“In your dreams, pal,” he said aloud, and laughed.
God, what a beautiful night! The air had cooled off. It was almost chilly now as he started to walk. Up in the sky, the moon was a comma between the buildings.
He should go home. But why not take one more look at the museum before getting a cab? It was gawking, of course, but how many times had he been in the middle of something like that? And he was still curious—nobody had explained exactly what had happened.
As he approached, he could see the dome lights of the police cars alternating blue and red, painting the facade of the Met. East Eighty-Second Street was silent, most of the brownstones shuttered for the night. There were dark pools of shadow under the trees.
Suddenly, on the far sidewalk, he saw two workmen carrying a crate between them—treating it as gently as if it were an egg carton. They approached a white van parked at the curb and lowered the box onto the sidewalk. The taller of the two men took keys out of his pocket and unlocked the back door. Then they lifted the crate into the van, bracing it so it would not move during transit.
Working silently, neither man noticed Carter walking by. The vehicle had New York plates—76823N.
Funny, two guys loading a crate like that in the middle of the night. Carter’s job was to transport rare artifacts for the museum. That crate was state-of-the-art.
Carter reached Fifth Avenue and stopped to watch the activity. The police vehicles were still there, radios squawking, but there was not much to see, so he doubled back to find a cab.
“Sheridan Square,” he told the driver, and fished in his pocket for a pen and notepaper to jot down the license plate number.
Those movers certainly didn’t look legitimate to him. Who loads a van in the middle of the night with a custom-made crate? Tomorrow he’d report it. He tucked the note in his pocket.
Then he sat back and relaxed for the twenty-minute ride downtown—plenty of time to indulge in his alpha-male fantasies about Holly. Too bad his imagination was the only thing he’d be taking home to bed.
1010 Fifth Avenue
TED VERPLANCK SAT in the darkened living room and swirled a brandy. His eyes were focused on the crystal snifter because he couldn’t bear to look at the empty wall niche.
It had been a brazen act to steal the Sardonyx Cup tonight. Half of the NYPD had been just across the street protecting the First Lady. Or not protecting her, as it turned out.
Ted could still hear the police activity outside his windows. He had closed the drapes, unwilling to watch the ruins of the evening in the street below. Since he was a director of the museum and co-chairman of the gala, the security chief had notified him about the thwarted attack. FBI agents had also requested that he keep any knowledge of the attempted attack to himself. Federal authorities, not local police, would spearhead the investigation.
No one at the gala had been allowed to view the attacker’s body. It was behind the catering screen. The fast-thinking security detail had explained away the gunshots as exploding champagne corks. Museum officials were instructed to say the security breach had been minor.
Ted couldn’t believe how close they had all been to disaster. Just a few more minutes would have been fatal! With this kind of incident, his missing Sardonyx Cup was a minor problem. There was no point in calling the police tonight.
Suddenly the phone rang, blasting his nerves to shreds. He stared at it. Who was calling him at this hour? Ted checked his watch. Two a.m.
“Hello?”
“Ted, are you still up? It’s Andy Thompson. I am sorry to call, but I just heard about the theft.”
Ted froze, and the silence lengthened. Anderson Thompson cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry. I guess you hadn’t heard yet. I just assumed.”
“No, no,” Ted said. “I’m afraid . . . I have no idea . . .”
“At the gala tonight. Quite a lot of art was stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes, the Egyptian Gallery was robbed. The glass case was cut and they got away with some valuable objects.”
“Oh, my gosh, that is terrible,” Ted replied cautiously. “What did they take?”
“Let me see . . . I have the list right here,” he replied, reading off a list of valuable Egyptian funerary figurines.
“That’s quite a loss. I just can’t believe it.”
“I can’t either. Listen, I know it is late, but I wanted to give you the word in advance. It will be all over the papers. They may be calling you for a quote.”
“All right, I’ll be prepared. Much appreciated,” said VerPlanck. “Take care.”
Ted put down the phone. Art theft? The museum had been hit and so had he! That meant lots of publicity. Not something he wanted right now with Tipper on a bender.
On second thought, he wouldn’t report his missing cup to the police or to the insurers. Private investigators were the way to go. That way he’d keep his affairs to himself.
He picked up his phone and called his lawyer, Jim Gardiner, in London. There was no answer, so on voice mail he laid out his tale of the theft, along with instructions to find someone to help track the cup privately. Then Ted sat back on the sofa and drained his brandy snifter and stared at the empty pedestal.
The Mark Hotel
JOHN SINCLAIR POURED himself a dram of Macallan and tossed it back. Hell of a night! It was hard to believe they had arrived in New York only ten hours ago. The hotel had seemed so peaceful then. Now the evening was in ruins, tainted with fear and recrimination—not quite the romantic ending he had envisioned.
Steam was coming out of the bathroom. Cordelia had retreated to the shower. After fleeing the gala she had been chilled to the bone, her teeth chattering all the way back to the hotel. Even his dinner jacket hadn’t helped.
Sinclair walked over to the bed and pulled back the duvet. The sooner he could get her to sleep, the better. The door opened and Cordelia came out wrapped in a large terry-cloth robe.
“Hop in, darling girl. I’ll join you in minute.”
“We both need a good night’s rest,” she agreed as she slid between the sheets.
“I had room service send up something warm.”
Sinclair poured Belgian cocoa from the pot and handed her a cup.
“Oh, John, thank you. . . .”
He sat on the edge of the bed, while she sipped the hot chocolate.
“I feel much better,” she said with a smile, settling down.
Sinclair took the empty cup and carried it over to the table.
“Try to get some rest,” he said as he put the saucer down. When he turned around, Cordelia was fast asleep.
Mayfair, London, England
IT WAS NINE a.m. when Jim Gardiner went into the kitchen to make coffee. It had been a long night. Sleep had been elusive, but he had finally managed to get three scant hours.
The insomnia wasn’t because of his age. Pain kept him up at night. The result of a near-fatal accident nine months earlier. He had been poisoned by a toxic nerve agent and was suffering serious physical damage.
He had survived—just barely—but now the specialists were telling him he might have chronic pain for the rest of his life. Not exactly a cheerful thought!
Reaching for the canister of coffee, he saw the message light beeping on his mobile phone. Gardiner unplugged it from the charger and hit the retrieve button. The timing, this early in the morning, suggested the call was from the States.
Ted VerPlanck had left a brief, desperate voice mail. He had been robbed of a very valuable piece! And he wanted to recover the object through a private inquiry.
Poor Ted. Add this to the litany of calamities that had befallen him. First, his wife ran away with a rock star. Then she became addicted to drugs and alcohol. VerPlanck was old school—a real gentleman who stood by his wife.
Gardiner saved the message and leaned back against the kitchen counter to think. Legally, it was a delicate matter. Keeping the insurers in the dark wasn’t a very good idea.
He pulled the belt of his robe tighter and turned to his immediate task—making breakfast. As he began to measure out the coffee, he realized who might be able to help. One man had done more to recover lost artifacts than anyone else he knew—John Sinclair.
Carlyle Hotel
LADY XANDRA SLIPPED on her sheer peignoir and carried a latte to the window. The pedestrians on Madison Avenue were going about their normal weekday—city buses stopping for mothers with schoolchildren, people hurrying to the office.
Xandra watched the activity as she sipped her coffee and bit into her croissant, slathered with sweet butter and strawberry confiture.
Last night had gone well, despite the thwarted attack. She had played her part to perfection: vamping for the TV cameras, charming the First Lady with amusing anecdotes, chatting up the museum patrons. Meanwhile, throughout the city her men had been stealing treasures that had been carefully selected for their high market value. The stolen figurines from the Met were still there in her hotel room, lying on the dresser.
The other goods were stashed on her yacht—a two-hundred-foot Feadship, The Khamsin, docked at the base of Manhattan in North Cove Marina. Two special compartments had been built in the ship’s cabinetry to facilitate smuggling. The boat crew had instructions to sit and guard the yacht all night.
Xandra calculated the time difference in Cairo and dialed Moustaffa. He answered from 5,600 miles away.
“It’s Xandra. Everything is fine. I have it all.”
“What’s going on there!” he snarled in a foul temper.
“You were right about an attack, but it didn’t succeed.”
“Who was responsible?”
“I don’t know. I got out. But don’t worry. We have everything.”
“I knew they were planning something . . .” he fumed. “But you said no . . . they wouldn’t dare . . .”
“I only said I didn’t know about it.”
“So what happened?” Moustaffa demanded.
“Someone started shooting in the museum and everyone evacuated the building. Luckily I got out before it was mobbed with police.”
“Was the gunman killed?” he asked.
“I didn’t stick around to find out.”
“Well, I hope it wasn’t one of our men.”
“What difference does it make?” Xandra consoled him. “The Manucci family hired them to cater the event. We’re out of it.”
“You’re right. It’s their problem.”
“I think the attack helped a little. It’s a diversion. The reporters will be busy uptown. Nobody is going to notice when I leave this morning.”
“Good,” said Moustaffa, softening his tone. “You’re right. Fly, my little bird. Catch the desert wind and fly.”
Balthazar Restaurant, Soho, New York
TIPPER VERPLANCK SAT in the booth and sipped a Bloody Mary very slowly. The crowded downtown bistro was filled with the usual mix of fashionable artists, designers, and filmmakers. Conrad sat across from her, his expression supercilious as he surveyed the menu. Before his movie success he had cheerfully lived on a low-rent diet of hot dogs and pizza, but now that he was a recognized director nothing was ever good enough.
She didn’t want to talk to Conrad right now. There was too much on her mind, after what had happened that morning at breakfast.
She had eaten her morning meal with Ted at their apartment on Fifth Avenue. Her husband had consumed his habitual three-minute egg, half a grapefruit, and one slice of brown toast with English marmalade. Initially, he had acted as if nothing had happened. But then, in the most chilling tone, he had asked her to please come with him to the living room. She had gathered up the folds of her cashmere robe and followed him down the hallway.
VerPlanck sat on the couch and patted the seat cushion for her to join him. She had no idea what he was doing. Sitting side by side, they looked mutely out at the room. After a long pause, he spoke.
“Do you notice anything amiss, Tipper?”
She looked around. Not one item was out of place. The antique furniture was polished to a gorgeous patina and books were perfectly placed on the coffee table. Wood for the fireplace was laid in a chevron pattern on the hearth. Even the orchids were in full bloom. The living room could have been photographed for a decorating magazine.
“No,” she said.
He closed his eyes in a display of patience, exhaled slowly, and turned to her.
“Try harder.”
“Stop playing games, Ted. What do you want me to say?” she snapped. Her head was throbbing.
“My cup is gone.”
“O-K. You don’t have to carry on. If you want Consuela to bring you another coffee, I’ll ring for it.”
He looked at her as if she were insane.
“No, not my coffee cup. My Sardonyx Cup,” he said, pointing across the room.
She looked at the wall niche. The pedestal was empty.
“I see,” she said.
There was silence. What did he want her to do about it? Then she suddenly remembered Charlie Hannifin’s little proposal about stealing Ted’s art. She flushed bright red. Could Charlie have stolen it?
“I’m . . . so sorry . . .” she stammered.
He took her distress for sympathy.
“I know, it’s awful,” he said confidentially. “Listen to me, Tipper, we can’t tell anyone.”
“If you say so,” she said, not really comprehending.
“I’m going to make private inquiries. I don’t want the police involved.”
She nodded, relieved that he seemed to require no real response from her.
“That is all,” he said.
She got up to leave.
“Tipper,” he said gravely. “I am doing this for you. To protect you. If we have one more disaster, the press will use it as an excuse to start hounding you again. They’d never leave you alone.”
Her heart lurched. She didn’t dare answer. The guilt was overwhelming. He was protecting her.
“Thank you, Ted,” she managed to say, chastened.
Across from her Conrad was talking to the waiter about his order. She took another sip of the Bloody Mary and felt the vodka kick in. Oh yes, that was much better. To hell with Ted and his stupid cup!
Tipper smiled at Conrad, slid her hand under the table, and squeezed his knee. He was such a handsome man, especially with that silk shirt half-opened on his chest. It wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all.
Time Warner Center,
One Columbus Circle, New York
SINCLAIR AND CORDELIA walked into Ted VerPlanck’s glass-walled office. His shipping firm was global in scope, one of the top freight-moving operations in Asia and Europe. His offices reflected enormous wealth, the decor very stylish, with chrome and black leather Italian-designed furniture—clearly the private fiefdom of a powerful man.
“How good of you to come so quickly,” VerPlanck said as he shook Sinclair’s hand.
“How are you, Ted?” Sinclair greeted him. “Jim Gardiner said you needed to meet right away.”
“Yes, it’s urgent.” VerPlanck stared distractedly at Cordelia.
“May I present Cordelia Stapleton?” Sinclair said.
VerPlanck looked closely at her, hesitating.
“Aren’t you the young woman I met last night?”
“Yes, and thank you again for everything.”
“It was my pleasure.” VerPlanck smiled. “I had no idea you were looking for my old friend John Sinclair.”
“I guess I never mentioned his name.”
Cordelia turned to Sinclair to explain. “Mr. VerPlanck was kind enough to escort me out of the museum when they evacuated it last night.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I got separated from Delia.”
“Have you heard anything further about what happened?” Cordelia asked.
“Nothing concrete,” VerPlanck answered. “The investigation is not complete. Please, please have a seat.”
Cordelia took he
r place in one of the modern leather chairs, but her attention was drawn to the scene below—an unimpeded vista of Columbus Circle from the fifth-floor window. Yellow taxis swirled around the traffic circle like bees. A statue of Christopher Columbus stood atop a column, his head cocked to the side, a hand on his hip. Beyond the intersection were eight hundred acres of green trees.
“What an incredible view of Central Park!” Cordelia exclaimed.
“Yes, one forgets how big it is until you see it from above,” VerPlanck remarked.
“Is that the Metropolitan Museum over there on the far side?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes, you can see the roofline of my apartment, right there,” VerPlanck pointed out. “It’s the one with three chimneys.”
“Jim Gardiner told me about the theft. I still can’t believe someone robbed you,” Sinclair said, taking a seat across from VerPlanck.
“It hardly seems real, even today,” VerPlanck said. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“Certainly, but why me?” Sinclair asked.
“I’m sure Jim Gardiner told you; I don’t want the police involved.”
“Why not?” Cordelia chimed in.
“The publicity.”
“Certainly the press would be sympathetic,” Sinclair insisted.
“I don’t want to draw attention to my art holdings. I prefer to recover the cup through private means.”
Ted VerPlanck leaned back, his long frame draped over his chair. “Do you think you can help?”
“Certainly, I can try,” Sinclair replied. “But I need more information.”
“Such as?”
“I’d like to see the layout of the apartment so I can get an idea of what happened. Was it an amateur job or professional? That sort of thing might help me pinpoint what kind of people we are dealing with.”
“That’s easily arranged,” VerPlanck said.
He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Margaret, have Gavin bring the car around please?”
The Stolen Chalicel Page 7
