by Nora Roberts
“I’d appreciate it. Oliver knew what it was, what it’s worth. Otherwise, he’d have come to you.”
“I think yes, he’d have known, or known enough to find out on his own.”
“Do you have a client with a particular interest in something like this?”
“Not specifically, but anyone with a true interest in antiquities, with collecting, would be thrilled to acquire this. Had they the thirty million or more it’s worth. It could, potentially, go for much more at auction or be sold to a collector with that particular interest. And Oliver would certainly have known that.”
“You said he handled two estates in the last couple months.”
“Yes. Let me think.” Vinnie rubbed at his temple. “He accessed and organized the Swanson estate, Long Island, and the Hill-Clayborne estate in Park Slope.”
“Swanson.”
“Yes. Neither listed anything like this.”
“Who did the listing?”
“In these cases, Oliver, working with the clients. He couldn’t have afforded to acquire this separately—and I would certainly have noticed an acquisition for millions.”
“He could have afforded it if, one, he had a client in mind, or two, the seller didn’t know the value.”
“It’s possible. Some people have a vastly inflated idea of the value of their grandmother’s Wedgwood. Others see a Daum crane vase as clutter.”
“There’s a bill of sale in his personal papers. For an antique angel figure with wagon. Sold to him by Miranda Swanson for twenty-five thousand.”
“Dear God. Miranda Swanson—that was the client. Her father’s estate. She wanted to sell all or nearly all the contents of his home, and Oliver handled it. He never said . . .”
Vinnie looked back at the egg.
“Would he have known what it was?”
“Even if he wasn’t certain, he should have wondered, checked. Perhaps he did. Twenty-five thousand for this?”
“Hell of a deal,” Ash commented.
“It . . . If he knew, it was unethical. We don’t do business that way. You don’t keep clients that way. But . . . for finding it, recognizing it, I would’ve been proud of him. He could’ve brought it to me. I would’ve been proud of him.”
“He didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have allowed it. It’s not stealing, not outright. Some wouldn’t even consider it cheating. You would have. He couldn’t tell you.”
Ash paced away when Vinnie said nothing. “He told his girlfriend, and very likely got the money to buy it from her. He hooked into a collector, either through her or from people he knew through your shop. Tried to cash in. Big payday. He’d know what you’d think, what you’d want, but he’d just seen the shine.”
“And he paid a very high price for questionable ethics. You won’t tell his mother.”
“No. I’m not telling anyone in the family except you.”
“That’s for the best. I would’ve been proud of him,” Vinnie murmured again, then shook it off. He straightened, looked back at Ash. “He left you with a mess, didn’t he? A habit of his, I’m sorry to say. Make copies of the paperwork. I don’t want to take the originals. I’ll see about getting them translated, and I’ll make some careful inquiries if you want a true expert to examine it.”
“We’ll hold that for now.”
“I don’t know nearly enough about the history. I know there were fifty Imperial eggs commissioned, and that Lenin ordered the ransacking of the palaces, had the treasures moved during the Bolshevik Revolution. Stalin sold several of the eggs in the thirties, I believe, to raise money, foreign money. This one’s complete, with the surprise—and that adds value. Many of the ones currently in collections are missing the surprise, or elements of it. The eight were lost after the revolution. Stolen, sold, hidden or put in very, very private collections.”
“I’ve been boning up. One of the descriptions of this one’s from the 1917 inventory of seized treasure. Seems like it didn’t actually make it to Lenin’s coffers—or somebody plucked it out later.”
Ash took the papers to the copier.
“Where are you going to keep it while you do this research?”
“I’m taking it to the compound.”
“That’s good. Even better than my vault. But if you put it in the main safe, even telling your father it’s private, and to leave it alone, he won’t.”
“I have a couple of places I can put it, safely.” He found another envelope, put the copies inside. “Let me get you another drink.”
“Better not. Angie will know if I’ve had two. She’s got radar. One’s acceptable between work and home. Two is the doghouse.” His voice was light, brisk, but Ash heard the grief, and worse now, the disappointment. “I’ll get going anyway. I’ll make a call when I get home about the translation. I might be able to have it for you when I get to the compound. You’re going up tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“The offer’s still there. Anything we can do.” Vinnie got to his feet, closed the documents in his briefcase. “This is an important find. Oliver did something important, something that matters in the world. He just didn’t do it right.”
“I know.”
“Don’t come all the way down,” Vinnie said, giving Ash another hug. “Put the egg away, safely. Take care of it, and yourself. I’ll be in touch before I leave if I have any information.”
“Thanks, Vinnie.”
“As it wasn’t stolen, doesn’t have to be returned to a rightful owner, it belongs in a museum.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“I know you will.”
With the sorrow back in his eyes, Vinnie gave Ash a pat on the back, then made his way out.
He’d put it safely away, Ash thought, but first he’d leave it where it was while he did more digging.
Miranda Swanson, he thought. Time to find out more.
He sat down again, the egg glittering, and keyed in the name.
Jai considered taking another pass through the brother’s loft. The stop at the bank intrigued her. But the visit by the uncle, that intrigued her much more.
A visit there might be more productive.
“We should take the brother. Squeeze him some, and he’ll tell us what he knows.”
Jai settled on a pair of jade and pearl earrings. Very classy, very traditional, to accent her short, blunt-cut wig. She shifted her gaze to Ivan.
“The way the whore told us before you threw her out the window?”
“I didn’t throw her. That got out of hand, that’s all. We take the brother, bring him here. Quiet, private. Wouldn’t take long.”
Ivan affected a Russian accent. Jai knew—always made it her business to know work associates—he was born in Queens, the son of a second-rate Russian mafia enforcer and a stripper whose love affair with heroin had put her in the ground.
“The idiot Oliver hadn’t been in contact with his brother for weeks. Didn’t I check his phone, his computer? No calls, no e-mails. But the uncle he worked for.”
Though she disliked having Ivan in the room while she prepared, Jai selected the Red Taboo lipstick, carefully painted it on her lips.
He’d tried to touch her once, but the knife she’d held to his balls had discouraged that behavior.
He gave her no further trouble in that area.
“The uncle is in the business of antiques, and successfully,” she continued. “It was the uncle’s business that led the idiot to the egg.”
“And the uncle knew dick about it.”
“Then,” Jai agreed. “Perhaps now he knows more. The brother visited this bank, then the uncle visits the brother. I think the brother who’s fucking the skinny bitch who saw the whore fall is learning more. Maybe Oliver wasn’t as much of an idiot as we believed, and put the egg in the bank.”
“You said the brother didn’t come out with the egg.”
“That I could see. If it was in the bank, he may have left it in there. Or he brought out information on the egg and its loc
ation. This would be good information. He consults Oliver’s uncle, Oliver’s boss. Why is this?”
She took a wedding ring set out of a box. She thought it a shame the diamond—square cut, five carats—was fake, but it was a very good fake. She slipped it on.
“The uncle has more knowledge of Fabergé. The uncle is older and not so fit as the brother. The uncle had much contact with the idiot. So I’ll visit the uncle.”
“Waste of time.”
“Our employer has put me in charge,” she said coldly. “The decision is mine. I’ll contact you if and when I need you.”
She took a long, careful study of herself in the mirror. The cheerful summer print of the dress with its conservative lines, the candy-pink heels, buff-colored bag, understated jewelry revealed nothing of the woman within.
It all said just as she wished. Wealthy, traditional Asian woman—married woman.
She checked the contents of the bag one last time. Wallet, card case, cosmetic bag, mobile phone, her compact combat knife, two pairs of restraints and her 9mm Sig.
She left without a backward glance. Ivan would do what she told him to do, or she’d kill him—and they both knew it.
What he didn’t know was she fully intended to kill him anyway. Being obedient only prolonged the inevitable.
For Vinnie, concentrating on work, the clients, the staff helped get him through. His heart and his mind were torn between grief over a sincerely loved nephew and excitement over the lost egg.
He’d sent his copies of the documents to an old friend who could translate them. He considered texting Ash, but decided against it. They’d see each other the next day at the funeral. Best to keep as much of their communication regarding the egg verbal and private.
He hated not sharing it all with his wife. Once they knew more, he would, but again, for now, it seemed best not to speculate. Not to blur things. Oliver, whatever he’d done, deserved a memorial where those who loved him could grieve without the added weight.
Vinnie carried the weight. He’d barely slept the last two nights, and all that wakeful time, the pacing time, had added more.
He had loved his sister’s boy, had seen the potential in that boy. But he wasn’t blind to the flaws, and now he believed Oliver’s tendency to look for the quick score, the shortcut, the big and shiny had lured him to his death.
For what? he thought. For what?
Discovering the lost egg would have boosted his reputation, would have brought him accolades and money. Vinnie feared his nephew had wanted more, just more. And so had gotten nothing.
“Mr. V, I wish you’d go on home.”
Vinnie looked over at Janis, gave her a little head shake. She’d worked for him for fifteen years, always called him Mr. V.
“It helps keep my mind busy,” he told her. “And the fact is, Janis, my sister would rather have Angie than me right now. So I’ll go up tomorrow, give her time with Angie. I’d just rattle around the place at home.”
“If you change your mind, you know Lou and I will close up. You could go on up tonight, just be with your family.”
“I’ll think about that. I will. But for now . . . I’ll take this pretty young lady,” he said as Jai strolled into the shop. “She’s sure to keep my mind off my troubles.”
“Oh you!” She gave him a giggle because he wanted one, but she watched him cross the shop with worry in her eye. The man was grieving, she thought, and should give himself the time for it.
“Good afternoon. What can I show you today?”
“So many lovely things.” Jai released the accent she’d so carefully bound, added the polish of education. “I see this piece as I walk. But now, so much more.”
“This piece caught your eye?”
“Caught my eye.” She laughed, touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “Yes.”
“You have an excellent eye. This is a Louis the Fourteenth bureau. The marquetry is very, very fine.”
“May I touch?”
“Of course.”
“Ah.” She ran her fingertips over the top. “It is very lovely. Old, yes?”
“Late seventeenth century.”
“My husband, he wants the old for the apartment in New York. I am to find what I like, but what he likes. You understand? Please excuse my English, it is not well.”
“Your English is very good, and very charming.”
Jai did a little eyelash flutter. “You are so kind. This, I think he will like very much. I would— Oh, and this?”
“This is also Louis the Fourteenth. A brass-and-tortoiseshell Boulle marquetry commode. It’s beautifully preserved, as you see.”
“Yes, it looks new, but old. This is what my husband wishes. But I must not pick all the same? Do you understand? They must be . . .”
“You want complementary pieces.”
“Yes, I think. These are complementary?”
Vinnie looked at the bureau that had “caught her eye,” and smiled. “Very complementary.”
“And this! We have a small library in the apartment, and see how this pretty table has what looks like books, but is a drawer. I like this very much!”
“This is tulipwood,” Vinnie began.
“Tulipwood. How pretty. This I like so much. And this lamp. This lamp to see on the . . . commode, you said.”
“You have exceptional taste, Mrs. . . .”
“Mrs. Castle. I am Mrs. Castle, and very pleased to meet you.”
“Vincent Tartelli.”
“Mr. Tartelli.” She bowed, then offered a hand. “You will help me, please. To select the pieces for our apartment. So many lovely things,” she said again, with a dreamy look around. “My husband will come. I cannot buy without his approval, but I know he will want much of this. This.” She turned back to the first piece. “He will like this very, very much. This is possible?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will select, and I will call him. He will be so pleased.”
He was easy to engage in conversation as they went through the shop, as he showed her pieces, as she exclaimed or fumbled a bit with her English.
She found and noted all the security cameras as they made the rounds—thoroughly—of the two-level shop. Gradually she steered him from furnishings to collectibles, and objets d’art.
“I would like to buy a gift for my mother. From myself. She enjoys pretty things. You have in this case? This is jade?”
“It is. A very exquisite jade bonbonniere. The carving is Chinese influence.”
“She would enjoy,” Jai said as Vinnie unlocked the display, then set the box on a pad of velvet. “It is old?”
“Late nineteenth century. Fabergé.”
“This is French?”
“No, Russian.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I know this. Russian, not French. He makes the famous eggs.” She let her smile fade as she looked into Vinnie’s eyes. “I have said something wrong?”
“No, no. Not at all. Yes, Fabergé created the eggs, originally for the tsar to give as Easter gifts to his wife, his mother.”
“This is so charming. An egg for Easter. Do you have the eggs?”
“I . . . We have some reproductions, and one egg created in the early twentieth century. But most of the Imperial eggs, and those from that era, are in private collections or museums.”
“I see. Perhaps my husband will want one and find it one day, but this box—this bonboon?”
“Bonbonniere.”
