Yours are very nice.”

“For walking, but not for styling.” Pleased with herself, Lila wandered out, strolled back toward the bank.

Boring shoes, Jai decided, for a boring life. But just what was the brother doing in the bank for so long? It might pay to watch a bit longer, and since the pay was good and New York appealed to her, she'd watch.

Ash came out of the bank just as Lila debated with herself whether to go in or just wait.

“I couldn't shop anymore,” she began.

“It's fine. Let's just go.”

“What was in the box?”

“We'll talk about it when we're inside.”

“Give me a hint,” she insisted, again lengthening her strides to keep up. “Blood diamonds, dinosaur bones, gold doubloons, a map with the location of Atlantis—because it's down there somewhere.”

“No.”

“It is, too,” she insisted. “Oceans cover most of the planet, so—”

“I mean none of those were in the bank box. I need to check some things on your computer.”

“Nuclear launch codes, the secret to immortality, the cure for male pattern baldness.”

That distracted him enough to have him look down at her. “Really?”

“I'm grabbing out of the ether. Wait, he worked in antiquities. Michelangelo's favorite chisel, Excalibur, Marie Antoinette's tiara.”

“You're getting closer.”

“I am? Which? Hi, Ethan, how are you today?”

It took Ash a beat to realize she was speaking to the doorman.

“Oh, getting there, Ms. Emerson. Did some shopping?”

“New dress.” She beamed at him.

“You enjoy it. We're going to miss you around here.”

Ethan opened the door, exchanged nods with Ash.

“He's worked here eleven years,” Lila told Ash as they walked to the elevator. “And knows everything about everyone. But he's very discreet. How would anyone know it was Michelangelo's favorite chisel?”

“I have no idea. I'm having a hard enough time following the maze of your brain.”

“You're upset.” She rubbed a hand up and down his arm. “I can see it. Is it bad? What you found?”

“He died for it. That's bad enough.”

No more trying to lighten the mood, she ordered herself, even if it helped calm her own nerves. She took out her keys as the elevator opened, said nothing more as they walked to the apartment door.

She took a moment for Thomas, who rushed over to greet her as if she'd been gone for weeks. “I know, I know, I was longer than I thought. But I'm back now. They should get a kitten for him,” she said as she carried her bag to the kitchen. “He hates being alone.”

To make it up to Thomas, she dug out the cat treats, cooed to him as she offered them. “Can you tell me now?”

“I'll show you.”

In the dining room, he set the bag on the table, took out the tissue, set it aside. Then took out the leather box.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured. “Special. That means what's inside is beautiful and special.”

She held her breath while Ash lifted the lid. “Oh! It is beautiful. Old—anything that ornate must be. Is that gold—real gold, I mean? All that gold. And are those real diamonds? A sapphire?”

“We'll find out. I need your computer.”

“Go ahead.” She waved a hand toward it. “Can I take it out?”

“Yeah, take it out.” While she did, Ash keyed
angel chariot egg
into a search.

“The workmanship's incredible.” She lifted it out, held it up as she might a small bomb—with intense care. “It's so ornate, even a little gaudy to my eye, but beautiful—exquisite when you look at the craftsmanship. The gold angel pulls the gold wagon, and the wagon holds the egg. And the egg—God, look at the sparkle. Those have to be real jewels, don't they? If they are . . .”

It struck her all at once. “Is it Fabergé? Didn't he—they—I don't
know much about it—they're the Russian egg designers. I never realized they were so elaborate—so much more than a fancy egg.”

“Fabergé's he and they,” Ash said absently, as he braced his hands on the table on either side of the laptop and read.

“People collect them, right? Or they're in museums. The old ones, anyway. This must be worth thousands—hundreds of thousands, I guess.”

“More.”

“A million?”

He shook his head, continued to read.

“Come on, who'd pay over a million for an egg—even one like this? It's— Oh, it opens, there's a . . . Ash, look!”

Her how-things-work sensibility simply danced in delight. “There's a little clock inside the egg. An angel clock! It's fabulous. Now,
that's
fabulous. Okay, I'll go for a million considering the clock.”

“A surprise. They call what's inside the egg the surprise.”

“It's a really great one. I just want to play with it.” Her fingers actually tingled at the thought of figuring out how it had been made. “Which I'm not, considering if it's real it could be worth a million.”

“Probably twenty times that.”

“What?” Instantly, she whipped her hands behind her back.

“Easily. Gold egg with clock,” he read, “decorated with brilliants and a sapphire, in a gold two-wheeled wagon pulled by a gold cherub. It was made under the supervision of Peter Carl Fabergé for Tsar Alexander the Third in 1888. One of the Imperial eggs. One of the eight lost Imperial eggs.”

“Lost?”

“According to what I'm reading, there were approximately fifty Imperial eggs, made by Fabergé for the tsars—Alexander and Nicholas. Forty-two are known to be in museums or held in private collections. Eight are missing. The Cherub with Chariot is one of the eight.”

“If this is authentic . . .”

“That's the first thing we have to verify.” He tapped the manila envelope. “There are documents in there—some in what must be Russian. But again, what I read verifies this as one of the Imperial eggs. Unless both it and the documents are forgeries.”

“It's too exquisite to be a forgery. If anyone had this talent, could take all this time, why forge? And people do just that,” she said before Ash could. “I just don't understand it.”

She sat, leaned down until she was eye level with the egg. “If it's a forgery, whoever agreed to buy it would have it tested. I know it's possible for a really exceptional forgery to pass those tests, but it's just unlikely. If it's real . . . Did you really mean twenty million dollars?”

“Probably more, from what I'm reading. It's easy enough to find out.”

“How?”

“Oliver's uncle—his boss. Owner and proprietor of Old World Antiques. If Vinnie doesn't know, he'd know people who do.”

It sat sparkling, reflecting an era of opulence. Not just great art, Lila thought, but history. “Ash, you need to take it to a museum.”

“What, walk into the Met, say, ‘Hey, look what I found'?”

“The police.”

“Not yet. I want some answers, and they're not going to give them to me. Oliver had this—I need to know how he got it. Was it a deal? Did he steal it or acquire it?”

“You think he might've stolen it?”

“Not breaking-into-a-house stealing.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “But cheat someone out of it? Lie? Manipulate? He'd do all of that. He said he had a client. Did he get this from the client, or was he to deliver it to the client?”

“Did you read all the documents in here? Maybe there's a bill of sale, some sort of receipt.”

“Nothing like that—but I haven't gone through all his papers
from the apartment. He had about six hundred thousand, in cash, in the box.”

“
Hundred
thousand?”

“Give or take,” Ash said so absently Lila just goggled.

“For Oliver to hold on to that much means he didn't have it very long, and had plans. He probably meant he didn't want to, or couldn't, report the money. Maybe he was paid to acquire this, then figured it wasn't enough and tried to squeeze the client for a bigger fee.”

“If it's worth as much as you think, why not pay more? Why kill two people?”

He didn't bother to point out people killed for pocket change. Or simply because they wanted to kill.

“Maybe they planned to kill him all along, or maybe he just pissed off the wrong client. What I know is I need to have this authenticated. I need to find out where Oliver got it, and who wanted it.”

“And then?”

Those green eyes went sharp as a blade. “Then they pay for killing my brother and pushing a woman out the window.”

“Because when you find out what you need to find out, you'll go to the police.”

He hesitated a beat because fury made him imagine, and revel in that image, exacting payment himself. But he looked into Lila's eyes, knew he couldn't—and she'd think less of him if he could.

It surprised him how much that mattered.

“Yeah, I'll go to the cops.”

“Okay. I'm going to fix some lunch.”

“You're going to fix lunch?”

“Because we need to think, and we need to eat.” She lifted the egg, set it carefully in its padded form. “You're doing this because you loved him. He was a pain in your ass, sometimes an embarrassment, often a disappointment, but you loved him, so you're going to do what you can to find out why this happened.”

She looked over at him now. “You're grieving, and there's a violence in the grief. It's not wrong to feel that.” To reach that grief, she laid a hand over his. “It's natural to feel that, even to want to punish whoever did this yourself. But you won't. You have too much honor for that. So I'm going to help you, starting with lunch.”

She walked into the kitchen, dug into the groceries she'd yet to put away.

“Why aren't you telling me to get out, get away, stay away?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I brought into your house—”

“Not mine.”

“Into your work,” he corrected, “an object potentially worth millions which was certainly obtained by unethical means, if not illegal ones. Whatever my brother was involved with prompted someone to break into your friend's apartment—looking for you or information about you, and it's likely that as long as you associate with me that person, probably a murderer, is keeping tabs on you.”

“You forgot the tragic loss of my friend's shoes.”

“Lila—”

“They shouldn't be discounted,” she said as she put a small pot on to boil pasta. A quick pasta salad seemed like just the thing. “And the answer to all that is, you're not your brother.”

“That's the answer.”