Hidden Gems

by Carrie Alexander

  “Not the same. You weren’t friends with him first. With me and Jamie, there are already so many layers to our relationship.”

  Trish raised her brows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not what I’m used to. My affairs are simple and clean. Sex has never been about…” Marissa wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t use the L word. “About feelings.” She put on a shudder. “Feelings. Yuck.”

  “Yes, that sounds like pure torture.” Cass was smiling and shaking her head at the same time. “I can’t believe you’re complaining about having a man who truly cares for you. To use your own words—deal with it.”

  “You know how that will go.” Marissa made a chopping gesture. Previously, she’d had no problem making decisions about what fit where in the grand scheme of her life. She didn’t like the waffling and hesitation of the past several days.

  Trish was shocked. “You wouldn’t dump him!”

  A pang bit into Marissa’s midsection at the very thought. “Oh, no. But it’d be nice if Jamie would…”

  “Stop inserting colors into your black-and-white world?” Sylvie looked almost smug. She’d said all along that Marissa was too controlled.

  “Where does Jamie stand on all of this?” Cass asked.

  Marissa thought the question over. “He was leery at first, but now that we did it, he seems happy.”

  Sylvie tossed her hands. “Of course! What man wouldn’t be happy? He’s having sex with a hot girl.”

  Marissa paused. Sylvie’s comment had given her an opening to turn the conversation back in a bawdy direction. Instead, she plunged on. “It’s me who can’t figure out how to negotiate through the changes.”

  “You’ll find a way,” Trish assured her.

  Cass, more familiar with Marissa’s tendencies, was less certain. “You know,” she said, treading carefully, “I have a feeling that you’ve been given a shot at the real thing.”

  Marissa had the same feeling. That was a large part of what worried her. She had a plan for her life and falling into the L word wasn’t on the agenda.

  Cass frowned when she saw the doubt in her friend’s face. “Don’t bollix it up, Mari.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Sylvie gave a saucy wink. “Come what may, at least the sex was good.”

  “Very,” Marissa said with emphasis. Enough with the angst. She was a woman of action. Even when her actions got her into hot water.

  Cass straightened the cuff of her peacock-blue Isaac Vincent shirt. A fabulous wardrobe was the most enviable perk of her job with the couture house. “You never did answer the circumference question.”

  Sylvie smirked. “Does he measure up to Tonio?” Her pet name for her husband was El Toro. The bull.

  “Hush,” Trish warned. “Here comes our waiter.”

  Marissa waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Aleksei’s heard it all before.”

  “Indeed. And most of it from you.” Their longtime waiter distributed salads. Only Sylvie, who was trying to get pregnant, had ordered red meat. London Broil, to build up her blood, she said, although she’d always been an inveterate carnivore.

  “How did the actual first move happen?” Trish picked up a fork. “It must have been strange. Like kissing your cousin.”

  “What’s strange is that it wasn’t strange at all.” Marissa squeezed lemon over her seafood salad. “Jamie came to pick me up at the airport after the disaster with Paul. The moment I saw him, I knew something was different. We clicked in a way we hadn’t before. Not for my part, anyway.”

  “Maybe the disastrous vacation with Paul was the impetus?” Cass suggested.

  Sylvie nodded. “Rebound action.”

  Rebound? Marissa fought against reducing Jamie to that, but there might be an inkling of truth in the comment. Her mood became bleak. “Damn. Did you have to bring up Paul? Thinking of him makes me wonder if I’m fooling myself this time, too.” She searched her friends’ faces for reassurance. “What if Jamie’s just another mistake?”

  Before anyone could answer, she went on. “I go around believing my life is under control, that I’m smart, organized, capable. But that’s a lie, isn’t it?” She frowned, giving herself a good hard look. “My bad choices with men aren’t the only clue. Consider the mess in my apartment—it’s like the window into my screwed-up psyche.”

  “Your psyche’s not screwed up,” said Cass, always loyal.

  Trish touched Marissa’s arm. “We all feel lost and helpless at times.”

  “Speak for yourselves,” Sylvie said, but then she relented. “I suppose there are moments when I’m not as together as I like to think.”

  “No.” Marissa was on the verge of a full-fledged funk. Perhaps even a wallow in misery. “You’re the coolest women I know. I’m the only mess here.”

  “Give me a break,” Cass scoffed. “You know how ditzy I can be.” She looked at Trish and Sylvie. “Did I tell you all how freaked out I was about falling eight stories into a giant air bag? I was only lucky that my G-stringed butt didn’t wind up on the eleven o’clock news instead of cradled in Sam’s hands.”

  Marissa swirled the dregs of her drink. “The way I hear it, Sam’s hands were a news flash all their own.” She signaled the waiter. “Aleksei. Another round for my friends.”

  “Not me,” Sylvie said. She patted her flat midriff. “Just in case.”

  “So we’re not the superwomen you believe,” Cass reiterated after they’d distributed the fresh drinks and munched on a few bites of their salads.

  “Yes, we are. We’re fabulous.” Sylvie flashed a huge smile. “Including Marissa.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Trish nodded in her serious way. “Even fabulous women can make mistakes.”

  “Preferably enjoyable ones,” Cass said. An obviously fond memory—or prospect—lit up her beautiful face. “Really enjoyable.”

  Marissa nibbled a shred of lobster. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. I’ll consider Paul a lesson learned.”

  “Ugh, no. That sounds so practical. He was an experience.”

  “Then what’s Jamie?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “I think he’s the one,” Trish said sweetly.

  Marissa studied her salad as she chopped at it with her knife and fork. Her breath had caught in her throat and was hung up there like an oversize leaf of escarole.

  “Wait a minute.” Sylvie angled her head low, trying to see Marissa’s eyes. “It seems to me that if you’re already having doubts—”

  “I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Marissa shook her head. “If I am, they’re doubts about me, not Jamie. I’m the one with faulty judgment. He’s been—” She found her breath, a great gust of it. “He’s everything I should want. Everything.”

  “There you go,” Cass said after a moment of respectful silence. They recognized sincerity when they saw it.

  Marissa set aside her misgivings. And her mood. “I haven’t even told you about yesterday. I didn’t go into work after all. Jamie was with me for most of the day, setting my house to straights—well, sort of. He got new locks. The apartment’s barricaded like Fort Knox. And he went with me to the local precinct—”

  Sylvie interrupted. “I thought you were going to the morgue.”

  Trish’s mouth opened. “The morgue? You didn’t tell me that!”

  Marissa explained. “They found my intruder. Dead.”

  Trish shivered. Sylvie sliced a piece of steak. “You were able to identify him, then?”

  “No. I went to the police station and they showed me a creepy Polaroid close-up of his face on a slab.” Marissa’s stomach revolted at the memory and she had to swallow hard. The only dead people she’d seen had been those at funerals, done up in makeup and their Sunday best. Death in the raw had shocked her, especially when she remembered that it might have been her being tagged and photographed. “Since the burglar wore a ski mask when he was in my apartment, I cou
ldn’t help. Still, they’re pretty sure it’s him. The ski mask was left beside his body, and he had a number of cavities, the way I said he did.”

  “Was there an ID on him?”

  “His name was Freddy Bascomb.” Marissa lifted her shoulders. “Which means nothing to me. The cops are looking into his background, to see if they can find any connection to explain what he wanted. Apparently this guy was just a common punk. I got the feeling that the cops will mark him as just another street thug and give the case low priority.”

  “But he was murdered,” Trish protested.

  Cassandra leaned her chin on her hand. “And by whom?”

  “The other guy,” Sylvie guessed. “The one you saw at the bottom of the fire escape.”

  “You have a criminal mind,” Marissa said. “That’s exactly what the cops suggested. A falling-out among thieves. Which only makes sense if they took something so valuable from me that it was worth killing over, and they didn’t.”

  “But you don’t know what they were after, so who’s to say?”

  Trish chimed in. “Maybe your break-in was only one of a string, and then they argued after yours went bad.”

  “Could be.”

  “I’ll run the case by Sam,” Cass volunteered. “See what he thinks.”

  “What does Jamie say?” Trish asked.

  Marissa’s lips puckered. “Oh, Jamie. He’s more concerned with keeping me safe, but he did have a cockeyed theory about Shandi being involved.”

  Cass and Sylvie exchanged looks.

  “Who’s Shandi?” Trish had never met her.

  “Shandi Lee. An old roommate of mine. She also dated Jamie for a very short time, years ago,” Marissa said. “Anyway, Shandi’s no longer a problem. I haven’t seen her since—” She cut off abruptly.

  Cass raised her brows. “The night of the break-in.”

  “Coincidence,” Marissa insisted. “Shandi disappears when she finds a new guy or a new interest.”

  “Then why does Jamie suspect her?”

  “We were only throwing out theories. I suppose it’s because she’s usually broke, but that’s nothing new.” Marissa felt uncomfortable. There was something going on concerning Shandi, something that Jamie knew and she didn’t. Not a dynamic she was used to. “Forget I brought it up. I don’t want Shandi hearing about this.”

  “Maybe you’re on the hit list of the jewel thief that Sam’s after,” Cass said to lighten up the mood. “Your law firm has sent you to a few fancy parties. It’s possible.”

  “Uh-huh. Little Mari, Queen of the Calle Oche Low-riders, running around with a stash of jewels? Any thief worth his salt would know that my jewelry is all costume.”

  “You have those diamond solitaire earrings.”

  Marissa had bought them for herself as a special indulgence after her biggest case to date. She’d played a vital part in negotiating a good settlement for one of the firm’s top clients. Afterward, Thomas Howard, the most senior of the senior partners, had begun greeting her by name and including her among the select group of favored associates. He’d even taken a fatherly interest in her, asking about her background and her ambitions for the future. Some said he was grooming her.

  “And a pearl necklace,” continued Cass. A gift from a devoted swain who’d clung to Marissa like an oyster.

  “I still have them. The burglar didn’t take a thing even after he busted through my bedroom door. But quarter-carat diamonds and one string of pearls hardly constitute a trove worthy of raiding.”

  “Cass, is this Sam of yours on the Zoey Zander case?” Trish asked. “I read about the heist in the paper.”

  “I was discussing that with my sister only last weekend,” Cass said excitedly. “I went up to Fairfield, and we were sorting through the store of antiques in the basement of her shop. Morgan came across an old French text. She was able to translate a few words here and there—enough to realize that the book was telling the story of the same amulet that was among the items missing from the auction house.”

  “It’s called the White Star.” Trish dabbed her lips with a napkin. “I read about the amulet’s history when I minored in art history at Northwestern.”

  “What’s the legend?” Marissa asked.

  “Hard to say.” Cass tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Morgan’s French was too limited. Trish?”

  “I don’t recall the details, except that the tale was supposed to be a thousand years old and it involved a legacy of true love.” Trish shrugged. “My brother, Alex, is the one to ask. He does PR for the Museum of Antiquities. He would know who could help you.”

  Sylvie had finished her lunch and was growing impatient with talk of ancient legends and dusty tomes. “What does it look like?”

  “There was a grainy photo of it in the Sunday Times,” Cass said. “It’s an ivory star.”

  Sylvie sniffed. “I’d rather have a platinum Rolex.”

  Marissa shooed her. “Your soul has no romance!”

  “Not true. It’s tucked into my lingerie drawer. I only take it out for special occasions.”

  “Sounds about right,” Cass said drolly, and they were laughing again.

  A longing, almost a craving, lingered within Marissa. Considering her recent turn in affection for Jamie, a prophecy of true love that was meant to be would certainly simplify her love life.

  ALLARD WATCHED from a corner table as the four women got ready to leave the bistro. They didn’t give him a glance. He had put on a suit and blended in with the crowd, remaining watchful and still except for the cell phone he’d lifted to his ear in imitation of the businessmen all around.

  He’d been seated close enough to hear everything. He’d picked up a few interesting tips, verifying what he’d already deduced—though the blond “roommate” was no longer in the picture, the boyfriend on the fifth floor definitely was.

  When they’d begun talking about the amulet, Allard’s neutral expression had almost cracked. He was sweating from every pore before their words had sunk in and he’d realized that the women knew very little. For once, Lady Luck was on his side, Marissa still had no idea what she possessed.

  While that confirmation had pleased him, he could not let down his guard. Not yet.

  “But soon,” he said into the dead telephone while he watched Marissa through the window. The women kissed cheeks, making their goodbyes. “Very soon.”

  Despite the pressure being applied by his employer, he’d taken his time planning the next recovery attempt. The days of surveillance and discreet inquiries were about to pay off.

  Allard tossed aside the cell phone. He signaled the waiter for the check. Marissa was hailing a cab, but there was no need to follow her back to work. He had a more lucrative destination in mind.

  The Village. Marissa’s brownstone.

  But not her apartment, with its new locks and bolts. Oh, no.

  Twenty minutes later, he was at the brownstone, on time for his appointment to view an apartment. The super buzzed him in. When Allard heard the man clumping upstairs from the basement, keys jingling, he stepped behind the door.

  The super walked by, looking in vain for the apartment hunter who’d called and offered a large cash payment as key money. Allard disappeared into the gloom of a sublevel maintenance room, where the super spent most of his day behind a battered steel desk, eating doughnuts and gambling online.

  The passkeys for all the apartments were hung on a labeled pegboard. Allard liberated the keys to 3C and made a quick wax impression. As the super’s footsteps descended from above, he returned the keys, pocketed the small tin of wax and stepped deeper into the labyrinthine basement.

  The darkness enfolded him.

  He closed his eyes, listening for the super’s grumbling complaints about being stood up. The desk chair squeaked. A TV clicked on, tuned to a horse race.

  Allard waited for the man to become absorbed. Then he silently slipped past, smug with how easy it was to acquire a copy of Marissa Suarez’s brand new keys
.

  9

  THE OFFICES OF HOWARD, Coffman, Ellis and Schnitzer were situated in a glass-and-steel skyscraper in lower Manhattan. From Marissa’s first day of employment, she’d felt powerful and cosmopolitan, tapping through the travertine lobby in her designer shoes and cunningly tailored power suits. She had held that potential image of herself while waitressing her way through college, during late-night cram sessions at Columbia Law, even the first time she’d swallowed her intimidation and walked through the door of a fashionable clothing store on Madison Avenue.

  She’d believed that once she was that woman, her life would be complete.

  And it was. If she didn’t count her persistently unwise love life. But then, she’d never been the kind of woman who thought having a man was what would make her fulfilled, so it didn’t count. Much.

  Until recently, when she’d realized that it wasn’t about finding “a man.”

  It was falling in love with the man.

  I’m not in love, she thought. What’s going on is some strange symbiosis of danger, adrenaline, lust and familiarity. I might be off my head, but I’m not in love.

  Except there was the way she and Jamie had clicked.

  That tiny little click that kept her up at night so she couldn’t even sleep in her own bed. Though she’d told herself not to get too cozy, she’d ended up spending most of the weekend with Jamie, at his place. He thought that was because she was scared. Which she was, but not of burglars.

  Being scared wasn’t easy for her to admit, not since she was thirteen and her brothers had dared her to climb to the top of a ghostly abandoned construction site in their neighborhood. Saying “I can’t” was worse to her than anything else.

  Nearing the elevators, Marissa slowed. She switched her brief-bag to the other hand and smoothed her charcoal pin-striped skirt, conservative except for the slit in the back. That morning, she’d needed the extra boost of confidence she got from being an attractive woman who could make men beg at the sight of the back of her knee.

  Her nape was prickling.

  She whirled around, half expecting to see Paul’s big toothpaste grin, the one he thought was so charming, but there was no one except suits gathering to ride the elevator. A security guard circled the lobby, stopping to chat to the woman who ran the kiosk where Marissa often picked up a café con leche on her way in.