“It probably won’t be very interesting,” she warned him. “I’m trying to track the amulet back through time. That means going through a lot of dry, old sources to see if there’s anything that’ll let us conclusively identify it.”
Alex looked around the stacks. “You really think you’re going to have what you need in here? I did a senior paper on consolidation in the later Roman empire, had to write all kinds of libraries to get translations of original source materials.”
Julia blinked. “You did a paper on the later Roman empire?” When she heard herself, she flushed. “I mean…”
“I got a history degree,” he said mildly. Studying her obvious surprise, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re making assumptions again, Julia.”
It stung, all the more so because she deserved the rebuke. “I’m sorry. I just thought…don’t you have a business degree?”
“That too. Business degree, MBA, history.”
“I didn’t realize you’d done so much.”
“Ask next time. You’ll find out all kinds of things.”
“Well, then, you know what we’re up against,” she said briskly, willing the embarrassment to fade. “But we can still make some progress. The repository isn’t intended as an exhibit. It’s supposed to be a curatorial resource. We’ve got some original manuscripts and papyri and books, but we’ve also got lots of reprints and translations and overviews. Oh, and microfilm and CD-ROMs of the London Times and the New York Times and a few other newspapers and popular magazines back to 1900.”
“Not bad for a small operation.”
“There’s a bequest from the museum founders that funds it.”
“So where are you going to start?”
Julia considered. “Well, we know that Zoey Zander bought it from the Bertram Page auction.”
“Bertram Page, the philanthropist?”
“You know any others? He didn’t loan it out with any of his collections, as far as I know. I think Zoey bought it for the legend, as much as anything.”
“Right. Good luck for the pure of heart.” Alex gave her a bland look. “You want me to look that part up in the newspaper index, pure of heart?”
“Cute. You could see what you find on the White Star or Bertram Page.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
“I’ll check the archives of the Journal of Antiquities and American Curator and see if I can find out who Page bought it from.” She brought up the index and began hunting through it for references. With a little surge of triumph she found the name. “Okay, Zoey Zander bought the White Star from Page in 1994, it looks like. Both names show up anyway. Let me just verify that.” She clicked and brought up the PDF for that issue.
Up popped the cover image, a photo of a stone fertility god with an erection half the size of his body. “Well, that gives a new meaning to ‘hard as a rock,’” Alex observed over her shoulder. “So, let me guess, you just read it for the articles?”
Julia grinned. “Hell no, I get it for the centerfolds,” she said and clicked around the PDF file.
Zoey Zander had been a collector. She’d collected houses, greyhounds, husbands and jewels, in roughly that order. If a piece was ostentatious, that was a start. If it had a scandalous history, so much the better. She loved nothing more than sporting an enormous rock and telling stories. After she’d bought the White Star, though, she’d been curiously private about it.
Almost as though it had been a treasure she’d wanted to keep to herself.
For the pure of heart. Julia snorted. Pure, Zoey Zander was not. She skimmed the auction news column at the back of the issue. “It looks like Page got the White Star from the estate of a Hollywood director named Foster Clark in 1954, who’d owned it since 1941.”
“I’m on Foster,” Alex said, flipping through the volume of the newspaper index.
It seemed archaic in this day and age to have old-fashioned hard-copy indices. Even microfilm seemed low-tech. The museum had made the investment, though, and saw no need to spend the money on upgrading resources that worked just fine.
Alex stepped over to the wide metal cabinets of microfilm and searched out the right roll. He switched on the reader that sat on the table next to her. “Okay if I turn down the lights so I can see better?”
“Sure,” Julia said absently, going back through her own sources. When the room went dim, she jolted. “I didn’t say turn them all off.”
“I work better in the dark,” Alex said in her ear, making her jump. She caught the flash of his teeth as he straightened and stepped over to sit at the microfilm reader next to her. “Is your chair comfortable?” he asked idly as he slouched in front of his machine.
She glanced down and heat flushed through her. She’d sat in it mere hours earlier, she thought, closing her eyes as she remembered the feel of his mouth on her, his hands on her, his cock sliding in and out. You won’t be able to resist….
“Okey, dokey,” Alex said. “Got the obit for Foster Clark. Director of more than a dozen films. Got an Oscar nomination in 1949 for Long Day’s Journey into Night. Oh, wow.” He stopped.
“What?”
“Clark was hauled in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1952,” he said slowly. “Joined the Communist Party in college. He couldn’t start naming names fast enough. Not that it did him any good. He got blacklisted anyway, and took more than a few people down with him. Put a bullet in his brain in 1954.”
Julia shivered. “I thought the White Star was a good-luck charm.”
“For the pure of heart, remember?”
“So the report just says he bought the White Star in 1941. It doesn’t say who from.” She began sifting through the auction reports for 1941 and the years immediately following. Time slipped by in the artificial twilight of the darkened room; it was as though they were immersed in another world, diving into the past, looking at names and faces of people long gone.
Finally, she found what she was looking for. “Bennett Hastings,” she said aloud. “Look for an obit, because the sale was by his estate.”
“Consider it done.”
But who, she wondered, had Hastings gotten it from? And why was it the amulet seemed to always change hands because someone had died?
“God, I love microfilm,” Alex said. “People look so bizarre in all the photos, like they’re albinos. Okay, here’s something on Hastings.” He scanned the article. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Forget about the obit. We need to look for a less…official source. I think there’s dirt to dish on this guy.”
“‘Hastings Electronics heir, CEO,’” Julia read. “How do you figure?”
He pointed. “Keep reading. He became president and CEO of the company in 1938, when his father died. Hastings would have been thirty-one. By 1940, the company was in receivership. That’s what’s off. You don’t run a company into the ground in less than two years on clean living.” With the controls of the microfilm reader he rolled back through the issue to the entertainment pages and nodded in satisfaction. “‘The Candle That Burned Too Brightly: the Life and Death of Bennett Hastings.’ Thought so.”
“What does it say?”
“Polo, gambling, summers in Monte Carlo. A paternity suit that got hushed up—with a maid, no less. Oh, our boy was quite a prize.”
Julia scooted her chair closer to his. “But he paid for it in the end, it looks like.”
“Yeah. Pasting yourself all over the side of a mountain is an ugly way to go. Good reminder not to drink and drive. He was under investigation by the Feds, although they don’t say what for.”
“Does it say anything about the amulet?” She leaned in toward Alex to get a better look at the text.
“This is cozy,” he commented, slipping an arm around her. “I told you you couldn’t resist me.”
“I’m trying to do research,” she muttered, shifting away.
“The couple who researches together, stays together.”
“We’re not a co
uple,” she reminded him and went back to her own screen. They weren’t a couple, although he was being surprisingly good company. None of the prowling restlessness she’d have guessed in such a situation. And the fact that he was helping her…
But it was a hopeless task, tracking the White Star back over thousands of years, especially with the resources she had. Like trying to find a needle in a haystack. What could possibly make her think she stood a chance?
“Got more on our bad boy Hastings, here,” Alex said aloud, making her jump. “He used to hang out with some shady types, a gangster named Ray ‘Legs’ Legrande.”
“Charming. That must have been the reason the Feds were looking into him.”
“Could be.”
“You know, it’s a complete long shot but I just remembered that the first time I talked to Zoey about the amulet—the only time, actually—she said something about the White Star being owned by a bootlegger. Just for kicks…” She did a quick search. “Okay, there’s an article here that comes up on Ray Legrande, called ‘Art and Incarceration.’ It looks like an editorial.” She changed disks and brought up the file. “Interesting.”
“What you got?”
She cleared her throat. “‘What do we do when masterpieces and one-of-a-kind treasures wind up in the hands of criminals, bought by dirty money?’” she read aloud. “‘Two years ago, Ray Legrande acquired the White Star amulet, an artifact known to date from at least 1000 B.C. Now, he’s in federal court, facing racketeering charges. If convicted, he could be facing up to seventy years in prison. Whither then, White Star, managed by crooked lawyers, dubious heirs…’ Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
Alex stirred. “What’s the date?”
“Nineteen thirty-one.”
“I think we need to find out a little more about Mr. Legrande.” He rose. “I’ll get that. You see if you can find where he got it from.”
Time slid by with the click of the mouse, the whisper of pages, the whir of the microfilm reader as Alex searched for citations. And then…
“Score.”
“I’ve got it.”
They blinked at each other. “You first,” Julia said.
“Bachelor number three, Ray ‘Legs’ Legrande.”
“Why did they call him Legs?”
“It says here that in the early days he used to tell his victims to dance and he’d shoot at their feet before he started aiming higher. Then he moved up in the world and started having other people do the shooting for him.”
“Nice.” Julia read over his shoulder. “He worked out of Miami, huh? That’d be convenient if you were doing import/export, I’m guessing. What would someone like that want with the amulet?”
Alex scrubbed his knuckles against his jaw. “Apparently, he got the idea it, uh, enhanced potency. You worry about those kinds of things when you’ve got a young mistress.”
“Life before Viagra.”
“I’ll just point out for the record, I’ve lived my life amulet-free.”
“Duly noted. Read, please?”
“Let’s see. ‘Legrande had successfully ducked Federal prosecution when he was gunned down in what was believed to have been an underworld killing. The coroner removed twenty-eight bullets from his body, just a few more than the number of men he was reputed to have killed.’ Guess he wasn’t pure of heart,” Alex said. “I don’t know, the more I find out, the more I think our thief is welcome to the amulet.”
“It didn’t sound like any of these people needed help from the White Star, if that’s even what it was. It sounds like they got what they deserved.”
He clicked his tongue. “You’re so judgmental.”
“I’m not going to feel sorry that a man who shot twenty-some-odd people got killed. I mean, what about them? What about their families?”
Alex tilted his head. “Julia’s got a sense of justice.”
“I just don’t like seeing bad things happen to people.”
He brushed a finger over her chin. “Nice.”
The touch shivered through her. For a moment, she just looked at him. In the dimness his face was all planes and angles. There was a special intensity to the shadowed eyes. He didn’t look like the smiling, happy-go-lucky Alex that she knew. He looked like someone else suddenly, a man capable of much more.
“So what did you find out?”
Julia blinked. “What?” She gave her head a brisk shake, groping for a lucid thought. “Oh, um, it says here that he bought it at auction from a divorcée named Lillian Bashford. It doesn’t say anything about her.”
Alex flipped open the newspaper index. “Bashford, Bashford, Bashford…” He shot her a devilish look. “Five will get you ten there’s a story there. I’ll bet you a carnal act I find it first.”
“Dream on.”
“About the carnal act or winning the bet?” he asked, slamming shut the index and rising to get the microfilm.
“Both,” she shot back, fingers already flying. “‘Bashford, Lillian, Auction Update,’” she read in satisfaction and pulled out the CD-ROM. Next to her, Alex was threading the new roll of film into the reader.
The PDF took a while to open, courtesy of the Stone Age computer that had wound up in the basement by default. Julia drummed her fingers, listening to the whir of the microfilm reader as Alex scanned the roll at warp speed, trying to get to the right page.
Julia clicked on the file to find her way to the article. And stared. It was a photograph of the amulet. “Alex,” she said faintly. “Here it is. ‘Sold, as part of a private auction by Lillian Bashford, the White Star amulet, carved ivory and carnelian, circa 1050 B.C.’”
“‘Hit by the crash of the stock market, Lillian Bashford has put up her entire collection of jewelry for auction,’” Alex read. “Oh, hey, listen to this. ‘Pieces include a number of valuable items she received in the settlement from her ex-husband, Aubrey Fitz-Lewis, Earl of Ashbroke. Society watchers will recall the bitter divorce proceedings in which Fitz-Lewis contended that Bashford was claiming items considered part of the Fitz-Lewis family jewels, including an ancient Egyptian amulet.’”
“So she took poor Aubrey for everything he had,” Julia mused, “and then wound up losing it all in the crash. Now that’s karma.”
“Don’t feel too bad for old Aubrey. Sounds like he took her, too. ‘Bashford filed court documents showing that she’d poured over five hundred thousand dollars into propping up Fitz-Lewis’s failing family estate….’ Not chump change, especially back then,” Alex added. “‘Divorce was granted on the grounds of infidelity.’ Sounds like they were quite a pair.”
Julia skimmed her auction item, hoping for a description of the White Star she could conclusively match to the object she’d seen. She heard Alex come up behind her.
“So, do I get that carnal act?”
“No way, I found the mention first.”
“You found the auction,” he corrected. “You didn’t find the scoop on Lillian and Aubrey.”
She gave him a pat on the cheek. “You are so dreaming.”
He caught at her hand. “You touched me voluntarily.”
“So?”
“I told you you’d break down eventually.”
She snorted. “Now you’re really dreaming.”
“Speaking of which, has it occurred to you that if security doesn’t show, we’ve got another problem on our hands?”
“Besides food?”
“Yeah. Where the hell are we going to sleep?”
THE BAR WAS SHABBY AND DARK, tucked away on a back street, with bars on the windows. It was the type of place where a man didn’t stand out, the sort of place people kept to themselves.
The sort of place Allard liked best.
He lifted the glass of amber liquid and drank, letting the fire of the cheap whiskey scorch his throat. Soon he would be able to afford better. Soon he would be drinking the finest of aged brandies. For now, though, he would take this, reward for a job well done. He set down the glass and slipped his hand into h
is pocket.
The White Star.
Slowly, carefully, he brought her out, cupping the ancient ivory in his hands. Even in the dim yellow light, she glowed. Even in the dim yellow light, she drew him. He couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t stop touching. And when he held her, he almost felt a heat, almost a faint pulse.
It was just the whiskey making him soft headed. He shoved her back into his pocket. How his father would have sneered. The White Star was just a prize—a prize that would bring him a million euros, maybe more. Almost certainly more.
After all, he’d taken risks to recover her.
But he’d pulled off a nearly perfect job. The utilities room, so conveniently down the hall from the lovers. A few moments, only, to pull the necessary wires to shut off communications. He gave a faint smile and raised the glass to his lips. Such a pleasure, those professionals who carefully labeled each and every cable. A simple matter to pull every line marked Basement, and voilà, no inconvenient calls for help.
He wondered if the fools in the museum had even realized they were locked in yet, or whether they were merely still locked together, searching for release. The image of pale breasts, the sound of urgent moans rose in his mind. And the pale glow of the White Star. His fingers tightened around the glass. A woman. He needed one, and soon.
As soon as his prize was secured.
He slipped his hand back into his pocket. Tomorrow, he would put her in a safe place. Tomorrow, he would make plans. For tonight, he would simply enjoy.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, he brought out the amulet, cupping it in his palm, tracing a fingertip over the hole that pierced it through.
Tomorrow, he would negotiate her return to his client.
For tonight, she was his.
9
Friday, 10:00 p.m.
“WE DON’T NEED to worry about sleeping yet,” Julia hedged. “It’s not even eleven.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “You have to admit, it is an issue we’re going to have to consider.”
Caught Page 8
