The Collector (16 page)

“I ought to go run around the block a few times just for spite,” she told Thomas. “But it's not worth it. Dishes, then book. And what the hell, I'll call Julie.”

A
sh chilled a tall glass. A brutally cold gin and tonic was Vinnie's favorite summer drink, and since he was about to impose in a big way, the least he could provide was the man's drink of choice.

Vinnie hadn't asked questions when Ash called. He'd just agreed to swing by after he closed the shop. Ash heard the sorrow in his voice, and the willingness to help, and knew he'd need to use both when he pulled Vinnie into the . . . situation.

He was a good man, Ash thought as he surfed the Internet for more information on the egg. Happily married for nearly forty years, a canny businessman with an unerring eye for value, father of three, besotted grandfather of six. Or it might be seven by now.

Have to check the spreadsheet.

He'd taken Oliver on, knowing full well he was taking on the unreliable and capricious in his sister's only son. But it had seemed to work. Everyone got along with Vinnie, that was true enough, but he expected—and received—good value from his employees.

Whenever Ash had asked, Vinnie always said Oliver was doing
well, was coming into his own, had a knack for the business and a way with the clients.

His way with them, Ash thought now, might be the root of the problem.

He sat back a moment, studied the egg. Where had it been, he wondered, this exquisite and whimsical gift created for Russian royalty? Who'd gazed upon it, run their fingers over its details?

And who wanted it enough to kill for it?

He pushed away from the computer at the sound of the buzzer.

“Archer,” he said into the intercom.

“Hey, Ash, it's Vinnie.”

“Come on in.” He released the locks, walked out of the sitting area and started down.

Vinnie stood, leather briefcase in hand, his exceptional suit a subtle gray chalk-striped paired with a crisp white shirt—despite the heat and the workday—and a precisely knotted Hermès tie in bold paisley.

His shoes carried a high gloss shine; his hair swept back in white wings from a tanned face set off with a neat, natty goatee.

He looked, Ash always thought, more like one of his well-heeled clients than the man who bargained with them.

He looked up as Ash came down. “Ash.” His voice still carried the Jersey of his boyhood. “A terrible time.” Setting his briefcase down, he embraced Ash in a hard bear hug. “How are you holding up?”

“There's a lot to do. It helps.”

“Busy always does. What can I do? Olympia's coming in tonight, but she's going straight to the compound. She told me not to come until Sunday morning, but I think Angie and the kids will go up tomorrow.”

“She and Angie have always been close.”

“Like sisters,” Vinnie agreed. “She'd rather have Angie than me—than Nigel, when it comes to it. There must be something we can do for you, once we get there.”

“Can you talk her out of the bagpipes?”

He barked a short laugh. “Not in a hundred years. She's convinced Oliver would want them. Do the police know any more?”

“Not that they're telling me.”

“Who would do such a thing? Sage—they seemed to suit each other. I think they might have been happy together. I can only think it had to be a jealous ex. That's what I told the police when they came to talk to me.”

“Did she have one?”

“A woman like that, with her looks, her lifestyle? She must have. Oliver never mentioned anyone, but she must have. But he was happy, that's something we have to remember. The last few weeks, he was so energized. He talked about taking her on a trip. I think he planned to propose. He had that excited, anxious air about him a man gets when he's about to take a major step.”

“I think he planned a major step. I have something I want you to look at. Upstairs.”

“Of course.”

Ash led the way to the elevator. “Did he say anything to you about a deal he was making, a special client?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. He did some very good work the last few months. Very good work. He handled two estates, acquired some excellent pieces, some with specific clients in mind. He had a knack, the boy had a real knack for the business.”

“So you've said. Let me fix you a drink.”

“I wouldn't turn one down. It's been a hard few days. The shop . . . we're all shaken. Everyone enjoyed Oliver, and bless him, he enjoyed everyone. Even when he infuriated you, you had to love him. You know how he was.”

“I do.” Ash led Vinnie into the compact studio kitchen, took the chilled glass out of the cooler under the wet bar. “G and T, right?”

“You know it. You've got a wonderful place here, Ash. You know, when you bought it, I thought, For God's sake, why doesn't the boy
convert it into apartments and make some money off that real estate? I can't help myself.”

“Me, either.” Ash mixed the drink, added a twist of lime, then got himself a beer. “Live in a crowded, busy city—have plenty of quiet personal space. Best of both.”

“You've got just that.” Vinnie tapped his glass to the bottle. “I'm proud of you. Did you know Sage bought one of your paintings? Oliver mentioned it.”

“I saw it when I got his things. Most of his things. Come in here, will you, and tell me what you think of this.”

He turned away from the studio, went across a hallway and into what he'd outfitted as his office.

The egg stood on his desk.

Vinnie had an exceptional poker face. As he'd lost to him more than once, Ash had a reason to know. But now, Vinnie's face filled with the stunned delight of a rookie drawing four aces.

“My God. My God.” Vinnie rushed toward it, dropped to his knees like a man paying homage.

But Ash saw after a moment's shock, Vinnie had simply gone down to eye level.

“Where did you get this? Ashton? Where did you get this?”

“What have I got?”

“You don't know?” Vinnie pushed himself up, circled the egg, leaned down to study it so closely his nose all but brushed the gold. “This is either Fabergé's Cherub with Chariot egg or the most magnificent reproduction I've ever seen.”

“Can you tell which?”

“Where did you get it?”

“From a safe-deposit box, Oliver's box. He sent me the key, and a note asking me to hold on to the key until he got in touch. He said he had a testy client to deal with, and a big deal in the works. I think he
was in trouble, Vinnie. I think the trouble is sitting on my desk. I think what got him killed is sitting on my desk. Can you tell if it's real?”

Vinnie dropped into a chair, rubbed his hands over his face. “I should have known. I should have known. His energy, his excitement, the mix of anxiety. Not about the woman, but this. About this. I left my briefcase downstairs. I could use it.”

“I'll get it. I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing you into this.”

“He was mine, too, Ash. My sister's boy—her only boy. I taught him about things like this. About antiques, collections, their value. How to buy and sell them. Of course you called me.”

“I'll get your briefcase.”

He'd known he'd add to the grief, Ash thought. A price paid. But family called to family first. He didn't know another way.

When he came back with the briefcase, Vinnie was standing over the egg, hunched over it, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose.

“I'm always losing these things.” He took the glasses off, set them aside. “I can't seem to keep a pair more than a month, if that. But I've had my jeweler's loupe for twenty years.” He opened the briefcase.

He took out thin white cotton gloves, pulled them on. He switched on the desk lamp, examined the egg through the loupe, inch by inch. He handled it with the care of a surgeon, peering at tiny mechanisms, brilliant stones.

“I've acquired two eggs—not the Imperials, of course, but two lovely pieces circa 1900. I've been fortunate to see, even be permitted to examine, an Imperial egg owned by a private collector. This doesn't make me a leading expert.”

“You're mine.”

Vinnie smiled a little. “In my opinion—and that's opinion—this is Fabergé's Cherub with Chariot, one of the eight missing Imperial eggs.
There's only one photograph of this egg, and that is a poor one, and there are some slightly conflicting descriptions. But the workmanship, the quality of material, the design . . . and it bears Perchin's mark—Fabergé's leading workmaster of that period. It's unmistakable to me, but you'll want a true expert opinion.”

“He had documents. Most of them are in Russian.” Ash took them out of the envelope, handed them to Vinnie.

“I couldn't begin to translate these,” he said, once he'd glanced through them. “This certainly looks like a bill of sale, dated 1938, October fifteenth. And signatures. The price is in rubles. It looks like three thousand rubles. I'm not sure of the exchange rate in 1938, but I'd say someone got a serious bargain.”

He sat again. “I know someone who can translate the paperwork.”

“I'd appreciate it. Oliver knew what it was, what it's worth. Otherwise, he'd have come to you.”

“I think yes, he'd have known, or known enough to find out on his own.”

“Do you have a client with a particular interest in something like this?”

“Not specifically, but anyone with a true interest in antiquities, with collecting, would be thrilled to acquire this. Had they the thirty million or more it's worth. It could, potentially, go for much more at auction or be sold to a collector with that particular interest. And Oliver would certainly have known that.”

“You said he handled two estates in the last couple months.”

“Yes. Let me think.” Vinnie rubbed at his temple. “He accessed and organized the Swanson estate, Long Island, and the Hill-Clayborne estate in Park Slope.”

“Swanson.”

“Yes. Neither listed anything like this.”

“Who did the listing?”

“In these cases, Oliver, working with the clients. He couldn't have
afforded to acquire this separately—and I would certainly have noticed an acquisition for millions.”

“He could have afforded it if, one, he had a client in mind, or two, the seller didn't know the value.”

“It's possible. Some people have a vastly inflated idea of the value of their grandmother's Wedgwood. Others see a Daum crane vase as clutter.”

“There's a bill of sale in his personal papers. For an antique angel figure with wagon. Sold to him by Miranda Swanson for twenty-five thousand.”

“Dear God. Miranda Swanson—that was the client. Her father's estate. She wanted to sell all or nearly all the contents of his home, and Oliver handled it. He never said . . .”

Vinnie looked back at the egg.

“Would he have known what it was?”

“Even if he wasn't certain, he should have wondered, checked. Perhaps he did. Twenty-five thousand for this?”

“Hell of a deal,” Ash commented.

“It . . . If he knew, it was unethical. We don't do business that way. You don't keep clients that way. But . . . for finding it, recognizing it, I would've been proud of him. He could've brought it to me. I would've been proud of him.”

“He didn't tell you because you wouldn't have allowed it. It's not stealing, not outright. Some wouldn't even consider it cheating. You would have. He couldn't tell you.”

Ash paced away when Vinnie said nothing. “He told his girlfriend, and very likely got the money to buy it from her. He hooked into a collector, either through her or from people he knew through your shop. Tried to cash in. Big payday. He'd know what you'd think, what you'd want, but he'd just seen the shine.”

“And he paid a very high price for questionable ethics. You won't tell his mother.”

“No. I'm not telling anyone in the family except you.”

“That's for the best. I would've been proud of him,” Vinnie murmured again, then shook it off. He straightened, looked back at Ash. “He left you with a mess, didn't he? A habit of his, I'm sorry to say. Make copies of the paperwork. I don't want to take the originals. I'll see about getting them translated, and I'll make some careful inquiries if you want a true expert to examine it.”

“We'll hold that for now.”

“I don't know nearly enough about the history. I know there were fifty Imperial eggs commissioned, and that Lenin ordered the ransacking of the palaces, had the treasures moved during the Bolshevik Revolution. Stalin sold several of the eggs in the thirties, I believe, to raise money, foreign money. This one's complete, with the surprise—and that adds value. Many of the ones currently in collections are missing the surprise, or elements of it. The eight were lost after the revolution. Stolen, sold, hidden or put in very, very private collections.”

“I've been boning up. One of the descriptions of this one's from the 1917 inventory of seized treasure. Seems like it didn't actually make it to Lenin's coffers—or somebody plucked it out later.”

Ash took the papers to the copier.

“Where are you going to keep it while you do this research?”

“I'm taking it to the compound.”

“That's good. Even better than my vault. But if you put it in the main safe, even telling your father it's private, and to leave it alone, he won't.”

“I have a couple of places I can put it, safely.” He found another envelope, put the copies inside. “Let me get you another drink.”

“Better not. Angie will know if I've had two. She's got radar. One's acceptable between work and home. Two is the doghouse.” His voice was light, brisk, but Ash heard the grief, and worse now, the
disappointment. “I'll get going anyway. I'll make a call when I get home about the translation. I might be able to have it for you when I get to the compound. You're going up tomorrow?”