by Cleo Coyle
Sophia used her smartphone and the waiting room’s Wi-Fi to link to the jewelry shop’s closed-circuit television cameras. We three sat around a table to review the surveillance video on the tiny screen.
“We’ll watch the in-store video first to see if anyone broke in.”
The fast-motion, herky-jerky recording began with Sophia kissing her father good-bye earlier in the afternoon. Matt and I recognized Monica, the nervous blonde we met on our last visit—the one in the minidress and high-heeled Louboutins with platforms so big they looked like her mother’s shoes.
“What’s this?” Sophia cried. “Dad’s sending Monica and our armed guard home and closing the store. But the camera clock says it’s only three thirty? This makes no sense.”
“Maybe Gus planned to join you at the World Diamond Tower appointment,” I offered.
“Dad would have left Monica in charge, the guard on duty, and his workshop staff busy upstairs. There was no reason to close altogether.” Sophia bit her lip in thought. “Maybe he was preparing a private viewing for a VIP.”
But after Sophia sped through a group exodus of the Campana staff via the front door, and the armed guard carefully locking up after them, there was no arrival of a Very Important client. We saw no figure in a black hooded coat arriving, either, or anyone else on the rest of the camera’s recording—not until Matt and Sophia pushed through the front door hours later.
“Thank God no one got into the store,” Sophia said, relieved.
“But who changed the security code, and why?”
Sophia shook her head.
“Okay. What about the other camera?” I asked. “The one I saw positioned over the arch at the entrance to your courtyard.”
Sophia hacked into the second CCTV view. This time it took only a moment for the Phantom to make an appearance. Fortunately, our collision and my embarrassing pratfall happened off camera.
“I don’t understand how this person got in! Only Dad, me, and my older sister, Perla, have keys. Not even Monica has one.”
“Go back to noon,” I suggested, “and see who came through the archway’s gate in the hours before the Phantom ran out.”
Sophia nodded and ran the recording. The only person we saw was Gus, who left around one PM and came back at two. There was nothing after that, not until—
“What?!” Sophia cried, her manicured fingers tightening on the smartphone. “I don’t believe this . . .”
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“Dad buzzed in a visitor at four twenty.”
She displayed the phone. On screen, Matt and I saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure with an angular face and light blond hair.
“Who is that man?” I asked.
“It’s my husband, Hunter Rolf.”
FORTY-ONE
“IT looks like your husband was the last person to see Gus before what happened, happened.”
Sophia looked at me as if I’d spoken Martian. “It’s not possible, Clare. Dad would never meet with Hunter. He disliked my husband from the start. And it’s only gotten worse.”
“Someone buzzed Hunter in,” Matt replied. “If not Gus, then who?”
I interrupted with a better question. “Whether Hunter was with Gus or not, how long was he inside the compound?”
She continued to play the digital footage.
We all watched Hunter leave about an hour after he arrived and then . . . nothing. Just like the jewelry store’s front door camera, there were no new arrivals or departures at the courtyard gate until we came on the scene.
“Looks like Hunter was inside the property for almost an hour,” I said. “If he did meet with Gus, that’s a long time for one man to tell another man he doesn’t like him . . .”
I flashed back to the argument Matt and I overheard in the jewelry shop between Sophia and her husband. Hunter seemed pretty keen on talking with Gus. But Sophia had played gatekeeper and denied him entry—entry he obviously found today with Sophia preoccupied.
I also thought about that promise Gus made me to ask around about the Panther Man shooter and find out what he could. Matt thought it was idle talk, but now I wondered—
Could Gus’s condition be a result of asking too many questions about the pattern of police shootings? Or . . . finding too many answers?
Whatever was going on, one man seemed to have some answers.
“Your husband was obviously determined to speak to Gus,” I said firmly. “You need to find out why.”
“I agree,” said Matt, exchanging glances with me.
Reluctantly, Sophia nodded and put her smartphone to use. A minute later she was wiping away a tear. “Hunter won’t pick up my call, or answer my text. He’s probably busy with some new—”
Sophia paused and perked up when she heard activity in the hall. But her shoulders slumped when she realized it wasn’t her husband rushing to her, but some other man coming for another loved one.
After a moment of thought, she leaned across and touched my shoulder.
“Clare, I can’t leave the hospital. Will you and Matt go find Hunter at that 21 Club meeting? Ask him why he visited my father, what they talked about, and . . . what my father’s condition was when he left him.”
“No problem,” Matt said.
Yeah, no problem for the guy in the custom-cut Italian suit, but this was one of the most exclusive eateries on the West Side we were talking about, one with a strict dress code.
I faced Sophia. “I’m dressed fine for the sports bar on that block, but . . .”
Matt seemed baffled by my comment, but Sophia took one look at my simple black skirt, off-the-rack sweater, and low-heeled (slightly scuffed) New York walking shoes, and nodded.
“What size shoe are you, Clare—seven, right?”
I nodded.
She unfasted her stiletto sandals. “Let’s swap. Handbags, too . . .”
Finally, she tugged off her ruby and diamond earrings, unfastened the matching necklace and bracelet, and gave the stunning treasure trove to me.
“Put these on. The shoes and bag are to make you feel better. But, honestly, most of the people in that place will only see the jewels.”
* * *
YOU can’t imagine the confidence boost a little fresh makeup and twenty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry gives a girl.
I even stood taller—much taller—although, I had to admit, the reason for that wasn’t confidence as much as Sophia’s Giuseppe Zanotti “Cruel” Wing shoes.
The strappy five-inch-heeled sandals (with the fifteen-hundred-dollar price tag!) included decorative metal “Firewing” appliques on the front and two thin ankle straps. With the matching designer bag, I felt like a celebrity exiting the cab, and even managed a short catwalk down the sidewalk—before Matt had to catch me.
FYI: I now know exactly what Giuseppe meant when he called these shoes “cruel.”
I only hoped it wasn’t an omen for the night ahead.
FORTY-TWO
MATT was still holding me upright as we paused outside the 21 Club entrance.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“Take this,” I said, passing him my smartphone. “I asked Sophia to send me a photo of Hunter. See, I’ve called it up for you.”
“I know what he looks like, Clare. I saw the CCTV images.”
“The photo isn’t for you. It’s for the maître d’. Thanks to your famous editor wife, you’re the one with the connections here. So claim Hunter is your friend and ask where the man is seated.”
“Fine.”
Our strategy settled, we moved toward the club’s famous 52nd Street entrance, its wrought-iron facade more reminiscent of New Orleans’s French Quarter than the West Side of Manhattan. On the balcony above, a chorus line of colorful little lawn jockeys extended their cast-iron arms in greeting—a surreal elemen
t of kitsch to an otherwise elegant portico.
“What is up with all the lawn jockeys?” I wondered aloud.
“Notice some of the names under those jockeys, Clare?”
I did: Vanderbilt, Mellon, Ogden Mills Phipps . . .
“It started back in the 1930s, with a gift from a horsey-loving customer. Then other patrons with stables wanted their racing colors represented. And, hey, if A. G. Vanderbilt had his jockey on display, well, Mr. Mellon had to have his up there, too, and on and on, ad nauseam . . .”
“Okay, Gatsby, speaking of filthy rich, are you picking up the tab for this foray into the upper classes or am I?”
“Neither of us. Breanne is.”
Before I had a chance to object, my ex ushered me through the grand double doors, and into the golden glow of New York City’s most legendary bar.
As we entered, I realized Sophia was right. Her stiletto stilts gave me height and confidence, and the maître d’s admiring gaze brightened noticeably at the sight of my glittering gems—which magically rendered my cheap poly-blend sweater as good as invisible.
“Mr. Allegro!” cried the man with warm familiarity. “Welcome back to Manhattan. Would you like your usual table?”
“That depends . . .” Matt flashed the photo of Hunter on my phone and asked if we could be seated near him. “Is my friend upstairs tonight?”
The maître d’ shook his head. “No. And I’m afraid Mr. Rolf is in a private meeting. I cannot seat you near him, sir. But your usual table is open, if you’d like it.”
Matt nodded. “That’s fine.”
The host led us through the crowd and past the horseshoe-shaped bar. I scanned the well-dressed customers on the stools. No Hunter, which was no surprise, although I did recognize a number of famous faces and a surprisingly familiar one—that first-year NYU law student (“I need coffee badly!”) who’d become a new Village Blend regular.
Carla was her name, and her tall, slender form sat at the crowded bar alone, attractively dressed, auburn hair in a pretty twist, pale skin warmed with a dusting of rouge. With a drink in one hand, her smartphone in the other, I assumed she was waiting for a date—and in a place like this, that made me worry.
I hoped she wasn’t getting herself involved in a sugar daddy situation. I’d heard about young women solving their high-tuition problems by giving men, usually wealthy older men, “the girlfriend experience,” and (frankly) it horrified me.
Whatever her business, I knew it was none of mine, so I refocused on staying upright as Matt urged me (and my cruel shoes) to keep up with the crisp steps of 21’s maître d’.
The curved bar opened into a large room with a wooden floor and tables covered in old-fashioned red-checkered cloth. Most of the walls were paneled and held framed cartoons dedicated to “21” and drawn by the likes of Walt Disney and the New Yorker’s Peter Arno. But the most striking aspect of this otherwise typical tavern space was the colorful kitsch dangling from the ceiling—model airplanes and trucks, baseball bats and tennis rackets; the sheer number of items crammed up there was stunning.
As for the tables, most were occupied, and I spotted more famous faces as we strolled by—actors, politicians, TV news anchors—and once again, no Hunter.
At last, we were seated along the farthest wall, near the kitchen.
“Matt,” I whispered, “we’re supposed to be looking for Sophia’s husband, not going into social exile.”
“Trust me. This is the perfect spot to find him.”
“We’re in Siberia.”
“No, Clare. These are the most exclusive tables. In fact, this one was Dorothy Parker’s favorite. The one next to us was regularly occupied by Ernest Hemingway. And the one across from us, Frank Sinatra. I grant you, this isn’t the most popular section with tourists—that would be over there—” He pointed across the room. “Table 30, ‘Bogie’s Corner,’ where Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall had their first date.”
“That doesn’t answer my question about Hunter.”
“Keep your panties on. I have an idea where he is. Just be patient. In the meantime, try to enjoy the place.” He gestured to the crazy clutter of memorabilia hanging above us. “There’s a lot of history here.”
“History? It looks more like somebody opened the trapdoor of an attic and tossed out all the kids’ playthings.”
“The staff calls them toys and, believe me, they’re the kind Christie’s would die to auction. The bat up there belonged to Willie Mays. Those ice skates are Dorothy Hamill’s, that tennis racket is Chris Evert’s—the smashed one is John McEnroe’s. And those pool cues are from The Hustler with Paul Newman.”
“I see a model of the PT-109. That’s not—?”
“Yeah, that was Jack Kennedy’s. JFK gave it to the club. And that model of Air Force One came from Bill Clinton.”
I studied the ceiling with new interest. “There are more airplanes up there than anything else.”
“It’s the same story as the jockeys out front. Years ago, British Airways hung a model of one of their planes over their table for a corporate dinner. Howard Hughes saw it and decided—”
“They’d better hang his plane, too. I get it. The millionaires’ equivalent of roosters crowing.” I had another thought and shuddered. “I would hate to have to dust all that stuff.”
“Only you would think of that.”
“Because I’m probably the only service industry manager seated as a guest in this room. With your new inheritance, on the other hand, it looks like you and Joy have just become members of the one-percent club.”
“No, Clare. We haven’t.”
FORTY-THREE
MATT’S remark was followed by a sullen silence that surprised me. But then so did his behavior in the bowels of the World Diamond Tower when he held my hand down; and again in the cab on the way to Gus’s place when he forcefully turned my ring around.
“Well?” I said. “Are you going to explain why you think you and Joy haven’t become millionaires? And while we’re at it—” I lifted my engagement ring. “Why don’t you want Sophia to know my ring might have some of the missing coffee diamonds from the Eye’s setting?”
“Because I want you to keep those diamonds, Clare. You deserve them.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I be able to keep them?”
“For the same reason I doubt very much that Sophia and I—and Joy—will be able to cleanly inherit that multimillion-dollar bauble. Gus and my father hid the Eye of the Cat for sixty years because they believed they couldn’t sell it in their own time. I’m sure they thought that after more than half a century, no one would remember. But they were wrong. And there is going to be a legal tsunami roaring toward us that gives me a headache just to contemplate.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Okay, issue one.” Matt held up his index finger. “After the Andrea Doria went down, the Italia Line’s insurance company paid passengers for their losses. From what I know, they didn’t pay much, but if they cut a check to Gus, and he had the jewel all along, then they own the Eye, not us.”
“You don’t know all the facts yet. If Gus still had the jewel, he may have rejected the insurance payment.”
“Maybe he did, which brings us to issue two.” Matt’s second finger joined his first. “Last week, Gus himself told us he was loaned the jewel to sell in America. He was supposed to use the money from the sale to bring over the rest of his family. All these years, he pretended the jewel was lost—and the family believed him. Now what will they think?”
“I don’t know. But it’s clear you and Sophia are going to need a lawyer.”
“And maybe a bodyguard . . .” Matt curled one finger and raised a thumb, shaping his hand into a gun.
I blanched at that. “You think the Campanas will try to—”
“Vendetta, Clare. It’s an Italian word. Y
ou should know it.”
“In the twenty-first century, you’re better off with an English word: attorney.”
“Sadly, I’m familiar with the word. The truth is, even before this mess, I needed one—a tax attorney.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish. Our friends at the IRS audited my returns over the last few years and denied a stack of deductions.” Matt put his hand-gun to his head and pulled the trigger. “I’m a small fortune in arrears, not counting interest and penalties. I can make good over time, but it will be much easier if you help me get that Andrea Doria coffee contract.”
“Maybe Sophia’s right. Maybe that jewel is bad luck.”
“Well, it sure was bad luck for Gus.”
“I’m thinking the same thing. That he was stricken today of all days seems like more than coincidence—and now that you’ve brought up the idea of a vendetta, I’m wondering if that man who was watching you and Sophia outside the World Diamond Tower—the one I told you about with the U-shaped scar on his cheek—could he be working for the Campanas? And what about the stranger in black, that Phantom figure I saw running from Gus’s property?”
“Too many questions,” Matt said. “And the only man who can answer them is in the hospital, unconscious.”
“Not the only one. Hunter Rolf might be able to clear up some of this mystery.” I looked around the room. “But where is he?”
Before Matt could reply, a young woman approached our table, bent low, and purred into his ear.
“Why so glum? You look like you need a drink.”
The ruby-tipped fingers that caressed Matt’s broad shoulders belonged to a leggy blonde in a curve-hugging polka-dot dress. I’d noticed her on one of the barstools when we arrived. I wouldn’t say she was gorgeous, but I would concede she was well-built—and enjoyed showing off the architecture.
“How about something sweet?” she cooed. “Like a Slow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall?”
Did she actually proposition Matt, right in front of me?
