by Cleo Coyle
“That’s right, Clare.” Sophia nodded. “The butchers were moved out, forcibly in most cases, and the gold merchants moved in. In the years that followed, my family recut the diamond, and set it as a tribute to the Hindu legend, which is probably how the myth of the protective bridge cat came about in the first place. The jewel was passed down through the years, until the Andrea Doria sank and the jewel went down with it . . . except it didn’t.”
Sophia shook her head. “Do you know how many deep-sea treasure hunters perished searching the shipwreck for this very gem? All those lives lost, and the jewel hidden in this safe-deposit box all along . . .”
She returned her attention to the appraisal.
“I must say, this setting is in excellent condition, considering it spent sixty years in an old shoe box. The clasp is intact, the gold held its luster . . . but several decorative stones are missing. Two, four, six, ten . . . I count sixteen coffee diamonds gone from the setting. They must have been lost during the shipwreck.”
I exchanged a guilty glance with Matt.
I was tempted to hide my left hand behind my back, but decided honesty was the best policy. With a deep breath, I was about to confess that eight of those diamonds were likely on my left hand. Nancy even mentioned seeing the tiny star flaws at their centers. But when I tried to raise my hand to show Sophia, Matt silently gripped it and forced it back down.
“If this is true,” he loudly said, cutting off my attempted confession, “how in heaven’s name did my father come to partially own it—or at least will it as a legacy?”
Sophia’s expression grew increasingly baffled. “I don’t know, Matteo. This is a total surprise to me, too—and a complete mystery.”
Matt faced Sal Arnold. “I think you know more about this than you led us to believe.”
Sal Arnold’s head slouched between his round shoulders as if he were dodging shrapnel.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “That name on the letter. A. Goldman. I know who it is. Abe Goldman was my grandfather on my mother’s side. He was a diamond trader in this very building. His son founded the law firm that I inherited with my brother. When our father passed, we moved the business to Queens, and the trust moved with us.”
“And?” Matt probed.
Arnold shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“But there must be some kind of a paper trail,” Matt insisted. “A registered appraisal. Something?”
When Sal Arnold shook his head, Sophia said she wasn’t surprised.
“Look, Matt, you see here on the letter. The words mazl un brokhe are written at the bottom. That means good luck and a blessing.”
“I know what it means, Sophia.”
“No you don’t, not here in the Diamond District. That Yiddish phrase is never given or taken lightly. It’s an oral handshake that can seal a deal worth millions, without lawyers and contracts. When you make mazl, you’re staking the honor of your family on fulfilling your promise.”
Matt threw up his hand. “Then how are we going to find out anything?”
Everyone in this cave was tiptoeing around the answer, which left me to state the obvious.
“Your father can certainly solve the mystery, Sophia. He signed the letter, along with Matt’s father, who’s long dead. That means only Gus can tell us why and how the Eye is here, and not at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean with the Andrea Doria.”
Frowning, Sophia reached for her smartphone.
“Don’t bother,” Matt said. “No reception down here.”
“But Clare is right! Dad knows the truth. I’ve got to speak with him.”
“We all want to talk to Gus,” Matt said, folding the letter and placing it in his pocket. “But we’ll have to go upstairs to do it. Now let’s lock this necklace back up and we can go—unless you plan on wearing it home?”
As the elevator lifted us out of Manhattan bedrock, my thoughts returned to the legacy letter in Matt’s pocket.
“What does that other phrase mean?” I asked Matt and Sophia. “Mr. Goldman wrote it right after the mazl. Something like ken eye—”
“Ken eyne hore,” Sophia and Matt recited together.
“They’re superstitious here in the Diamond District,” Sophia explained. “They have been for years.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ken eyne hore is a talisman phrase,” she said, “like knock on wood.”
“Is that what it means?”
“No,” Matt replied, exchanging a tense glance with Sophia. “It means without the evil eye.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
UNFORTUNATELY, our rapid ascent was not to street level. Matt and Sophia were obliged to return to the offices of Lyons Global Security where they signed a barrage of property transfer papers for Sal Arnold. Then more forms arrived from Lyons, and even more from the Swiss company insuring the gem. It was well after seven PM before we left the Diamond Tower.
We’d barely hit the chilly evening sidewalk before Matt and Sophia had their phones to their ears—Matt ringing up his mother; Sophia calling Gus.
I folded my arms and casually watched the parade of traffic and pedestrians heading down Fifth Avenue.
And then I saw something curious.
Across Fifth, a car was idling, and not just any car. This was a vintage black Jaguar, the same kind of car that had pulled up in front of the Campana store last week.
My gaze moved to the driver’s seat, and sitting behind the wheel was the same big man in black with the same U-shaped scar on his cheek.
I remembered the woman who’d been with him—the fashionista with the cat-shaped turquoise glasses and dramatic two-toned hair. She’d imperiously commanded me to hold open that iron gate to the courtyard so she could get to Gus. Matt as good as told her to go fly a kite.
Was that woman in the Jag’s backseat now? And was she also staring at these two new trustees of a long-lost gem and veritable fortune?
Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer either question. Though the front seat windows were down, the back windows were up and heavily tinted.
Too curious not to get a closer look, I moved slowly away from Sophia and Matt, walking uptown along the sidewalk. Traffic on Fifth was light, and I managed to jaywalk (carefully!) through the passing vehicles to the other side of the street.
I approached the Jag from the rear—all the better to see through the back window.
Unfortunately, that window was tinted, too.
Now what?
I would need to stick my head through one of the front seat windows to see into the backseat, which seemed impossible—until I came up with a solution inspired by the U-shaped scar on the man’s face.
Anxious but determined, I charged down the street, frantically waving my smartphone like a semaphore. I rushed right up to the Jaguar.
“Hello? Are you my Uber car? You must be my Uber car. I’m late and I’ve been waiting forev—”
I expected the driver to speak to me—which would have given me a chance to peek into the backseat and address the woman (if she was there).
Didn’t I see you in front of the Campanas’ shop in the Village? I was ready to ask, which would have opened the conversation to more urgent questions.
But instead of speaking with me, the driver threw the idling car into gear, and punched the gas. Tires squealed as the Jag leaped forward, into traffic. Yells and honks ensued. The driver ignored them and kept going.
I would have chalked that encounter up to paranoia or coincidence. (After all, Cat Glasses woman was a fashionista and we were in the Diamond District.) But before the black Jag’s uber-scary driver screeched away, I’d caught a split-second sight of something too disturbing to dismiss. The driver wasn’t just staring at Sophia and Matt. By the time I reached him, he had lifted a smartphone, as if he were taking photos or digital video.
“Clare
! Over here!”
On the other side of Fifth, Matt was waving frantically with one hand while he held a cab door with the other. Sophia was already in the backseat.
“There’s no time to window-shop!” he shouted. “You know we’re in a hurry. Come on!”
THIRTY-NINE
“I can’t reach my father, or the jewelry shop,” Sophia told me as I slid into the cab’s backseat.
Matt squeezed in beside me and shut the door. “I can’t reach Mother, either, but that’s nothing new. She’s always busy with someone or something.”
“Maybe a high-end client showed up unexpectedly,” Sophia considered aloud. “I don’t know, but it feels wrong . . .”
Her anxiety was palpable, and I didn’t want to add to it, but I did need to find out if she knew anything about the driver in the vintage black Jag.
Sophia’s brow wrinkled at my descriptions of the man—and the woman who’d asked to see Gus the week before.
“Neither sounds familiar, but then I don’t deal with retail anymore or making appointments. Monica will know—”
“Monica?” I asked. “Is she the petite, young blonde who greets customers?”
“The same.”
“Matt and I met her the other day, but we didn’t catch her name.”
“She works full-time for my father. So she may know if he doesn’t. When we get to the shop, we’ll ask them.”
The mood in the cab was beyond tense.
To calm my nerves, I began playing with Quinn’s engagement ring—until I felt Matt’s right hand cover my left.
With Sophia focused on her smartphone on one side of me, Matt took hold of my hand on the other and firmly pulled it into his lap.
I sent him a withering You have got to be kidding!
Rolling his eyes, his fingers did their silent work and he released my hand with Quinn’s ring turned 180 degrees. Now the jewels, including those questionable coffee diamonds, were facing my palm and effectively hidden from Sophia’s view.
“Why?” I mouthed.
“Tell you later,” he mouthed back. “Trust me.”
Two simple words in the English language, easy enough to understand—but when uttered by Matteo Allegro, I found impossible to believe.
* * *
AS soon as we pulled up in front of the Campana address, Sophia rang the bell for the jewelry store, and we waited to be buzzed in.
“Come on, Monica. Answer the door, you stupid girl.”
High-heeled foot tapping impatiently, she tried a second time, but got no response.
“Fine, I’ll let myself in.”
She swiped her thumbprint over a tiny panel on the door frame, and a small hatch opened to reveal a security keypad. She punched in a series of numbers and letters, cursed, and did it again. After a third attempt, the panel light remained red.
“This isn’t right. The security code won’t work—I think it’s been changed.”
“Changed? When?”
“Today, Matt. The old code worked last evening. Nobody told me about a change!”
An anxious Sophia shoved a key into the door lock. Matt grabbed her hand. “This could be a robbery situation. You shouldn’t go in there.”
“Dad could be in danger. I have to go!”
“It’s not smart, Sophia.”
“Look, fifteen seconds after I open this door, the alarm is going to go off—here, in the backhouse, and at our security’s central station. The police will be here in minutes.”
“Fine,” Matt said. “But if you insist on going in, then I’m going with you.”
Sophia nodded, turned the key, and the lock clicked.
Matt turned to me. “Wait here, Clare. When help arrives, explain the situation to the cops so some trigger-happy rookie doesn’t shoot us by mistake.”
With Matt in the lead, the pair pushed through the store entrance. I stepped out of the recessed doorway and along the sidewalk, counting down the seconds.
The alarm went off on cue, an earsplitting clamor that battered the quiet block and made my teeth rattle. The noise rattled someone else, too, as I discovered the hard way.
I was watching for the police like Matt’s good little soldier, when, behind me, I heard metal crash against metal. Before I could turn, someone slammed into me. I stumbled and fell, landing on my Spanx-covered backside.
I tried to ID the fast-moving figure, but the most I could see from my unceremonious sidewalk view was a long black coat (a raincoat?) fluttering loosely with the black hood up. The figure moved fast as flickering light along Perry Street, disappearing into the shadows like an urban phantom.
As I stood and dusted myself off, I realized the Phantom had gone through the arch. I knew because the iron gate that had been closed when we arrived was now wide open.
I thought about giving chase—a futile gesture in low heels and a skirt, and an all-round stupid idea. Besides, I was more worried about Gus, now. Had he been robbed? Attacked?
I peeked around the arch and found the gate had been yanked open with such force that it wedged itself against the spiral staircase to Gus’s upstairs office and workshop. I listened again for sirens—and heard nothing but the continuous jangle of the burglar alarm.
So much for the police showing up “in minutes.”
Well, I couldn’t wait. If Gus was hurt, then seconds counted.
I left the gate open to signal Matt and the police where I’d gone. Then I proceeded along the narrow cobblestone corridor, where shadows were so deep I couldn’t see my feet. Soon I moved into the dim glow of the courtyard’s bell-shaped lamps.
I hesitated before stepping into the clear.
What if the prowler had an accomplice, lurking behind the tinkling fountain, or among the manicured bushes?
Then I saw the front door to Gus’s hidden backhouse was open, light from the foyer spilling onto the outside steps. I forgot everything else and hurried across the courtyard.
Moving through the door, I called out Gus’s name. Except for the brightly illuminated foyer, the other rooms in the house appeared dark—until I spied the glow of a flickering fireplace in the sitting room, where Gus had shared his memories of the Andrea Doria.
“Gus?”
Standing at the doorway, I finally saw him, slumped in one of the beautifully embroidered Italianate chairs. His head was down, so I couldn’t see his expression. A nearly finished glass of cold brew sat on the side table next to him. Another glass, still full, sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, as if Gus had served a guest.
Is he asleep?
I moved closer—and cried out when I saw flecks of black blood dotting his white polo shirt. I rushed forward and touched the man. His head lolled sideways, and I saw the mess around his mouth, on his chin.
I felt for a pulse and, miracle of miracles, found one!
Despite his lean frame, Gus was surprisingly heavy, but after some difficulty I managed to get him off the chair and onto the floor. I rolled him on his back and checked his mouth for blockage. I heard a gurgle with every labored breath.
I used chest compression to clear his breathing passage. Eight, nine, ten hard pumps, and suddenly Gus’s body convulsed and he emptied the rest of his stomach onto the Persian carpet.
“Clare!”
Matt was at the door, along with two policemen. Sophia peeked over their broad shoulders and pushed her way into the room.
“Call 911!” she cried. “We need an ambulance!”
“It’s on the way, ma’am,” one officer said.
Then we worked in tandem, performing CPR on the still-unconscious Gus Campana, until the paramedics arrived.
FORTY
ALL hospitals feel the same. This building was a different facility, in a different part of town, and it was Gus, not Sully, wrestling with the Grim Reaper. But the anxiety wa
s the same, along with the tears, the waiting, the dreading of the doctor’s prognosis. Even the Spartan snack room was painfully familiar with its single-serve coffee machines that allegedly brewed “the perfect cup every time.”
FYI: They don’t—the preground beans are old by the time the hot water hits them, their complexity and vibrancy long gone. But, this coffeehouse manager and master roaster hadn’t had caffeine in six grueling hours.
Time to compromise.
My taste buds were still protesting that first dead stale sip when Sophia appeared with Matt by her side.
“Dad’s stabilized, but he’s not out of danger,” she announced.
“What happened?”
“The doctors aren’t sure. They found no signs of injury. He didn’t have a heart attack, and there’s no indication of a stroke, thank God. They hope to know more when the test results are in.”
Tears welled up in Sophia’s big, amber-brown eyes. Matt hugged her, and spoke into her ear. “Remember, Gus survived the Andrea Doria. He’ll survive this.”
“Why was Gus alone?” I asked. “You mentioned a girl when we tried to get into the shop—”
“Monica?” Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know why Dad puts up with that stupid girl. Yes, Monica was supposed to be on duty, but she wasn’t. And I haven’t been able to reach her for an explanation.”
“Have you told your husband?”
“Hunter texted me that he’ll come soon. He’s tied up with some important client meeting at the 21 Club, and can’t possibly break off the engagement.” Anger clouded Sophia’s pretty face. “It’s probably a woman . . .”
“I’m sorry—”
“It doesn’t matter, Clare. I need your help with something else. You told the police you saw someone fleeing my father’s property. Do you think you could identify that person?”
“Only by the clothing. I never saw a face. And I only got a glimpse of the figure before it disappeared into the shadows. But I did see the person was wearing a long black coat, or raincoat, hood up.”
“That’s good enough.”
