Sex, Lies & Diamonds

by Kris Calvert

  I patted Kostas’ diary in my pocket and took a deep breath. I wished more than anything that I could talk to my grandfather.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bea remarked.

  I nodded. “It is.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I’d had enough of Oscar’s death for the day. Tristan stood in the doorway of his own car—waiting. He wouldn’t leave until we were safely on our way back to Jackson House. Bea and I began to walk that way when it happened.

  Springing out from behind a nearby mausoleum, an armed man rushed at us. “Don’t make a move. Don’t make a sound. Stay calm and follow my orders, and no one gets hurt.”

  I looked him in the face. “Vito, you piece of shit.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Z, or I’ll shoot your old lady in the face.”

  In the amount of time it took him to pull his attention only to me, Bea drew her weapon from under her dress and butt stroked him with the end of her gun. Falling to the ground in a heap, I was surprised at how easy it was to contain him.

  “Who is this guy?” she asked as we dragged him across the pavement to throw him in the backseat of the waiting limo.

  “Someone who’s no match for you. Nice work.”

  Tristan hurried to the scene, his eyes wide with adrenaline. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Vito jumped us, but Bea put a hurt on the guy. Now he’s just a pile of shit in the back seat of the car.”

  Tristan knitted his brow. “What do you want to do with him?”

  “What do you think I want to do?”

  “Let’s at least question him before you kill him.”

  I smiled, kicking Vito’s legs into the car before slamming the door. “Of course.”

  19

  POLLY

  With the exception of Tree sitting in the parlor on alert, Jackson House was like a tomb. So quiet, even the slightest noise would echo off the walls like a pinball machine. It was making Tree antsy and he showed it each time I walked through the house, causing a new floorboard to creak or moan. Liz and Dinah went about their routine trying, like me, to stay out of the way.

  I’d showered, dressed in jeans and an old grey cashmere sweater of Leo’s I’d found in the back of the closet. Sloppy on my frame, I rolled the sleeves and dug my nose into the collar to breath in Leo’s scent and hurried down the stairs to retrieve the books I’d hidden last night before all hell broke loose.

  Opening the bureau drawer, the tassel and key knocked against the side of the mahogany wood.

  “Miss Polly?”

  Tree was on his feet and rounding the main staircase before I had a chance to get the books. Instead I pretended to rummage around in the drawer. “I’m fine, Tree. Just looking for an old photo album. I thought Leo might like to have some pictures—you know—of Oscar—of the two of them.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I had pulled a few old photos from around the house of Leo and Oscar together. There was even one of Leo, Oscar and Kostas dressed for Mardi Gras.

  “No problem, ma’am. I’m only trying to keep track of you today.”

  I lifted my chin, slightly proud of my ability to keep a trained security operative on his toes. “Don’t worry. I’m only going up to my room to do some reading.”

  “Okay, then.”

  And he was gone. I dug deep into the drawer, retrieving the three books I’d taken from the safe room, tucking them under my arm. Hurrying up the stairs, I went back to the master suite. Dinah had already been in the room to clean and make the bed and I practically threw myself and the books on it. Oscar’s drawing and the printout of my ring were folded neatly on my nightstand. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m looking for, but if there’s something here, I’m going to find it if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Opening the first book, I checked it for the numbers 750.04.

  Published in 1896, The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects by Giorgio Vasari didn’t seem to mean anything. Still, I flipped through the pages carefully. Tossing it aside for later, my impatience got the best of me and I moved on. The second book, Ways of Seeing, seemed out of place to me. Newer than the other two books on art, there was no indication of a Dewey Decimal number on it either. I fanned the pages, turning it upside down. Nothing.

  “You’re crazy, Polly,” I said aloud. “Maybe Leo was right. The number probably has zero to do with the Dewey Decimal System. This is just a bunch of nothing.” I looked back at Oscar’s drawing. Was it really a playing card? Or just a scribble—the best he could do.

  I picked up the last book. The Story of Art, by Ernst Gombrich. My theory now blown that I was on some trail of clues, I lazily leafed through the old pages. The book was yellowed and smelled faintly of vanilla. I handled the book more carefully as it was the oldest of the three, turning page after page—looking at the various works of art used as reference.

  I skipped chapters and found the pages opening on their own. Pressing them back, it stuck inside the gutter of the book like a blade, its edges as sharp as the day it had been placed there, the red bright as blood—the ace of diamonds.

  I let out a gasp and felt my stomach clench. I was right. Noting the page number, three seventeen, I opened the front of the book cover to find a dedication.

  For the Soul’s Eye

  You have taken more than my soul—you are the one thought of my life.

  750.04

  I blinked incessantly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The very words Leo had spoken to me when he gave me the diamond on my finger were written inside the book. The number engraved on the diamond. “Who, or what, is the Soul’s Eye?”

  I went back to the page where I’d found the ace of diamonds, then stopped to examine the playing card itself. It was old for sure—thicker than the playing cards made today—but that’s all it was. There was no writing. Nothing. I began to read page three hundred and sixteen and seventeen of The Story of Art. It was a section on Rembrandt. A beautiful etching of the artist’s graced the bottom of the page, Christ Preaching, from around 1652.

  My feet hit the floor of the bedroom with a thud and I rushed to grab the laptop from Leo’s writing desk. Bringing it back to the bed, I began my search before I’d even climbed back onto the bed.

  Opening Google, I searched for Rembrandt and Christ Preaching. Other than a history on the piece and where it was currently, it was a dead end. I stared at the inscription again and typed in Leo’s words to me. You have taken more than my soul—you are the one thought of my life.

  A book of love letters from famous people popped up in the search. I sucked in a shaky breath. “Napoleon Bonaparte.” The words were part of a love letter to his beloved Josephine.

  “What is all of this?” I whispered aloud, staring at what was right in front of me. I hadn’t a clue as to what I should do with it. If Oscar wanted me to find the book and the ace of diamonds, something on these two pages had meaning.

  I went back to the computer where I’d looked up the etching shown on the marked page. I’d never seen the artwork before and the information said it was owned by someone else and on loan to an exhibit. This wasn’t a piece of art in the vast collection on the walls at Jackson House. I smoothed my hair back around my face, calming the nervous knot in my stomach. I didn’t want to come this far to hit a dead end.

  An ad popped up on the screen as I stared at the Rembrandt, showing me a number of other etchings of his that were for sale if I had at least fifty thousand or so to spare on art as small as three or four inches.

  Crossing my arms, I swallowed past a dry throat. Now what?

  I glanced at my growing pile of evidence for Leo and printed off a copy of the Rembrandt from the internet that matched the one on page three seventeen. Placing the ace of diamonds back in its original spot, I wanted to show Leo exactly how I’d found it. I folded the printout of the etching along with my drawing from Oscar and slid them both into the back pocket of my jeans. Closing all the books, I stacked them on my nightstand and looked at the time.
He’d be home soon and I prayed he’d be willing and able to discuss everything with me.

  I began my usual rush down the main staircase, then stopped. All along the walls was artwork—original artwork. I leaned back over the railing and took a good look at all the pieces. Leo himself confessed that some of it came with the home. “Ephraim sold it with the house.”

  A cold chill raced along my spine. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be looking for art, but an artist. One by one, I checked the signatures of each work. No Rembrandt. I started going from room to room, looking at each oil, watercolor and drawing—nothing. Pulling the paper from my back pocket, I squinted at the signature. Rembrandt didn’t leave behind an obscure looking squiggle of a name. His signature was clear and visible. If there was a Rembrandt in Jackson House, I’d be able to find it—in theory.

  I sat down in the main parlor and stared at Leo’s empty desk. Suddenly I worried what I was looking for had been taken out of the master suite by the Balivinos. “Think, Polly.”

  “Miss Xanthus?” Liz stuck her head out of the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the main dining room and subsequently the parlor.

  “Hey, Liz.”

  “Have you eaten anything today?”

  I grimaced and shook my head, still feeling like an idiot for not being able to quickly pick up the next step. “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked aloud, staring at the paper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, Liz. I’m talking to myself.”

  “Low blood sugar will do that. Why don’t you let me fix you something to eat? It’s nearly one o’clock and I know you didn’t eat breakfast.”

  I turned my attention to her with one lazy blink. “Did Leo eat breakfast? Did anyone eat breakfast after last night?”

  Liz pursed her lips and shook off my question. “That’s beside the point.”

  I cracked a smile and looked back at the etching of Christ Preaching.

  “Everything okay, Miss Polly?”

  Still lost in my own thoughts, I murmured back. “Mmmhmm.”

  “When you’re ready for lunch, let me know. It’s gonna get a little crazy around here in a bit.”

  I allowed Liz to nearly make it back to the kitchen before stopping her. After all, next to Leo, she’d been around Jackson House the most.

  “Liz.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who takes care of all the artwork? You know, here, at Jackson House.” Liz looked to her feet and then back to me. She didn’t have to answer. I knew. “Oscar.”

  She nodded.

  “But when pieces were purchased—surely the family has a dealer they work with?”

  Liz pointed to Leo’s desk. “If there is someone, it will be in Mr. Leo’s rolodex. Oscar was real good about keeping Leo in the loop, even when he was gone.”

  I tucked my paper back into the confines of my back pocket and slid behind the desk of my husband. Dwarfed by it all, I couldn’t decide if it was the size of the desk, or the magnitude of responsibility that made me feel insignificant.

  The desk had nothing but an old blotter, a matching pen set and Leo’s files. Opening each drawer, I searched until I found it in the second drawer from the top. An old fashioned Rolodex, most of the cards were dog-eared. I didn’t know where to look, so I picked A for art dealer. An eight hundred number and name of Hans Powell, Sotheby’s, was five or six cards back in the stack.

  I picked up the house phone and watched the lines come alive on the system. I placed the receiver back in the cradle and called out to Tree. He came from the kitchen, half a sandwich in his hand, the other half in his mouth.

  “Yes, Miss Polly?”

  I held out my open palm. “Phone. I need to use your phone to call an eight hundred number.”

  He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. I could see he thought I was up to something I shouldn’t be.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not calling a sex hotline or anything.”

  “Miss Polly, I didn’t—”

  “I’m not calling the Psychic Hotline either,” I said, taking the satellite phone off his utility belt myself. “Although I’d take all the help I can get at this point.”

  “C’mon, Miss Polly,” he whined.

  “Tree, don’t beg. It doesn’t look good on a man like you. You should only beg on one occasion.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, his face turning from concern to amusement.

  “When you’ve messed up so bad you’re about to lose the love of your life.”

  I walked away, dialing.

  “I’ll remember that,” he called out over my shoulder.

  “Hans Powell.” He answered the phone without it even ringing—without an assistant fielding calls for him.

  “Mr. Powell, my name is—my name is Dinah Gold. I’m a caretaker at Jackson House in New Orleans for the Xanthus family. How are you today?”

  “I’m well, Ms. Gold. What might I help you with today?”

  So far so good. “We’re doing an inventory of the artwork in the house and I was just wondering if you knew, perhaps—I mean, off the top of your head—if you’d ever sold a Rembrandt to the Xanthus family?”

  I could hear him typing on his keyboard and breathing hard. I held my breath.

  “Rembrandt. I’m sorry, Ms. Gold. I don’t have a record of a transaction here, but if memory serves there are a couple in the home. If you’ll forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been to Jackson House to see the collection and I believe there are two. The best way to know what they are exactly and their value would be for me to make a trip into New Orleans to take a look at the collection again. Is the estate selling art?”

  I’d opened a can of worms. “No sir. I was honestly curious and couldn’t find one around the home when someone inquired.”

  “So you have a buyer? Please don’t think of negotiating those terms on your own, Ms. Gold. We’re equipped here to make the transition smoothly. You won’t have the insurance umbrella necessary to move the artwork from one location to another once the transaction has taken place.”

  As soon as he said the magic word, I was done with him. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Powell. Thank you for your time.”

  Hanging up, I’d already found my way back to the Rolodex. Under I, I found the insurance broker. Bingo.

  After holding for ten minutes while they found the correct agent for Jackson House, I listened carefully as the agent rattled off a long list of items insured inside the estate, including all the artwork.

  “So I have indeed called the correct person.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Here’s what I need. Please fax over to Jackson House a list of all the artwork, the artist and what it’s insured for. I need it quickly.”

  “Not a problem. Are you moving these assets out of the home on Third Street, ma’am?”

  “Oh goodness no. I’m just making a list. An art list.”

  The agent on the other end seemed suspicious. I didn’t need that.

  “It’s purely for inventory purposes. I’m sure you heard we had a break-in last week. We’re just going over everything with a fine tooth comb.”

  The tension in the agent’s voice dropped. “I see. Well, stand by. The fax is coming through now. And if there’s anything else we can—”

  I heard the fax machine ringing in the utility room and nearly hung up on him. “No thank you, but I’ve got another call coming in. Goodbye.”

  I hurried through the kitchen, tossing Tree his phone so high in the air he had a three second lag time to nab it.

  “Have you finished talking to the wrestling hotline?” Tree asked with a sneer.

  “Actually called the Catholic Church hotline,” I said, rushing through to get to the mud room. “They’re faxing over a Hail Mary.”

  I could hear Liz and Tree laugh in the kitchen as I waited, impatiently tapping the top of the machine as it spit out papers. The cover sheet indicated there would be five. Five pages.

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” I dan
ced around the room like I had to pee and prayed Powell was correct. If there were two Rembrandts, there were two chances there was another clue.

  20

  LEO

  We traveled back to Jackson House—Bea, Tristan, and me not saying a word, but all keeping an eye on the heap of a balding man in the floor of the limonene. In order to be around should Vito need another knock in the head, Tristan had given the keys to his car to Maestro, who was happy to drive it back to Jackson House.

  “Is this the best they have, sir?” Bea asked. “Because I have to say, he’s shit.”

  I jerked my chin and sneered. “They’re falling apart. The whole damn lot of them. The Marcello family in New York is all but gone, but these fuckers—”

  “Can’t teach an old dog.” Tristan said the words, his eyes glancing over Vito’s overweight body then settling on Bea’s bare thigh. The black dress had ridden up when she frisked Vito to look for weapons, showing off her thigh and holster.

  I tamped down my rage. I wanted to shoot him in the head and toss him out of the car. After the news I got last night, I wanted revenge. No. I needed revenge.

  I fought the urge to punch his face over and over, turning my head away and cracking the knuckles of my quaking fist.

  Tristan’s steady hand gripped my shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “How could you know?”

  “Because I’ve been there—felt responsible for someone’s death. Hell, Z, it’s just as much my fault as it is anyone’s.”

  I shook my head. “No. This is my shit show. Without pulling him into my fucking mess he’d still be alive.” I looked to Tristan. “I can’t bring him back, but I sure as hell can do everything to make their lives a living hell.”

  “You mean terminate them,” Tristan said.

  I finally looked him in the eye. “I’m prepared to do whatever’s necessary. I’m not living this fucking life any more, Tristan. The running? The hiding? It’s not fair to Polly. It’s not fair to me.”

  The steely gaze in Tristan’s eyes intensified and I knew he was with me. “You know good and well I’ve never been the guy with the Bureau that followed the rules. I’m with you—as long as no one else gets hurt.”