“Where’s the lamp?”
“In my car.”
“Let’s hope your car hasn’t been stolen.”
“I left someone with it.”
Ellis texted Detective Brownley and the plainclothes officers sitting in their vehicles, cc’ing me, alerting them to be ready: Lamp & accomplice in car.
Detective Brownley read a message on her phone, then ambled outside, checking her watch, looking for all the world like a woman waiting for a ride.
Fred spread his arms and flipped his palms. “So? Bring it up.”
“First, the money.”
“No way. Not until I look at it.”
“Money first, or no lamp.”
Fred stood up. “There’s a difference between prudence and paranoia. Do you want to do business or not?”
Thompkins stared at Fred for a long time, a minute or more, assessing him using some private metric.
Downstairs, under the hotel’s front portico, Detective Brownley turned a slow circle, stretching and yawning, taking her time. She sank onto a wooden bench positioned near a standing ashtray. No one could enter or leave through the lobby’s main entrance without passing her.
Thompkins extracted his phone and walked to the window. He had a brief conversation in a voice that was almost too low to make out. I pressed the earphones against my head so I could hear his side of the conversation.
“He insists … I know … I tried … No … I did … Uh-huh … I can’t … Okay … Okay … Come up to eight-fourteen.”
Two minutes later, a woman carrying a lamp box came into view, walking from the left side of the building. She was big-boned but not fat. Sturdy. Strong. Handsome. Her shoulder-length hair was medium brown with bold, brassy highlights. She wore more makeup than I use in a year—neon blue eye shadow and Marilyn Monroe–red lipstick. Her dress was turquoise, as were her glasses. She didn’t look at all like the woman I knew as Ava Towson. Except that she did. Sort of. The set of her chin. Her posture. The line of her neck.
I texted Ellis and Detective Brownley: That may be her.
“She’s coming,” Thompkins told Fred.
“Good.”
The woman entered the elevator. No one spoke. No one moved until a knock sounded on the door. Fred opened it, and the woman I’d seen downstairs stepped into view.
“This is Moira,” Thompkins said.
Moira slid the box onto the coffee table. She undid the flaps, and Thompkins lifted the Tiffany lamp clear.
Ellis texted us all: Get ready—on my signal.
“It’s magnificent,” Fred said. “Would you hold it sideways for me? I want to see the bottom.”
“Sure.”
Fred examined the underpart of the base, using a small silver flashlight. “Tiffany Studios New York, one-eight-one. Thanks. You can put it down.”
Thompkins eased the lamp back into the box and tucked the flaps in.
“Okay?” Thompkins asked.
“Yes, indeed. I will arrange the lamp’s secure shipment to Chicago and let you know as soon as I’ve finished my appraisal.”
“How long?” Moira asked, her dialect more Brooklyn than New England.
“I don’t know. There are too many variables for me to predict.”
“We’ve got to set an end date,” she said. “A week?”
Fred shook his head, then pursed his lips. “No way. Six weeks.”
“Forget it. Two weeks.”
“Let me call Prescott’s,” Fred said. “I should be able to give you a more realistic estimate based on what I learn from them.”
“All right,” Moira said. “I want this settled now.”
Fred turned to Dawn. “Get Josie Prescott on the phone.”
By the time Dawn spoke to Cara at my company, learned I wasn’t there, and left a voice mail asking me to call her back about the Tiffany lamp appraisal I’d just completed, Detective Brownley had entered our room from the hallway. She tossed her hat and purse on the bed, kicked off her strappy sandals, put on sensible running shoes, and zipped up her bulletproof vest. She stood by the door, her weapon by her thigh, pointing down.
Ellis called out orders, his voice low and urgent. Officers Lucher and Meade were to stay in the outside corridor, ready to intercept the suspects if they got that far. He, Detective Brownley, and Officer Rogers were ready to storm the living room.
Ellis turned to me and whispered, “Stay back.”
Katie remained uninvolved, listening in on her headphones, checking her controls, part of the team but separate. Officer Rogers joined Ellis and Detective Brownley at the connecting door.
He mouthed, “One … two … three,” and whipped open the door.
The police charged in and fanned out. Officer Rogers blocked the door that led to the corridor. Dawn drew her weapon and aimed it at Moira. Detective Brownley aimed hers at Thompkins.
“Don’t move,” Ellis said, his eyes ablaze. “Either of you. You’re under arrest.”
“Grab the lamp and follow me,” Moira yelled to Thompkins, her eyes on Ellis.
“Don’t be stupid,” Ellis said to her. “There are four of us here and more outside. You can’t get away.”
When Thompkins didn’t move, Moira screeched, “Do it!”
Moira backed up toward the door that connected the living area to the bedroom where Katie and I now sat. Thompkins licked his lips, snapped up the box containing the lamp, placed it in front of him like a shield, and darted toward her. I stood up, not knowing what I should do.
“Any of you move,” Moira said, “and he slams the lamp against the wall. Got that, Orson?”
Thompkins didn’t speak. He looked terrified, his eyes round, his mouth agape. No one moved. Moira’s gaze was unwavering, focused solely on Ellis.
I pressed against the wall, wishing I could disappear.
It didn’t work. The instant they entered the room, they spotted me. Two steps brought Moira to my side, and she latched on to my arm with a marauder’s grip. She yanked me from the wall by my left arm. I faux-fainted, a dead weight. She didn’t let go. She dragged me across the carpet. The rug rasped my skin raw. I heard scraping sounds, then a clunk. Katie hurtling out of her chair, maybe, and knocking it over, mixed with pounding footsteps.
I couldn’t think. My arm felt like it was being ripped from its socket. I didn’t know what to do. Then all at once it came to me. I bounced back to life, dragged the protective tip from one of my bee hairpins, and thrust the dagger-sharp point into her thigh.
Moira shrieked and shook me off, giving Ellis an opportunity to pounce. I rolled into the bed frame, panting. Ellis wrestled Moira to the bed and snapped on handcuffs, then flipped her over. He grasped her upper arm and held fast.
Thompkins continued backing away toward the corridor door. “Moira?” he said, turning her name into a plea and an admonition.
“Don’t make a bad situation worse,” Ellis told him, his demeanor serious but calm. “Put the box down—gently.”
“Screw him!” Moira shouted, thrashing around. “Hurl it.”
Thompkins lowered his arms, as if he intended to follow Ellis’s instructions, but stumbled over something, or maybe nothing but air and fear, and the box tottered and nearly spun out of his grasp. He righted himself, and the box stabilized.
With my heart slamming against my ribs and my lips parchment-dry, I sat up.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t hurt the lamp.”
With Moira screaming and thrashing and everyone else frozen in place, Thompkins lowered the box to the ground and stepped back, raising his hands over his head, a full surrender.
Ellis and Officer Meade flew at Thompkins, shoving him facedown onto the bed, then cuffing him.
I slid the box along the rug into a corner on the far side of the bed.
Moira howled like a wounded animal.
Ellis hauled Thompkins up from the bed, threw him against the wall, and patted him down.
I sat on the bed, my chest heaving.
“
Call for a bus,” Ellis told Dawn, his eyes moving from Moira’s thigh to the rug-burn scrapes that colored my arm and shoulder. “Two.”
A rivulet of blood ran down Moira’s leg. I looked away. My hairpin lay on the rug near where I’d attacked. The tip was by the bed. I picked both parts up. I raised my eyes. Ellis was looking at me.
“Lay them on the bedside table,” Ellis told me, and I did.
My French twist had loosened. I removed the remaining hairpin and tucked it into its pouch. I ran my fingers through my hair.
Ellis picked up Moira’s purse from where it had fallen, opened it, and emptied it on the bed. In addition to a phone, a key ring, a wallet, and a clear plastic makeup case packed with cosmetics was a large silver gun.
“You have a gun?” Thompkins hollered, flabbergasted. “Are you crazy?”
Moira continued shrieking.
Thompkins collapsed against the wall, trembling. “I had no idea…,” he said to no one, his eyes on Moira, his voice trailing off.
Ellis took three evidence bags from an inside pocket. He placed the weapon in one, everything else from her bag in the second, and the hairpin and protective tip in the third.
Fred stepped into the doorway and leaned heavily against the jamb. He looked exhilarated.
“Buses on their way,” Dawn told Ellis.
“Thank you,” Ellis said. “Come help Officer Lucher hold the prisoner.”
Dawn reached for one of Moira’s arms.
I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. I took stock. My scraped arm and neck were stinging and throbbing. My wrenched shoulder ached. I wanted this to be over. No one spoke for several seconds.
“We did it,” Fred said to me, talking over Moira’s continuing yowls.
I smiled as best I could. “You were terrific, Mr. Endicott.”
He bowed.
“Detective Brownley, Officer Meade—please remove the male prisoner.”
Faint sounds of sirens penetrated the solid walls.
Detective Brownley grasped Thompkins by the arm and led him away, with Officer Meade running interference.
Officer Rogers was told to stay in the corridor to ensure no housekeeping or room service staff decided it was time to clean up.
Fred removed his bulletproof vest. “Am I done here?’
“Yes,” Ellis said. “We need a statement. I’ll ask one of the plainclothes guys to give you a lift to the police station.”
“Should I return the rental car first?”
“Dawn will take care of it. Give her the keys.”
Fred handed over the keys, then started to leave, pausing at the door to the corridor. “It looks like you got the worst of it, Josie. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How about you?”
He grinned. “Never better.” His smile faded. “I don’t like the look of those bruises of yours, though. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“You bet! Really, Fred, you did a great job.”
“Thanks.” He semi-saluted. “See ya.”
Ellis called down and asked Griff to drive to the front of the hotel and pick up Fred; then he turned to me. “I’ll send Daryl to the hospital with you.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“I saw Moira dragging you by your arm. Someone should look at your shoulder. Those rug burns look like they could use some attention, too. After you get an all-clear, Daryl will bring you to the station. You can pick up your car and, if you’re up to it, give your preliminary statement.” He turned to Katie. “You got knocked over. Are you okay?”
“It was a controlled fall to get out of harm’s way. I’m fine.”
“Good. Can you finish up by yourself?”
“Yup. I’m all set. I’ll call for the guys to pack up the equipment. By the time they get here, I’ll be done with my backups.”
I walked to join him in the center of the room. I looked at Moira, rolling back and forth, davening, mewling, her eyes shut. “We were expecting the fake Ava and Phil Wilcox, not this woman and that stranger. Who are these people?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
I pointed to Moira’s hair. “That looks like a wig. Can we remove it?”
He stared at me for a moment, then turned toward Moira, assessing her hair. Ten seconds later, he said, “Officer LeBlanc, the prisoner may be hiding a weapon under her wig. Please remove it.”
Moira’s eyes shot open. “Don’t touch me!” Moira said in an icy tone as Dawn reached for her hair. “You have no right!”
Daryl and Ellis held her fast, Ellis holding her legs in place, Daryl pushing her shoulders into the bed. Moira squirmed and kicked and tried to bite. Dawn grabbed a hank of hair and pulled. The wig came off easily. Dawn got her fingers under the wig cap and tugged it off, too. Moira’s own hair sprang free. Her hair was short and black. She growled in impotent fury as the detective wrestled away the glasses, and then I knew.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, clutching Ellis’s arm. “It’s Diane.”
“Diane?” he asked.
“The librarian. The book club.” I stared at her. “Diane is the fake Ava.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It was nearly five o’clock. I was sitting on a hard wooden bench in the Rocky Point police station lobby waiting for I wasn’t sure what.
Fred had already given his preliminary statement and left. After giving me a thumbs-up, he crossed the lobby with a bounce in his step. Intrigue agreed with him.
I’d called work on the drive to the emergency room to let everyone know I wouldn’t be in today but would be there in the morning. I was in and out of the hospital in less than an hour. It wouldn’t have taken that long, but I had to wait for a radiologist to read the X-ray of my shoulder. I was, the doctor told me, perfect. At his words, the last remnants of fear dissipated like the tide. Daryl said Diane was also treated and released quickly.
Ellis came out of his office and stood in front of me. “How are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“Good. While Diane and Thompkins are being processed, let’s look at the lamp.”
He held open an unmarked door off the main corridor, and I passed through into a small anteroom. The door in front of us was labeled with large signs warning that only authorized people were allowed inside. There were security cameras mounted on the ceiling and both a number keypad and fingerprint pad next to the door.
“This is a secure facility,” I said.
“I can’t get anything past you.”
“I’m a smart girl.”
Ellis punched in a code. A luminescent blue glow appeared on the fingerprint pad, and he inserted his left index finger into the slot. A click sounded, and he pushed open the heavy door.
“I’m accompanied by Josie Prescott,” he said to no one I could see.
The blue light illuminated again.
“Left index finger,” he told me.
“Why that finger?” I asked as I placed my finger into the slot. Our system used thumbprints.
“It changes periodically. You either know the correct finger to use or you don’t.”
The light turned off, and I withdrew my finger. “That’s pretty intense.”
“It’s called multilevel authentication.”
I followed Ellis into an isolated area I hadn’t known existed. There were secondary doors labeled LAB, EVIDENCE, LOST AND FOUND, and TECHNICAL. In the main area, sitting on a stainless steel table, was the Tiffany lamp box.
“I’ve been worried about it,” I said.
“I’ll be glad to see it’s intact.”
“Is everything we’re doing being recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I lowered the box to the floor, unlatched the folded cardboard flaps, and eased the lamp out. I circled the table, assessing the lamp from all sides.
“I think it’s fine. What a relief.” I had Ellis lift it and hold it sideways so I could confirm the mark. “Thank you. You can put it
down. Based on the mark, I can attest that this is probably the same Tiffany lamp I appraised for the fake Ava Towson. According to Edwin Towson, that one was the Tiffany lamp recovered from his great-grandmother’s attic.”
“Probably?”
“I’m not a metallurgist, but it’s possible, I suppose, that someone ground down the original serial number and remarked it.”
“Do you test for that?”
“No, not when we’re appraising an object for insurance purposes for an owner.”
“Would the fabrication you’re describing be easy to detect?” he asked.
“Not to the naked eye. I suspect techniques like X-raying would reveal it, though.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect this lamp was manipulated in that way?”
“No.”
“The ADA will want to know what it will take to confirm it’s the same, not a fake someone marked up.”
“A separate company should conduct a proper appraisal so we can compare that one with the one I did. Then we’ll know. If there’s any concern that the mark has been tampered with, you’ll need to ask them to check the materials for consistency, among other factors.”
“Thank you, Josie. Pack up the lamp, please.”
We went through another multilevel authentication process to access the evidence room. Ellis slid the lamp into a padded cubbyhole plenty big enough, then closed the Plexiglas door and locked it. The box went into a second cubby.
“Will I get my hairpin back?”
“Yes, but I don’t know when.” He locked the second door. “Can you stay for a while after you give your statement? In case questions come up about the lamp or their plans to sell it?”
“Sure.”
* * *
Detective Brownley took my preliminary statement, then led me to the narrow observation room.
“Chief Hunter will be in shortly,” she said.
“Thanks.”
One-way windows provided views of Interview Rooms One and Two. Orson Thompkins sat in Room One, his elbows on the table, his head on his hands. The cage was to his right. Officer Meade sat in a wooden slat-back chair pushed up against the wall. Diane Hawkins stood against the outside wall in Room Two, her hands crossed against her chest. Her eyes flashed with dragon fire. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She tapped her foot. The puncture wound on her thigh was protected by a Band-Aid. Daryl sat in a corner on a dinged-up metal chair. The operation was over, and arrests had been made, which meant there was nothing stopping me from telling Wes what was going on. I wrote him:
The Glow of Death Page 26
