by Jill Gregory
Josy drove to the store, stocked up on groceries, and went straight home. When she got there she drew the package out of the recesses of her kitchen cabinet, set it on the counter. Then she waited until all of her groceries were put away before she carried it into her bedroom and placed it on the bed.
Sunlight slanted into the room as she sank down on both knees on the bed, studying the parcel.
Ricky had told her not to open it—and she hadn’t for the past two weeks. But she was neck-deep in this too, and much as she loved Ricky, she wasn’t a kid who needed advice and guidance anymore.
She made her own decisions. And she’d decided while Ricky was talking to her that it was time to find out what had gotten Archie killed and set her and Ricky on the run.
She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about defying Ricky as she lifted up the package and began tearing through the layers of brown wrapping paper.
Finally she reached a thin white cardboard box, which was sealed with tape. She used her apartment key to rip open the seal and carefully emptied out the contents— bubble wrap, tissue paper . . .
And inside four layers of the tissue paper . . .
She went very still.
It was a jewel.
Not just any jewel, Josy thought, her throat closing. It was a diamond. A glittering, dazzling, golden-yellow diamond—and it was big as an egg.
My God, where did Ricky get this?
It glittered brighter than the sun.
How many carats can it be? she wondered in awe, staring at it. One hundred? Two hundred?
Her hand shook as she reached for it, carefully picked it up. Her palm tingled. The jewel felt warm, vibrant against her skin. She’d never seen, much less touched, a jewel of this size, or this brilliance.
She knew it had to be real—and priceless. A man had already died for it. Another man had killed trying to get it back.
And she had it. Here, in her tiny rented apartment in the wilds of Wyoming. She had this . . . this amazing treasure that had brought Archie death.
She gulped, thinking of it stored all this time in her cabinet. With the Cheerios and cans of tuna and the jar of Jif peanut butter.
Where did it come from?
She didn’t want to contemplate that; she only knew that if the men chasing Ricky didn’t kill him first, she would do it herself when she finally met up with him.
It had to have been stolen. Had to be. But . . . whom had he stolen it from . . . and why?
She dropped the diamond into the box on her bed, sprang up, and began to pace around the room.
Ricky was in deep trouble, deeper than she’d even contemplated—and so was she. She’d expected the package to contain some kind of evidence, evidence that would exonerate him from the charges that had been made against him in New York. Evidence that would incriminate someone else.
But she’d never expected anything like this.
And now she was an accessory to whatever crime had put him in possession of the diamond.
Panic bubbled in her as she paced. Okay, think. What can you do?
She had to turn it over to the authorities. Immediately. As soon as she did, the danger would be over—for her, and probably for Ricky. Once word got out that the diamond had been recovered and was in police possession, surely whoever was chasing them would back off. Regroup.
She and Ricky could get out of this alive.
But . . . they’d both still face charges. Unless they could cut a deal. Maybe Ricky could explain, could get immunity. Maybe there were circumstances that had led him to this, circumstances that could be explained, justified.
There had to be—the Ricky she’d known all these years wasn’t a thief. He must have had a good reason, she told herself, fighting back images of prison bars.
Josy went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, drank one sip, and set the glass down. Her hands were still shaking. But she knew what she could do.
She could go to Ty Barclay. Turn the package over to him, let him contact the authorities in New York—and whatever else he needed to do. He would listen to her, she was pretty certain of that. Maybe he’d even help her, though she couldn’t expect him to vouch for her. She’d lied about too many things already.
But she thought he would at least hear her out.
Only . . . Ricky had told her the cops couldn’t get hold of the package. He’d insisted on it. And if she confided in Ty . . . they would.
She went back into the bedroom, threw herself down on the bed beside the box and the diamond, and covered her eyes with her hands.
Thinking back, she saw Ricky facing down the Callahan brothers for her. She saw Ricky sneaking into the Hammond basement, bringing her food, light, company.
She saw him teaching her how to kick a man in the balls to give herself time to get away if she was ever cornered, and insisting that she get familiar with the workings of a gun—even giving her one, already registered—as a welcome present when she’d moved into her first sixth-floor walk-up in the Village.
Of course she’d never used it. She’d given it to Jane, who’d been mugged one night at an ATM on her way home from work. Jane vowed she would use it if she had to—Josy had never wanted to even imagine having to use a gun. But she’d never told Ricky.
He’d only wanted her to be safe. Ever since she’d known him, he’d tried to keep her safe, tried to teach her how to get beyond being a mute victim of tragedy and of a system that was far larger and tougher than she was.
Ricky had been good to her. Was she really going to turn him in?
She knew the answer even as she peeled her hands away from her face. She gazed bleakly down at the diamond.
And suddenly she knew what she had to do.
Oliver Tate sipped a brandy as he strolled the length of his secret room. Hidden in the walls behind his wine cellar, this was his favorite room in the house, and the only room that even Renee was not permitted to visit without him.
It was thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, carpeted in black, with pearl-white walls. It was temperature-controlled, soundproofed, and lit by an extensive lighting system that dramatically spotlighted each of his many treasures from all over the world.
One of his greatest pleasures had always been to come here, anytime he chose, and survey everything he had acquired. He loved to touch them, all the beautiful pieces worthy of a king. Even more, he loved remembering how he’d acquired them and planning exactly where he would place and display his next precious acquisition.
But tonight as he waited for Renee to finish dressing for the AIDS charity concert at Lincoln Center, he was disturbed, too disturbed to even remotely enjoy this room.
Nothing was right here, not now, not since the diamond had been stolen. The Golden Eye had a reputation for being stolen that had been earned over centuries, and he himself had stolen it from an enemy, a drug lord in Malaysia. But it was not acceptable that the Golden Eye be stolen from him.
He needed it back, not only because its place on the black marble pedestal was empty now, but because it would prove that no one could cross him and get away with it.
Olvan Tatrinsky had learned long ago that strength, not weakness, was the key to success. And that scum cop Sabatini who’d wormed his way into his organization and won Lyle Samuels’s trust had made him look weak.
But not for long.
Dolph has had more than enough time, Tate thought darkly, staring unseeingly at the luminous Rembrandt framed in burnished gold upon the wall, near the seventeenth-century Flemish tapesty that had once graced the British Museum.
If he can’t handle this, it’s time to find someone who can.
Tate paused to survey the soothingly quiet room, his gaze restlessly skimming the paintings and statues and objets d’art—from the glistening samurai sword dating from the twelfth century to the antique pearl-handled Regency dueling pistols. He took in the exquisite Fabergé eggs glittering on a gilt-edged Russian table, and the Renaissance pendant necklace said to hav
e been worn at one time by the Empress Josephine.
But tonight he couldn’t even be charmed by the array of golden, jewel-encrusted snuff boxes, or by his collections of Sevres vases or ancient Chinese jade.
No, tonight all he could do was curse the man who had pierced not only the secrecy of his organization—but also the privacy of his home.
Sabatini had somehow burrowed so deep undercover he’d been welcomed into the outer circle of Tate’s organization. And that had enabled him to collect damning evidence linking Tate’s business dealings to the very unsavory crime boss Julius Caventini.
And even Becker, Tate’s own private cop-in-the-pocket, hadn’t gotten wind of the undercover operation until it was too late. By the time Becker had a clue, Sabatini had already managed to turn over evidence that could send both Tate and Caventini to prison for the rest of their lives.
Tate scowled and polished off the last of his brandy.
He reminded himself that much of what needed to be done to rectify the situation had already taken place. With Becker’s help, they’d managed to make the evidence Sabatini had collected simply disappear. And Sabatini had been cleverly discredited, making him look like nothing but a dirty cop on the take, trying to save his own filthy neck— a cop whose word wouldn’t be worth a gram of crap.
But Tate hadn’t anticipated that he’d strike back—and in the most in-your-face way imaginable: by stealing a diamond worth twenty million dollars from Tate’s own private home.
Lyle Samuels, his so-called security expert, was to blame for that. Before he’d died, Samuels had confessed that a week before Sabatini’s cover was blown, he’d actually shown Sabatini the secret room, proudly displaying his security system’s high-tech bells and whistles to someone he considered part of the team.
So now the Golden Eye was gone. One of the largest, most legendary diamonds in the world, snatched from the home of the man who had spent more than seven years trying to find it.
According to legend, the Golden Eye had originally been set in the eye of an idol. History had later tracked it—noting its possession by sheiks and sultans, pirates and kings. It had even made its way to the French court of Louis XV before it vanished in the bloodbath of the French Revolution.
But it belongs here, Tate thought, his green eyes narrowing to icy slits. It was made to be mine.
It’s more than time to call in backup for Dolph, he decided as he left his treasure room and went to find Renee.
Armstrong would have his chance to get the job done.
He was tired of waiting, tired of excuses for Dolph not finding the girl. Let them both hunt her—and the diamond.
And may the best man win.
Chapter 13
THE BLAZER BUMPED AND ROLLED ALONG THE rough gravel road as Josy drove slowly, making careful notations on her sketch pad. She refused to let herself be distracted by the stunning beauty of this rugged land, or by the aquamarine radiance of the Wyoming sky. But she did brake suddenly to stare when she saw a small herd of pronghorn antelope on a ledge no more than a few hundred yards away.
Beautiful and proud, they stood perfectly still for a moment as if surveying their own private kingdom, then suddenly they turned as one and bounded away, disappearing along the rocky bluff as if they’d been no more than a mirage.
She glanced at her map again, took note of her surroundings, and jotted a brief description for herself, along with a drawing.
Ledge at right . . . aspen tree . . . purple flowers beneath . . .
She’d been driving exactly sixteen minutes since she’d left the highway, following the road into the foothills about one mile south of Shadow Point and the trail she and Ty had ridden the other day.
Not far enough yet, she decided, and drove on, climbing for another quarter of a mile. When she reached a side trail that wound around a gully, she turned onto it and proceeded slowly, watching for just the right spot.
Finally she stopped and got out, taking the package— rewrapped and retaped in its original brown paper—with her. She also pulled out the small shovel she’d bought at Merck’s Hardware and her sketch pad and pencil, and set off toward a big rock nestled alongside a broken tree stump.
She knelt down in the grass a foot from the rock, dropped everything but the shovel in a little pile, and began to dig.
Turning down Angel Road an hour later, she wasn’t surprised to see Corinne’s car parked in front of Ada’s house. She’d already stopped by Bessie’s Diner, hoping to see Ada, and she’d heard all about the bad news.
“I’m jinxed, that’s what it is,” Corinne was saying in a low, desolate tone as Josy peered in through the screen door. They were sitting in Ada’s living room, and Ada was pouring her a cup of tea.
“Maybe I’m not supposed to get married. Maybe I’m just not supposed to marry Roy. Maybe this is fate’s way of telling me the wedding is a mistake—” Her voice cracked.
“Stop that now,” Ada chided. Josy had never heard her speak so sternly. “You’re talking nonsense.” She caught sight of Josy on the porch and motioned her inside.
“Did you hear what happened?” Ada asked as Josy joined them.
“Yes, Roberta told me—the bridal shop went out of business. You don’t have a gown.”
“They just closed their doors. There was a message on their machine—all shipments have been suspended and they can’t fill any orders dated after the first of last month. I’m so screwed,” Corinne groaned, and tears shimmered in her eyes.
“Corinne, we’ll figure something out,” Josy soothed, sitting down beside her.
“That’s exactly what I told her.” Ada took a seat on the other side of Corinne. “There’s that bridal shop in Casper. We’ll go there and find you something pretty—”
“It’s too late. There won’t be time for fittings. I called and they’re completely booked for the next three weeks. And their stock is low . . . I’m going to have to get married in my navy blue suit. It’s short, it’s too tight on me, and I’m going to look like a fat bluebird on my wedding day!”
Corinne gave a sobbing gasp as she struggled for self-control.
“Ada, you know about Roy’s family,” she said miserably as Josy stared at her, mystified. “They’re related to the Barclays. And they’re all rich. They own all that oil and natural gas, they have interests all over the world. I know Roy doesn’t care about things like that—he loves me—but I don’t want to humiliate him by walking down the aisle in a skimpy blue suit that hits above my knees . . . with a b-broken zipper—”
“You’re hardly going to do that,” Ada interrupted her. “We’ll find you something in that bridal shop. And I’ll do the fittings myself, if need be. I can still sew rings around just about anyone in this town, even if my eyes aren’t what they once were. I’ll get it done for you in time and you’re going to look as pretty as any bride who ever walked down the aisle.”
“I’ll help,” Josy said instantly. They both stared at her.
“I’ve been sewing for years,” she said quickly. “I almost studied fashion design instead of interior design.”
She squeezed Corinne’s arm. “Between Ada and me, we’re going to have you looking like you belong on the cover of Bride magazine.”
A flicker of hope shone in Corinne’s eyes. “Really? You think?”
“I know.” Josy stood up, taking charge. “Let’s go.”
Two hours later they were plundering through the racks of Ceecee’s Bridal Shop in Casper.
The selection was thin and the gowns picked over, because, as the salesgirl explained, it was between seasons. Most of the summer stock was gone, except for whatever gowns remained on the racks. The shipment of new fall styles wouldn’t arrive until later in June.
Corinne’s face had fallen when she’d seen the sparse selection but she turned toward the racks with something like desperation in the set of her mouth. Ada and Josy each picked a different rack and began eyeing the lineup of gowns.
There wasn’t much
there, Josy had to admit as she shuffled through padded hanger after padded hanger. Most of the leftovers looked like discouraged wallflowers. They were either too frumpy or too sexy, too plain or too glittery, or else too froufrou—nothing that would be right on Corinne. None of them caught her eye until . . .
“What about this?” she said suddenly, sweeping an ivory silk gown off the rack, carrying it over to Corinne. Ada scurried over, pursing her lips as she studied the gown.
“The fabric is beautiful,” Corinne said slowly, “but the high neckline . . . I don’t know. It looks so prim and old-fashioned. It isn’t me.”
“No, it isn’t, but I’ll fix it. We’ll make it strapless, and I’ll add seed pearls to the bodice and hem, jazz up the train . . .”
“You know how to do all that?” Ada asked incredulously, staring at her.
“Watch and see.” Josy grinned. For the first time since she’d fled New York, she felt free. She felt like herself. She wasn’t lying, evading, or pretending. And she could do something to really help Corinne, to help her have the wedding day she’d dreamed of.
“If you buy this dress, Corinne, I’ll turn it into your dream dress. You’re going to look like a movie star.”
Corinne’s eyes sparkled as she gazed from the dress to Josy.
“I’m buying it,” she announced.
Ada shook her head. “I’ll help with what I can, but what you’re talking about is beyond me,” she admitted.
“It would help a lot if you could sew in some of the seed pearls,” Josy told her. “I’ll make a pattern and show you where they go.”
An hour later, after Corinne found simple white satin heels that she arranged to have dyed ivory, they headed over to a small restaurant called the Buffalo Grill for a celebratory dinner.
“You don’t understand, Josy. I’m not usually neurotic. I’m a calm person.” Corinne leaned back against the tan leather booth. “Aren’t I, Ada?”
“Cool as a cucumber,” Ada agreed. She cut her hamburger in half and reached for the catsup. “At least you were—until the day Roy proposed. Since then, you’ve been a basket case most of the time.”
