“Well, you’ll be the recipient of any indictments should it come to that.” The vein in his neck was pulsating.
“Arthur, please try to calm down. You have a lead. Let’s take it one step at a time. When Jerry confirms she’s working at the hotel, why don’t you and I fly out together? We can say you’re on a business trip, and I tagged along. It’s better if there are two of us hunting her down, don’t you think?” Rowena was trying to be levelheaded.
Arthur looked up. “You may be on to something. As soon as I hear from him, we’ll take the company jet. Yes, my dear. There is something going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
She batted her eyes at him, thinking, He’s such a blowhard. He probably thinks I married him out of love and his good looks. Jerk. Two more years, and the prenup will be updated to reflect inflation. It would also give her a good amount of time to spend whatever she could of the Millstone fortune. Only two more years. I can do it.
The doorbell chimed Westminster bells. Rowena put out her cigarette and headed over to answer the door.
Rowena made a grand gesture opening the solid, hand-carved oak door. “Amber! How lovely to see you. Please come in.” Rowena thought she might choke on her own saliva. She knew that Arthur and Amber had had a few rolls in the hay a year or so ago. Maybe the affair was ongoing. It didn’t matter. Between the two women, Rowena had the upper hand. She had access to the money, the manor house, the yacht, the five-thousand-square-foot beachfront villa in St. Kitts, and the summer home in Bar Harbor, Maine. At least for the time being.
Amber was in her midtwenties. Overbleached blond hair with extensions, fake blue-contact-lens eyes, and a bosom that could knock someone over from three feet away. Amber was wearing a very tight-fitting knit skirt and a low-cut cardigan. As the two women walked toward the dining room, Rowena noted that it was a good thing Amber had a big butt; otherwise, she would topple over and fall on her face. Not that Rowena hadn’t had her fair share of body enhancements, but Amber was over the top. So to speak. One more cliché to add to Rowena’s list. And the list was getting longer and more tiresome.
Arthur got up from his chair. “Amber, dear. So nice to see you.” He took her hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Please sit. Rowena? Get Amber a cup of coffee.”
Rowena bit her upper lip. It was all she could do to stop herself from pouring it over Arthur’s head. Such an ass. “Of course, darling.” She turned and smiled at the bimbo sitting at her table. “How do you like it?”
“Light cream, if you have it,” Amber replied.
“Of course, dear.” Rowena wanted to spit on both of them. She poured the coffee into a Royal Doulton cup. “Scone?”
Amber gave an annoying giggle. “Oh no, thank you. I’m watching my weight.”
Rowena suppressed a groan. “You have a lovely figure, Amber. Doesn’t she, Arthur?” said the spider to the fly.
Arthur tried to answer that in the most nonincriminat-ing way. “You’re a lovely young woman.”
Rowena swore there were beads of sweat forming on Arthur’s forehead. Amber was only twelve years younger than Rowena, but Rowena felt as if Arthur and Amber saw her as middle-aged. Once again, Rowena reminded herself that she was still the lady of the house. And as of now, Arthur was in deep. He couldn’t afford another divorce. Besides, the prenup was specific about adulterous behavior by either party. Poor Arthur. He was trying to have his cake and eat it, too, but he was currently choking on all the pieces he had bitten off.
Amber put on an innocent face. “So what can I do for you? You said something about the estate sale?”
“Yes. We have reason to believe that one of the pieces contained a family heirloom. Apparently it was in a hidden compartment.” Arthur made up the story, at least part of it.
“Really?” Amber’s eyes widened. “What kind of heirloom? Where did it come from?”
Already, she was asking too many questions. It was Rowena’s turn. “There was a note in one of the notebooks we found that said, Please take care of the sapphire broach. It was smuggled from Belgium just before the war. Or something of that nature. All we know is that there is an important piece of jewelry that we want to find, and it had to be hidden in one of the pieces from the estate sale.”
“Wow.” Amber sighed. “And you don’t know which piece?”
Rowena wanted to say “Duh. No, we’re just here for farts and giggles.” But instead she calmly replied, “That is correct. Do you have the inventory list from the estate sale?”
“Yes, I brought everything with me.” Amber pulled out a file from her bag. “But I don’t know where to start. Do you have any idea what piece it might be in?”
Arthur was losing patience as well. “No, dear. We have no idea. What I think we need to do is track down all the buyers and check with them.”
“It was sold in several groupings to a number of dealers. I can give you an inventory of all the items and who purchased them, but for anything sold to a distributor or agent, they would have to track down the pieces sold to their customers.”
“I realize it’s a laborious and tedious job, but I will use the resources of Millstone Enterprises to contact everyone.”
Amber handed over the file. Arthur thumbed through the pages. There had to be well over a hundred entries; many of those listed were agents who were spread across the country.
“Thank you, dear. I am sure this will be extremely helpful.” Rowena hoped that was a hint for Amber to scram. She and Arthur had a lot of work ahead of them.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Arthur stood, followed by Rowena. Amber was still a bit slow on the uptake. She knew it was time to go, but getting the bum’s rush was a little surprising. She was expecting a slower, more congenial exit. “Let me know if you have any questions.” Rowena was so close on her heels that Amber thought Rowena was going to lift her from the floor and toss her out the door.
Rowena couldn’t open the door fast enough. “Thank you for coming, Amber. Always nice to see you.” She thought she would vomit.
Chapter Eleven
Buffalo, New York
Jerry Thompson got off the plane at Buffalo Niagara International Airport. He remembered the last time he was there. He had been chasing someone who was trying to cross into Canada pretending to be a tourist at Niagara Falls. It was almost pathetic. The guy he had been chasing showed up at one of the observation areas at the Falls, wearing a yellow slicker and carrying a suitcase. Who brings a suitcase to Niagara Falls? Unless you’re on a honeymoon and checking in at a hotel, it looks a bit conspicuous.
Now, back in Buffalo, he was on a mission for his boss. As Thompson saw things, the whole world was spinning out of control. Bad for the world, but good for his business. A lot of his colleagues had moved into cy-bersecurity, but as long as there were human beings on the planet, there would be embezzlement, extramarital affairs, and assorted other reasons why people would hire a private detective to investigate something or other.
His first stop was the car-rental agency, after which he would head to the Curtiss. Arthur had been good enough to book him a room charged to Millstone Enterprises. It would be far easier to find Colette Petrov if they were under the same roof. Before Jerry left for Buffalo, Arthur sent him a photo of Colette, making his job even easier. He simply needed to be cagey, a talent that any good private detective had to have. Jerry had an excellent record of finding difficult-to-locate individuals.
He pulled in front of the hotel, and a young man bounced out of the front door. “Checking in, sir?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Jerry hit the lift button that opened the hatch of the SUV. “Bag is in the back.” He left the key in the ignition and shut the door, handing the valet a five-dollar bill in exchange for a ticket. A bellman arrived with a cart and followed him to the registration desk.
Jerry signed in under his real name. No point in hiding his identity. As far as anyone was concerned, he worked for Millstone Enterprises and was there on business.
But when he was scouting for information, he would use one of his aliases, John Tatum or Jacob Taylor. He even had business cards in each of those names, which included a cell number to a burner phone just in case someone had to get in touch with him, perhaps because they remembered something, saw something, or heard something.
He eyed the type of name tags the employees were wearing. He could have one made with his name and one for Colette Petrov. His scheme was to impersonate an employee of the hotel and claim he found her badge in one of the elevators. It was an idea in progress. It would depend on what working attire or uniforms were at his disposal. In most hotels, there is a closet of uniforms for staff to change into should one get dirty or ripped during working hours. For the most part, employees were responsible for the care and cleaning of their uniforms, but sometimes a backup was necessary. He figured it would take him a little over a day to get acquainted with the hotel and its inner workings. That would be relatively simple. If the assumption that this was the same Colette he was seeking was true, finding her at the hotel should not prove all that difficult.
He phoned Arthur. “Landed. Will be scoping out the place tomorrow. I have a guy working on some fake employee badges.”
“What do you mean?” Arthur wondered what that had to do with anything.
“I sneaked a photo of the bellman’s employee badge when I was checking in. My guy in Queens said he can have them to me by tomorrow afternoon. If all goes well, I should have something for you tomorrow. Provided she is the one you are looking for.”
Arthur listened intently. “Look, I don’t care how you get the job done. But it sounds like you have things under control.”
“Don’t I always, boss?” Jerry was testing out the comfort level of the bed.
“Right. Let me know as soon as you hear or find anything.” Arthur hung up in his usual manner—blunt.
Jerry grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. Then he ordered a club sandwich from room service. He was bushed and wanted to get a fresh start in the morning.
* * *
As promised, the fake name tags were delivered by noon via FedEx. One said COLETTE PETROV and the other JOHN TATUM. He pulled out a black hairpiece that would fit perfectly over his well-waxed skull and a pair of lightly tinted aviator sunglasses. With two-inch lifts for his shoes, he doubted that anyone would recognize him from the day before. He stuffed his disguise and a duffel bag in an attaché case and left his room, making sure the cameras would spot him as himself. He walked to the end of the hallway and went into the stairwell, where he donned his hairpiece and glasses and inserted the lifts in his shoes. Then he turned his jacket inside out and put the attaché case in the duffel bag. He had already scoped out the security cameras. One per floor. Easy enough to avoid a straight-on look at him. He also planned to fake a slight limp.
After his transformation, he exited two floors down and proceeded to the lower level, where the supplies, the kitchen, and housekeeping were situated. There was so much hustle and bustle that no one took notice of him. He walked up to what appeared to be the youngest, most junior person around. “Hey, fella, can you tell me where I can pick up my uniform? First day on the job.”
The young, pimple-faced kid said, “Sure.” He pointed. “Down this side, through those doors, and on your left.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. No problem.” The kid kept stacking dishes.
Thompson made sure no one got a good look at his face even though it was well hidden under the glasses. He found the room marked UNIFORMS and knocked. No answer. Good news. He tried the knob, and it opened. More good news. He scanned the space, looking for an associate’s blazer and found one in a size large.
He snickered. I guess they don’t have custom-made uniforms. He took a sniff. He hoped he wouldn’t break out in a rash.
Thompson quickly changed, checked that his head rug was in place and his shoes tied well enough that they wouldn’t slip off his feet. Depending on what type of socks he wore, they could slip when he was wearing the lifts. He stuffed his golf jacket along with the attaché case back into the duffel bag and stowed it behind the uniforms hanging on the rack. He clipped the ID tag on his breast pocket above the hotel logo and glanced in the mirror. He was confident he would blend in.
He strode through the bustling service area, back to the elevator, and took it to the lobby level. The hotel was booked solid with a convention of dog groomers. There were hundreds of people milling about. Fortunately, Millstone Enterprises had a special deal with the hotel and was able to get him a room. Heck, Millstone Enterprises had a deal with almost everyone.
Thompson strode over to a bank of house phones and lifted one from its cradle.
“Operator. How may I direct your call?”
“Good morning. I would like to speak with Colette Petrov. Do you know if she is available?”
“Good morning, sir. Let me check the schedule.” She put him on hold for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, but she is doing her rounds right now. May I take a message for her?”
“Yes, please tell her I found her name tag in my room, and I am going to leave it at the front desk for her.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . . ?” the operator asked.
“Goodrich.” It was the first thing he could think of.
“Yes, Mr. Goodrich. I will let her know.”
Thompson walked over to the front desk and left the name tag on the counter. He went back to the house phone and waited. And waited. It was almost an hour before Colette appeared at the front desk. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo. Millstone would be pleased to see it. From a distance, he watched the exchange between the desk clerk and Colette. Colette was shaking her head in confusion, tapping her real name tag with her fingers. Both women shrugged, and Colette took the extra, fake one and put it in her pocket. She had a very puzzled look on her face as she walked away.
Thompson meandered through the lobby and took the wide staircase to the ballroom level, enjoying his anonymity. In an hour, he would go back to the service area, return the jacket, and retrieve his belongings. The service area was in a state of pandemonium. Perfect for him. No one paid any attention as to who was coming or going. There were two other people in the uniform-storage area, but they were too busy having a very gossipy conversation to notice him. He hung up the jacket and put his golf jacket on inside out. Hairpiece and glasses were still on his head. He nodded to a few people he had to slide past on his way out, keeping his head down as much as possible. He took the elevator to the top floor, skirted the camera, and entered the stairwell. He took the wig off his head, removed the lifts and glasses, folded the duffel bag, and placed everything in the attaché case. He took the stairs down to his floor, this time making sure the camera saw the real Jerry Thompson enter his room.
He phoned Millstone right away. “It’s her, boss.”
“Good,” Millstone said. “What’s your plan now?” he asked Thompson.
“What do you mean?” Thompson thought he was supposed to locate her, which he had.
“Now you need to find out how much she knows.” Millstone was tapping his pen anxiously on his desk.
“Gee, boss, I thought I was supposed to locate her, not interrogate her.” Thompson was trying not to whine. He had thought this was going to be an easy one.
“When I sent you out there, I didn’t need a positive ID. I needed information. That is what I’m paying you for.” Millstone was steamed that Thompson hadn’t thought ahead.
“OK. OK. But now I’m going to have to find out where she lives.”
“That shouldn’t be so hard. Follow her, you idiot.” Millstone slammed the phone.
Thompson stared at the dead air. “Guess I’ll be here for a while.” He knew Colette was working that day, so he would have to keep an eye out and follow her home. Then what? He wasn’t used to interrogating people. Maybe ask a few questions. Spying on them, yes. Beating them with a rubber hose? Definitely not. He had to come up with some ruse. But what? He couldn�
�t just knock on her door and say, “Hey, lady, fork over the document.” No, he had to be more subtle. He could say he was inquiring for the estate lawyer. They wanted a full accounting from her, since she had left abruptly after she found Randolph in the garage. She was the one who had called 911. “Yeah. That’s it!”
He changed into a suit, went back to the lobby, and asked the bellman where the employees parked. There was a parking garage on the lower level; the street entrance was on the next block. He gave the valet the ticket for his car and it arrived in a few minutes. Thompson pulled his car around the block and waited on the side street across from the garage exit. This was going to be a little difficult. He didn’t know what kind of car she drove. He decided to call Millstone. Big mistake. “How the hell should I know what she drives?” He sounded like a madman. “Just find her!” Again, Thompson’s phone went dead. He didn’t know how long he would be able to keep his car where he was parked, so he decided to wait until someone told him to move on. After several hours, he was getting hungry and had to go to the bathroom. Two things he hated about a stakeout: lousy food and no facilities.
Around five, several cars exited through the underground garage. Colette was not driving any of them. He was getting cranky and extremely uncomfortable. Finally, a Chevy Spark edged its way up the exit ramp. The woman put her ticket into the slot, and the gate went up. He was able to get a good look at her face and breathed a sigh of relief. His plan was to follow her home but wait until the next day to talk to her. Early. Daylight. He figured if he rang her doorbell at this hour, it might spook her. She would surmise that she had been followed. Too creepy. He thought about returning later in the evening and leaving a note at her door. Also probably creepy, but how else was he to connect with her without jumping out from behind the hedges. Then he had another brilliant idea. Send a note via a messenger service. Granted, it showed that someone knew where she lived. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that she hadn’t kept her home address a secret.
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