The Collector (26 page)

She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for him to say something more. Then she walked upstairs. She walked away, with him left in silence, just as she had over a decade before.

W
hen Ash insisted on taking Lila to her next job, she didn't argue. If seeing where she'd be, checking the security for himself, made him feel better, what was the harm?

“They're repeaters,” she told him as the cab wound its way uptown. “I've worked for them twice, just not in this location because they only moved here a few months ago. And Earl Grey is a new addition, but he's really sweet.”

“The new location might be better all around.”

“It's a gorgeous space, wonderful views. A nice neighborhood to walk around in—with Earl Grey. And I got an e-mail from Macey this morning.”

“Macey?”

“Kilderbrand—last client. They're very satisfied with my service—and she thinks Thomas misses me. As they're planning a skiing trip out West next January, they'd like to book me now. So, despite everything that happened, score one for me.”

“But this is a shorter job.”

“A quick one for the Lowensteins—eight days altogether, to visit some friends and check on some property in Saint Bart's.”

When the driver pulled over in front of the East Forty-first Street entrance of the massive neo-Gothic complex, Lila swiped her credit card.

“I'll get it.”

She shook her head, keyed in her tip. “My job, my business expense. I may have a rich lover, but I'm just using him for sex.”

“He's a lucky guy.”

“Oh,” she said as she pocketed the receipt and slid out, “he is. Hi, Dwayne.” She beamed at the doorman as he hustled over to the cab. “Lila Emerson. You may not remember, but—”

“I remember you, Ms. Emerson, from when you came to see the Lowensteins. I've got the keys for you. You're right on time.”

“I try to be. Did the Lowensteins get off all right?”

“Saw them off myself not an hour ago. I'll get that.” He hefted the second suitcase out of the cab's trunk before Ash could. “Can I help you up with these?”

“No thanks, we've got it. This is my friend Ashton Archer. He's going to help me settle in. Do you happen to know the last time they walked Earl Grey?”

“Mr. Lowenstein took EG out for a last round right before they left. He should be good awhile.”

“Excellent. What a gorgeous building. I'm going to love staying here.”

“You have any questions, where things are, need transportation, whatever, you just let me know.”

“Thanks.” She took the keys he handed her, and walked into the lobby and its cathedral light through the stained glass windows. “Tell me my job isn't awesome,” she said to Ash as they took an elevator. “How else would I be able to spend a week in a penthouse apartment in Tudor City? Did you know they used to have a little golf course? And a tennis court. Famous people played tennis on it. I can't remember who because I don't really follow tennis.”

“My father thought about buying it—with partners—when Helmsley sold it.”

“Really? Wow.”

“I don't remember the details, why or why not. Just vague talk.”

“My parents bought a little campground in Alaska. There was a
lot
of talk, and considerable nail biting. I love working in buildings like this, the old ones,” she said as they got off the elevator. “I'm fine with new ones, but buildings like this are something special.”

She keyed open the locks, opened the door. “As in.” She gave a sweep of her hand before turning to the alarm pad to key in the code.

The wall of floor-to-ceiling casement windows let New York in, with the glamour of the Chrysler Building front and center. Lofty ceilings, gleaming hardwood, the soft, rich glow of antiques served as the forefront for the spectacular view.

“Pretty great. I should've taken us to the second floor—it's a triplex—but I thought you'd appreciate the wow factor of the main level.”

“It's got it.”

“I need to check the kitchen. Earl Grey's either in there or hiding up in the master bedroom.”

She walked through to a dining area with a long mahogany table, a little gas fireplace and a breakfront holding a clever mix of mismatched china. Into a kitchen that reflected the building's character with its brick accent wall, dark, deeply carved walnut cabinets and lots of copper accents.

There, on the slate-colored floor, was a little white dog bed. In it was the smallest dog—Ash didn't really consider it a dog—he'd ever seen.

White like the bed, it sported a traditional poodle cut, and in lieu of a collar, a miniature bow tie. Purple with white polka dots.

It trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“Hey, baby.” Lila kept her voice cheerful, but very quiet. “Remember me?” She opened the lid of a bright red canister on the counter and took out a dog biscuit no longer than his thumb.

“Want a cookie?”

She crouched down.

The trembling stopped. The tail—what there was of it—wagged. The dog that wasn't a real dog hopped out of the tiny bed, rose on its hind feet and danced.

Ash grinned despite himself, and on a laugh, Lila offered the biscuit.

“You don't have to worry about a thing with a vicious fake dog like that around,” Ash commented.

“I think the security system's good enough for me, and for Earl Grey.” She scooped the dog up, nuzzled it. “Want to hold him?”

“I'll pass. He actually weirds me out a little. I'm not sure a dog should fit in your shirt pocket.”

“He's small, but he has a big brain.” She kissed the poodle on the nose, set him down. “Do you want a tour before I unpack?”

“I wouldn't mind it.”

“Mostly so you can scope the place out, get the lay of the land in case you have to rush in and rescue me.”

“What do you care? We have to take your suitcases up anyway.”

He imagined, even as she took him around the main floor, she'd set up her workstation in the dining room, and enjoy the view. Even as she started to take one of the suitcases, he lifted them both to take them upstairs.

“Is that a man thing or a manners thing?”

“I'm a man with manners.”

“And this is a unit with an elevator. Small, but adequate.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Three bedrooms, all with baths, manly home office, and hers, more a sitting room where she keeps her orchids. They're fabulous. I'm using this room.”

She walked into a compact guest room done in soft blues and greens, the furnishings in distressed white, and a painting of poppies on the wall to add an unexpected splash.

Lila gave herself a mental hug. This would be hers, just hers, for the next eight days.

“It's the smallest, but it's got a soothing, restful feel to it. You can just leave those over there, and we'll check out the third level to be thorough.”

“Lead the way.”

“Do you have your phone on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's take the elevator, just to make sure it's all good. I know it has an emergency button, but it's always good to have a phone.”

He'd have taken it for a closet, which showed a clever design.

“Not as much fun as yours,” Lila commented as they rode up.

“A lot quieter.”

“I can fix the clunking, I think.”

“You repair elevators with that strange tool of yours?”

“It's a Leatherman, and brilliant. Yours would be my first, as far as elevators go, but I actually like the clunks and grinds. Lets me know it's working.”

When it stopped, they stepped out into a media room larger, by his eye, than most studio apartments.

It boasted a projection screen, six roomy leather recliners, another half bath, a wet bar with built-in wine cooler.

“They have an outrageous DVD collection I'm cleared to take advantage of. But my favorite?”

She picked up a remote. The blackout drapes opened to reveal wide glass doors, and the pretty bricked terrace beyond, complete with a central fountain—currently off.

“There's nothing like having outdoor space in New York.”

She unlocked the door, pulled the doors open. “No tomatoes or herbs, but some nice patio pots of flowers—and that little shed there holds the garden tools, extra chairs.”

Automatically, she checked the dirt in the pots with her thumb,
pleased to find it lightly damp. “A nice spot for a pre- or post-dinner drink. Do you want to have dinner with me later?”

“I'm just using you for sex.”

She laughed, turned to him. “Then we'll order in.”

“I've got some things to do. I could come back around seven or seven-thirty, bring dinner.”

“That sounds perfect. Surprise me.”

H
e went to see Angie, getting out of the cab several blocks from the apartment to walk. He needed the walk, but more, if the woman was watching, she might tag the cab number, find a way to trace it back to where he now felt Lila was safe.

Paranoid, maybe, but why take chances?

He spent a hard, unhappy hour with Angie and her family. Then opted to walk from there.

How was his radar? he wondered. Would he feel it if she was watching him, following him? He'd recognize her, that he was sure of, if he spotted her, so he took his time half hoping—more than half—she'd make some move.

He saw Trench Coat Man marching and muttering, and a woman pushing an infant in a stroller. He remembered her walking the neighborhood weeks before, hugely pregnant. But he didn't see a tall, stunning Asian woman.

He took a detour into a bookstore, wandered the stacks, one eye on the door. He found and purchased a coffee table book on Fabergé eggs, and another on the history, then struck up a conversation with the clerk so he'd be remembered should anyone ask.

He considered it laying a trail.

And maybe he did feel a prickle at the back of his neck when he
crossed the street only a block from his loft. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as if to answer it, fumbled a little with his shopping bag, shifted angles, glanced behind him.

But he didn't see the woman.

Before he shoved the phone back in his pocket, it rang in his hand. He didn't recognize the number on his display.

“Yeah, Archer.”

“Mr. Archer. My name is Alexi Kerinov.”

Ash slowed his steps. The accent was light, he thought, but definitely Eastern European. “Mr. Kerinov.”

“I'm a friend of Vincent Tartelli's—Vinnie. I heard only a short time ago what happened, when I tried to reach him. I'm . . . This is devastating.”

“How did you know Vinnie?”

“Both as a client and an occasional consultant. He recently asked me to translate some documents for him—from Russian to English—and he gave me your name and number.”

Not the woman's boss, Ash thought. The translator.

“He told me he was giving them to you. Have you had a chance to look at them?”

“Yes, yes. I haven't finished completely, but I found . . . I wanted to speak to Vinnie right away, but when I finally tried his home, Angie said . . . This is a terrible shock.”

“For all of us.”

“He spoke fondly of you. He said you'd acquired the documents and needed to know what they said.”

“Yes. He did me a favor.” And that would weigh forever. “And took them to you.”

“I need to discuss them with you. Can we meet to discuss this? I'm not in New York until tomorrow. I had a brief trip to D.C., and brought them with me. I come back tomorrow. Can we meet?”

When he reached his house, Ash took out his keys, went through
the more laborious process of opening his own front door, keying in his new codes. “Yeah, no problem. Have you been to Vinnie's house?”

“Yes, many times.”

“For dinner maybe?”

“Yes, why?”

“What's Angie's specialty?”

“Roast chicken with garlic and sage. Please, call Angie. You worry, I understand. She'll tell you who I am.”