The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  grandparents. Nothing’s an intrusion.”

  He towed her across the street, around a woman with a wailing infant in a stroller, and into the shop, one with color and style. And, she imagined, really big price tags.

  “Jess.”

  “Ash.” The willowy blonde in a black-and-white mini and towering red sandals scooted around a counter to offer her cheek to Ash. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I’ve got a few stops to make, thought I’d check to see if you found anything.”

  “I went to work as soon as you called. I’ve got a couple things that might work. Is this your model? I’m Jess.”

  “Lila.”

  “You’re right about the red,” she said to Ash. “And I think I know which is going to work. Come on back.”

  She led the way into a breathlessly cramped storeroom, then took two full-skirted red dresses off a wheeled rack.

  “Not that. That.”

  “Exactly.”

  Before Lila had a chance to really see both, Jess stuffed one back on the rack, held out the other.

  Ash spread the flounced skirt out wide, nodded. “It should work, but I need the color under it.”

  “Got that covered. I came across this at a consignment shop weeks ago and picked it up thinking you might find it useful at some point. It’s perfect for this, I think. Rather than the bulk of several slips or underskirts, this has the multicolor flounces on the bottom. And if it’s not right, you could get a seamstress to make one.”

  “Yeah, let’s see.” He took both, pushed them at Lila. “Try them on.”

  “I’m the one with errands,” she reminded him.

  “We’ll get to them.”

  “Let me show you a dressing room. Would you like something?” Jess said smoothly, as she nudged Lila out of the storeroom, around and into a dressing room with the damn triple mirror. “Some sparkling water?”

  “Why not? Thanks.”

  Once again, she changed. The slip bagged at the waist so she dug a paper clip out of her purse to tighten it.

  And the dress fit like a dream.

  Not her style, of course. Too red, too in-your-face with the low scoop of bodice. But the dropped waist made her look taller, and she wouldn’t argue with that.

  “Are you in that thing?”

  “Yes. I just . . . Well, come right in,” she said when Ash did just that.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” He circled his finger again. She rolled her eyes, but did the twirl. “Close. We’ll need to . . .” He reached down, hiked a section of the skirt up.

  “Hey.”

  “Relax. Ride this up here, show more leg, more color.”

  “The slip’s too big in the waist. I clipped it.”

  “Jess.”

  “No problem, and she’s going to want a better bra. Ummm, 32-A?”

  Mortifyingly accurate, Lila thought. “Yes.”

  “Hold on.” She scooted out.

  Struggling to find her balance again, Lila sipped sparkling water while Ash studied her.

  “Go away.”

  “In a minute. Gold hoop earrings, a lot of—” He ran his fingers up and down her wrist.

  “Bangles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Excuse us a minute.” Jess came back in with a flame-red bra, nudging Ash out. “He’d stay right there otherwise,” she said with a smile. “If you’d try this on, I can measure the slip.”

  With a sigh, Lila set down the water and tried not to think she was stripping to the waist in front of a stranger.

  Fifteen minutes later, they walked out with the dress, the bra—and the matching panties she’d agreed to in a moment of weakness.

  “How did this happen? All I did was look out the window.”

  “Physics?” he suggested.

  “Action and reaction?” She blew out a breath. “I guess I can blame it on science, then.”

  “What are the errands?”

  “I’m not sure I remember.”

  “Think about it. We’ll hit the post office while you do.”

  “Post office.” She shook her head. “You bought me underwear.”

  “It’s wardrobe.”

  “It’s underwear. It’s red underwear. I didn’t even know you, what, just over a week ago, and now you’ve bought me red underwear. Did you even look at the price tags?”

  “You said you weren’t marrying me for my money.”

  That made her laugh, and she remembered. “A cat toy. I want a toy for Thomas.”

  “I thought he had toys.”

  A man in an ankle-length trench coat stomped by, muttering obscenities. He left an amazing stream of body odor in his wake.

  “I love New York,” she said, watching pedestrians dodge and evade his angry path. “I really do.”

  “He lives around here somewhere,” Ash told her. “I see him—or at least smell him—a couple times a week. He never takes off that coat.”

  “Hence the smell. It’s forecast to hit ninety-three today, and I’d say we’re already there. And yes, Thomas has toys, but this is a present for when I leave. And I need to pick up a bottle of wine for the Kilderbrands. I’ll get flowers on Saturday.”

  “You’re leaving them a bottle of wine and flowers?”

  “Yes, it’s polite. One of your many mothers should have taught you that.” She breathed in the scent of sidewalk cart hot dogs—much more pleasant than Trench Coat Man. “Why am I going to the post office with you?”

  “Because it’s right here.” Taking her hand, he drew her inside, then over to the wall of boxes. He dug out his key, opened one, said, “Shit.”

  “It’s pretty full,” she observed.

  “It’s been a few days. Maybe a week. Mostly junk. Why do people kill trees for junk mail?”

  “At last, a point of absolute agreement.”

  He riffled through, tossed a couple of things in the cloth bag Lila handed him, dug out a padded envelope.

  And stopped everything.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from Oliver.”

  “Oh.” She stared at it, at the big looping scrawl, as Ash did. “It’s postmarked . . .”

  “The day he was murdered.” Ash dumped the contents of the box in the mail bag, then ripped open the envelope.

  He drew out a key and a handwritten note on a monogrammed card.

  Hey, Ash.

  I’ll be in touch in a day or two to pick this up. Just sending it to you for safekeeping while I put the rest of a deal together. The client’s a little touchy, so if I have to leave town for a couple days, I’ll let you know. You could pick up the merchandise, bring it to me at the compound. I went with the Wells Fargo near my place. And since I forged your signature on the card—just like the old days!—you won’t have a problem getting into the box. Appreciate it, bro.

  Talk soon. Oliver.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What merchandise? What client?”

  “I guess I’m going to find out.”

  “We,” she corrected. “I’m in this far,” she added when he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

  “All right.” He slid the note into the bag, slipped the key into his pocket. “Let’s go to the bank.”

  “This could be the why.” She trotted to keep up with his long strides. “Shouldn’t you take the key to the police?”

  “He sent it to me.”

  She grabbed his hand to slow him down. “What did he mean, forging your signature like the old days?”

  “Kid stuff mostly. School papers, that sort of thing. Mostly.”

  “But you weren’t his legal guardian, were you?”

  “No. Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

  Not his guardian, Lila deduced. But the one he counted on.

  “He knew he was in trouble,” Ash continued, “but then he was in trouble half the time. Touchy client, which means pissed-off client. Whatever he had he didn’t want it on him or in his apartment. So he put it in a vault, sent me the key.”

&nbs
p; “Because he knew you’d keep it for him.”

  “I’d’ve tossed the envelope in a drawer, and I’d’ve been annoyed enough to toss it at him when he came for it and tell him I didn’t want to hear about it. He’d know that, so that’s just why he did it. Because he not only wouldn’t have to explain to me, I wouldn’t let him explain.”

  “That doesn’t make it your fault.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Where the hell’s the bank?”

  “We turn left at the next corner. They won’t let me go with you to open the box. You have to be authorized.”

  “Right.” Thinking it through, he slowed for a moment. “I’ll get whatever it is, I guess we’ll take it over to your place. For now. I’m going into the bank, get this done. You go into one of the shops, buy something. Look at me.”

  He stopped her, turned her, moved in just a little. “It’s possible somebody’s keeping tabs on us—or one of us. So let’s make this casual. Running errands.”

  “That was the plan of the day.”

  “Stick with the plan. Buy something, and when I finish in the bank, we’ll walk to the apartment. A nice easy stroll.”

  “You really think someone’s watching us?”

  “It’s a possibility. So.” He leaned farther in, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “Because I bought you red underwear,” he reminded her. “Go buy something.”

  “I . . . I’m going to the little market, just there.”

  “Poke around until I come for you.”

  “Okay.”

  It was all like some strange little dream anyway, she told herself as she walked toward the market. Posing for a painting, red underwear, notes from dead brothers, being kissed on the sidewalk because someone might be watching.

  So she might as well buy the wine, and see where the strange little dream took her next.

  Eight

  It didn’t take long. Ash often thought Oliver could have made a living as a forger. The signatures matched—as would Oliver’s version of their father’s signature or countless others. The key worked, and once the bank official used her own, removed the box, stepped out, Ash stood alone in the private room staring at the box.

  Whatever was in it had cost Oliver and the woman he might have loved, at least in his way, their lives. Whatever was in it had brought a killer into his home, and into the home of a friend.

  Ash was sure of it.

  He opened the box.

  He glanced at the stacks of banded hundreds, crisp as new lettuce, at the thick manila envelope. And the box within the box carefully snuggled between. The deeply embossed rich brown leather case with gold hinges.

  He opened it.

  And stared at the glitter and shine, the opulence tucked perfectly into the thickly padded interior.

  For this? he thought. To die for this?

  Ash took out the envelope, slipped the documents out, read what he could. He thought again, For this? Pushing back the anger, he closed and fastened the box again. He took the tissue-wrapped purchases out of the shopping bag, laid the box inside, tucked the excess tissue over it, wedged the dress in the mail bag. He shoved the envelope, the money, in the shopping bag, making sure the tissue covered it. Hefting both bags, he left the empty safe-deposit box on the table.

  He needed a computer.

  Lila poked around as long as seemed reasonable. She bought wine, two large and lovely peaches, a little wedge of Port Salut cheese. To string it out, she debated over olives as though they were her most important purchase of the day. Perhaps the year.

  In the end, she filled her little basket with odds and ends. At the counter, she winced at what the poking cost her, made sure to smile at the counterman, then kept the smile going as she turned, glanced at the striking Asian woman in emerald-green sandals with high, glittery wedges.

  “I love your shoes.” She said it casually as she lifted her shopping bag, exactly as she might have under any circumstances.

  “Thank you.” The woman skimmed her exotic gaze down to Lila’s pretty multicolored but seen-many-miles flat sandals. “Yours are very nice.”

  “For walking, but not for styling.” Pleased with herself, Lila wandered out, strolled back toward the bank.

  Boring shoes, Jai decided, for a boring life. But just what was the brother doing in the bank for so long? It might pay to watch a bit longer, and since the pay was good and New York appealed to her, she’d watch.

  Ash came out of the bank just as Lila debated with herself whether to go in or just wait.

  “I couldn’t shop anymore,” she began.

  “It’s fine. Let’s just go.”

  “What was in the box?”

  “We’ll talk about it when we’re inside.”

  “Give me a hint,” she insisted, again lengthening her strides to keep up. “Blood diamonds, dinosaur bones, gold doubloons, a map with the location of Atlantis—because it’s down there somewhere.”

  “No.”

  “It is, too,” she insisted. “Oceans cover most of the planet, so—”

  “I mean none of those were in the bank box. I need to check some things on your computer.”

  “Nuclear launch codes, the secret to immortality, the cure for male pattern baldness.”

  That distracted him enough to have him look down at her. “Really?”

  “I’m grabbing out of the ether. Wait, he worked in antiquities. Michelangelo’s favorite chisel, Excalibur, Marie Antoinette’s tiara.”

  “You’re getting closer.”

  “I am? Which? Hi, Ethan, how are you today?”

  It took Ash a beat to realize she was speaking to the doorman.

  “Oh, getting there, Ms. Emerson. Did some shopping?”

  “New dress.” She beamed at him.

  “You enjoy it. We’re going to miss you around here.”

  Ethan opened the door, exchanged nods with Ash.

  “He’s worked here eleven years,” Lila told Ash as they walked to the elevator. “And knows everything about everyone. But he’s very discreet. How would anyone know it was Michelangelo’s favorite chisel?”