Soon, Kate made her exit, and with that, others quickly followed. When the room had emptied of guests, Jamie removed the top of the display case, returned the necklace to its beautifully restored rosewood box, and beckoned for Stone’s group to follow him. He led the way to his office, set the box on his desk, and turned. “Who’s first?”
“I’m not shy,” Viv said, stepping forward.
Jamie removed the necklace from the box and unfastened the clasp; then he stopped. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This is a new clasp, and I didn’t approve that. The old one was working just fine.” He turned his desk lamp toward him and looked more closely at the choker. “Oh, my God,” he said.
—
Daryl and Annie helped clear the room of glasses and serving pieces, then Annie went to the ladies’ dressing room. Daryl retrieved a plastic container from a pile and emptied the leftover guacamole into it from two serving dishes. He found a paper bag for the container, then went to the dressing room and retrieved his clothes, tossing his uniform into a laundry cart. He met Annie at the exit, where they were both given a cursory frisking for stolen liquor, then allowed to go to the service elevator.
“Everything okay?” Annie whispered.
“Couldn’t be better,” Daryl replied.
—
Jamie took a loupe from a desk drawer and trained it on the necklace. “It’s a copy,” he said, “and not a very good one.”
“Good enough, apparently,” Stone said.
“Who had access to the piece?” Dino asked, suddenly all cop.
“A number of people, but there was always a security guard present, even when it was being cleaned.”
Stone grabbed Dino’s arm. “Come with me,” he said, and sprinted from the office.
“Where are we going?” Dino asked.
They arrived in the display room, where the other pieces were being taken from their cases to be returned to the vault. Stone hesitated, then ran for the kitchen, bursting through the swinging doors. There was one man present, mopping the floor.
Stone turned and ran toward the foyer, then pressed a button for an elevator.
“Where are we going?” Dino asked again.
“To the service entrance,” Stone replied. “It’s a few doors down the street. Give me your backup piece.”
“Are you kidding me?”
The elevator arrived and Stone dragged Dino into it. “All right, all right,” Dino said. As the car started down, he knelt and yanked a Smith & Wesson Airweight .38 from its ankle holster and handed it to Stone.
“Is it loaded?” Stone asked, flipping open the cylinder.
“It’s not a gun unless it’s loaded,” Dino said, taking a 9mm handgun from under his jacket.
The elevator door opened, and Stone ran out, turning toward the service entrance, with Dino hot behind, clipping his badge to his tuxedo jacket pocket. They halted in front of the service entrance, looking up and down the street. Nobody.
“Who are we looking for?” Dino asked.
“A man—no, a man and a woman. Somebody had to turn off the lights.”
“The lights were off no more than half a minute. You think somebody could lift the necklace and replace it in that time?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, but somebody did,” Stone said.
The service door opened and a man and a woman stepped out; the man was carrying a paper bag.
“Let me do this,” Dino said, “I’m legal, you’re not.” He stepped up to the couple, who stopped and looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Police,” Dino said. “What’s in the bag?”
“Guacamole,” the man said. “I didn’t steal it—the caterer said I could have the leftovers.”
Stone took the bag from him and weighed it in his hand. “Pretty heavy guacamole,” he said. He handed Dino the bag, then reached over and ripped the mustache from the man’s face. “Look,” he said to Dino, holding it up. “It’s removable. Hi, Daryl.”
Daryl drove a shoulder into Dino, knocking him back into Stone, staggering them both, then he ran like hell, with Annie right after him.
Stone pointed the Airweight at the base of a potted tree on the sidewalk. “Stop!” he yelled, then fired a shot into the tub’s dirt.
“Next one goes into your back!” Dino yelled.
They came to a stop.
Dino’s car pulled up next to them. “Anything I can do, Commissioner?” the driver asked.
“Arrest these two,” Dino said. “Grand theft.”
“Very grand theft,” Stone echoed.
Back in Jamie Niven’s office, Dino put the paper bag on the desk, removed a plastic container from it, and popped off the lid. He took a couple of tissues from a box on the desktop, spread them out, then picked up a letter opener and rummaged around in the guacamole. “If it’s not here, this is going to be very embarrassing.” He stopped, then scooped out the necklace and laid it on the tissues. It looked disgusting. “I believe this is yours,” he said to Jamie.
“No,” Jamie said, pointing at Stone, “it’s his client’s.”
“My client would like it to have a bath,” Stone replied.
60
On the appointed day, Stone sat at his desk and stared at his computer screen, which contained an image of the sale room at Sotheby’s. Jamie Niven was at the lectern, and behind him, projected on a screen, was a detail of Klimt’s Woman in Gold painting, showing a close-up of the necklace.
“And now,” Jamie said, “we have the pièce de résistance of today’s sale—the Bloch-Bauer necklace seen in the Klimt painting behind me.”
The phone on Stone’s desk buzzed, and Joan came on. “Sotheby’s for you.”
Stone pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”
The voice of a young woman. “Is this a customer ready to bid?”
“It is.”
“May I have your customer number, please?”
Stone recited it to her.
“Are you ready to bid?”
“I am.”
“Please confirm that your bidding will be capped at ten million dollars.”
“Confirmed.” Stone could see the young woman as she spoke at a table near Jamie Niven.
“This may be the most famous piece of jewelry in the world,” Jamie was saying. “One of a kind, made by Bijoux Blume of Paris, in 1899. It is very nearly beyond price, but who will offer me five million dollars?”
The bidding began and quickly rose at first, in steps of a million dollars, then half a million.
“I have ten million five hundred thousand dollars,” Jamie said.
Stone’s heart sank.
“Who will bid eleven million?”
The young woman came back on the phone. “Bidder, do you wish to increase your bid?”
Stone gulped. “Eleven million dollars,” he said.
“I have eleven million dollars,” Jamie said. “Anything further?” He raised his gavel. “Last opportunity.” He brought down the gavel. “Sold to a telephone bidder for eleven million dollars!”
The audience in the room burst into applause, and Stone fanned himself with a legal pad while he did some arithmetic. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes?”
“Call my broker and tell him to remove twelve million, six hundred and fifty thousand dollars from my money market account to my checking account.”
“There’s a fax from Sotheby’s coming in now, asking for that amount and giving wiring instructions.”
“Type up a letter to my bank instructing them to wire the funds, and fax it to them.”
“Right.”
Stone sat for a few minutes, still breathing hard. He looked at the invitation on his desk to a White House dinner.
Joan buzzed. “Your banker on the line.”
Stone picked up the phone. “This is Stone Barrington.�
�
“Mr. Barrington, I have received a fax on your letterhead instructing me to wire the sum of twelve million, six hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Sotheby’s. Do you authorize this transaction?”
“I authorize it,” Stone said.
“Thank you. The wire will go out within the hour.”
Stone hung up, and Joan buzzed him immediately. “Jamie Niven on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Jamie.”
“Good morning, Stone, and congratulations! You’ve done very well for the Fiske estate.”
“Thank you, Jamie, and my compliments on your conduct of the sale.”
“Frankly, I thought it would go for nine million, maybe nine and a half.”
“Fortunately, you had an idiot for a bidder. I’ve already instructed my bank to wire you the funds.”
“We thank you for prompt payment. What disposition of the necklace would you like me to make?”
“You may messenger it to me at my office.”
“It shall be done.” The two men said goodbye and hung up.
Joan buzzed. “Holly Barker on one.”
“Hello?”
“Good morning. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, and I’ve arranged the appointment you requested. The gentleman will be at the White House at five-thirty tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the West Wing entrance and take you to him.”
“Thank you.”
“What is this all about, Stone?”
“You will know soon enough, but not too soon.”
“Will your business take more than an hour? We’re due in the family quarters at six, for drinks.”
“I think not. We won’t keep the Lees waiting.”
“I’ll see you then.” They hung up.
Joan buzzed again. “A Sheriff Raimundo Martinez on line two.”
Stone pressed the button. “Ray? How are you?”
“Very well, Stone. Last week I received a letter from the New York district attorney, offering my county first position for the prosecution of two people for the murder of Carrie Fiske.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’ve got ahold of a state airplane, and I’m going to complete the extradition in New York tomorrow. If you’re around, I’ll buy you a drink first.”
“I’d like that, but I’m on my way to Washington, D.C., tomorrow for a dinner.”
“In that case, all I have to do is to thank you for all your help in catching these people.”
“You’re very welcome, Ray, and if you’re ever in New York again, I’ll take you up on that drink.” The two men said goodbye and hung up.
Joan appeared at the door. “I got a call from Sotheby’s. There are two armed guards on the way over here with the necklace.”
“That was fast,” Stone said. “I guess they wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.”
61
Stone landed at Manassas, Virginia, at three PM, and what with traffic, arrived at the West Wing entrance to the White House a little before five, carrying his suitcase and a shopping bag. Holly came from her office to meet him, already dressed for dinner.
“The gentleman is waiting for you in the Situation Room,” she said, kissing him. “It was the only room available. What’s in the shopping bag?”
“You will see shortly.”
She led him down the hall and into an ordinary-looking conference room.
“This is the Situation Room?” he asked. “I thought it would be underground and festooned with video monitors and flashing lights.”
“Nope, this is it.”
A well-dressed man was seated at one end of the table. He rose and offered his hand.
“Stone, this is Dr. Anthony Bill, the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. Dr. Bill, this is the President’s friend, Stone Barrington.”
The two men shook hands, and they all sat down. “I must say, Mr. Barrington,” Dr. Bill said, “I’m a bit mystified as to the purpose of our meeting.”
Stone set the shopping bag on the table, removed the rosewood box, and set it before Dr. Bill. “I wish to make an anonymous contribution to the Smithsonian,” he said, then opened the box.
Bill gazed at the necklace for a moment. “My goodness,” he said. “Of course, I recognize it. I watched the sale on closed-circuit television.”
Stone took a legal-sized envelope from the shopping bag, opened it, and handed him a document. “This is a deed of gift, which states that only you may know the identity of the donor,” Stone said. “It also provides that the necklace will reside at the White House, except at times when the Smithsonian wishes, with the permission of the President, to display it. It also specifies that the necklace is for the exclusive use of female presidents of the United States, first ladies and first daughters, and others, at the discretion of the President. If you find those terms acceptable, we can complete the transaction at this time.”
Dr. Bill read the document quickly, took a pen from his pocket, and signed both copies. Stone signed them, gave one to Dr. Bill, then closed the box and returned it to the shopping bag. “Now, if you will excuse me, Dr. Bill, I will deliver this to the President.”
“On behalf of the Smithsonian,” Dr. Bill said, “I accept your incredibly generous gift, and I thank you most sincerely.” They shook hands, Dr. Bill left, and Holly led Stone toward the family quarters.
“I guess this means that I’ll never get to wear the necklace,” she said.
“Perhaps the President will make an exception in your case.”
“Did you really pay all that money for it, like the papers said?”
“Well, my fee as executor of Carrie Fiske’s estate was a small percentage of its value, so it all evened out pretty well.”
They took the elevator upstairs and were admitted to the family quarters by a Secret Service agent.
The Lees were seated in the living room, along with the British prime minister and his wife. Introductions were made and drinks ordered.
“Madam President,” Stone said, reaching into the shopping bag. “I’ve brought you something to wear to the dinner tonight, if you choose to do so.” He handed her the rosewood box.
Kate opened the box, and her jaw dropped. Stone handed her the deed of gift, and she read it and handed it to Will. She stood up and removed her necklace. “Stone, will you do the honors?”
Stone stood, placed the necklace around her neck, and secured it.
Kate looked in the mirror behind her. “A perfect fit,” she said, then turned to her husband. “You, my darling, have a lot of catching up to do come Christmas.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
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Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
&n
bsp; Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Random House, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Woods is the author of more than sixty novels. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and New Mexico.
Family Jewels (A Stone Barrington Novel) Page 20
