Blood Rubies (30 page)

“So he gets an opportunity of a lifetime, pulls a double cross, selling the Fabergé egg privately to a Russian mobster, and flies off to Bali, where he plans to live happily ever after on the proceeds. As I said, it's all speculation, but it fits.”

“Do you think he did it?”

I drank some tea, then shook my head. “No. I think he was a good guy who never would have thought of such a thing.”

“I don't know, Joz … you're pretty persuasive.”

“I know. Beware the good talker.”

“True. So what do you have for me?”

“A question. When Ana left McArthur Evergreen Technologies, did she take a chunk of money with her?”

“Huh?”

I filled him in about McArthur's loan and Ana's former role at the company, and Wes extracted his notebook again and jotted some notes.

“I'll check,” he said. “Anything else?”

“No.”

Wes pushed back his chair and shrugged into his down coat. “Catch ya later.”

I finished my tea as I watched him stride across Bow Street heading for the Central Garage, a man with a purpose.

*   *   *

That afternoon, Hank curled up on the love seat while I settled in at my desk. Ty texted he'd be home around six, so I figured I might as well try to catch up at work. I read a good-news accounting report, revised catalogue copy for an upcoming auction, and got through enough e-mails to make my eyes blurry. One check of my new e-mail account, though, and I perked up. I had seven replies to my ad.

Three were from jewelers and four from metal workers; none had ever worked on a Fabergé egg snow globe replica, but all were eager to give it a whirl. I sighed, deleted them, got Hank organized for the night, and drove home.

*   *   *

The next morning, Monday, I was sitting at my kitchen table finishing a bowl of cereal when I checked the e-mail account I'd created for the ad.

Hello,

I'm Ralph Kovak. I made that Fabergé egg snow globe replica you asked about. I'll be at home after four if you want to call. 555.952.0852.

Sincerely,

Ralph Kovak

“Wow,” I said aloud. I reached for my phone and called Ellis. I got him at his desk. “You're in early.”

“Lots to do.”

“My idea worked. I've got the guy.”

“Tell me.”

I read him the e-mail. I knew better than to expect any whoopin' or hollerin', since that was not Ellis's style, so I wasn't surprised when he said, “Can you come to the station around three?”

“Sure.”

I drove to work through the rising sun thinking I couldn't wait to see how Ellis planned to play it.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I figured 8:30
A.M.
was a decent hour, so at 8:31 I called Marianna Albert to ask if I could come look at her husband's gadget cane collection. She said she would be home all morning and I should come on ahead. I left a note for Cara and headed to Durham.

The Albert home was a traditional Colonial, painted white with cherry red trim. A long driveway curved to the right, ending at a two-car garage. I parked before the curve.

“This way,” Marianna called. She was holding open the storm door.

“Hi!” I said. I reached into the back for my tote bag. I walked up the narrow pathway. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Of course. Are you all right after your ordeal?”

“I'm fine. Thanks for asking. I just wish I could have done more to help that poor man.”

She made a clucking sound and led me across a square entry hall to a large study. One wall was solid with built-in bookcases. Another showcased the canes and walking sticks. Each one was mounted horizontally, held in place by two brass rings. The arrangement was asymmetrical and awe-inspiring.

“What a remarkable display,” I said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Hearing you, Walter is beaming down on us.”

“Did he arrange them by date of acquisition or value?”

She laughed. “He didn't have a system. He placed them in whatever order pleased him aesthetically. When he got a new one, he spent hours trying it here and there, until he found the spot he liked best.”

“His care shows. It's a terrific arrangement.” I extracted a video camera from my bag. “May I record the collection?”

“Certainly.”

I followed Prescott's protocol, annotating what I saw as I created the video. When I was finished, I placed the camera back in the bag. “I'll be sending you a proposal, of course, but let me tell you what I recommend.”

“Come into the kitchen. We can have some coffee while we talk.”

Her kitchen was farmhouse contemporary, with butcher-block counters and antique white cabinets. I sat on one side of an old wood plank farm table. Marianna sat across from me. The coffee was strong, the steam soothing.

“If you select Prescott's, which of course I hope you do, we'll examine each cane looking for hidden cubbyholes, measuring and weighing each, confirming the accuracy of the catalogue entry. We'll then research each one, confirming or discovering all records of ownership, starting with the maker and the date of manufacture or fabrication and following the trail until we reach Walter. Once we've completed these two steps—ensuring we have an accurate and complete description of the object and confirming provenance—we move on to the final step, valuation. This step is part science and part artistry. We research sales records and consumer market trends, then use our experience and expertise to come up with an auction sales estimate. It's not an exact science, but we're right far more often than we're wrong.”

“This is exactly the information I wanted. Thank you. Now all I need to know is the price.”

“And that requires me thinking it through, estimating how long it would take us to conduct the appraisal, anticipating likely snags, and so on.”

“How much would you charge to appraise one of them? I'd like to see what you do with one before I commit to letting you handle the entire collection.”

“Interesting idea. You tell me which one, let me read the catalogue entry so I can see what is known about it, and I'll give you a price.”

We returned to the study. Marianna faced the wall of canes, then began walking the length of the room and back again, considering her options.

“This one,” she said, pointing to one close to the window at eye level. “That's one of the ones Walter didn't know much about.”

“May I?” I asked, reaching for it.

“Sure.”

I freed it by slipping it through the rings. It was heavy, made of dark burled wood, maybe walnut, possibly chestnut or maple. The elephant head handle was fashioned out of brass and fit my hand surprisingly comfortably. The bottom was protected by a three-inch-high brass plate.

While I looked at it, Marianna went to the desk, extracted an accordion file, and flipped through the pockets, wiggling out a half-page-sized sheet of white paper. She scanned the contents, then read it aloud. “Elephant head walking stick, circa 1820. Probably British, maybe East Asian. Burled maple and brass. Two openings. The entire head screws off to reveal an opening that held an umbrella (missing). The bottom tip also unscrews to reveal a small opening, perhaps to hold some folded money. Purchased in London at Mitchum's Haberdashery, 1987, for £140, roughly $215 then, or $440 now. No information about its history was available. The shop owner didn't typically deal in antiques; this was his deceased brother's cane, and his sister-in-law didn't know anything about it. He was selling it on her behalf.” She looked up. “As I said, Walter didn't know much about it.”

I lifted the walking stick up and studied it for a moment. I told her our hourly fee, estimating that it would take as many as ten hours to research it properly.

“How long will it take, do you think?”

“A week or more. I already know I'm going to want to contact several experts, and scheduling calls takes time.”

“I appreciate your thoroughness. You've got a deal.”

I took a photo with my phone and e-mailed it to Gretchen, asking her to prepare a receipt and an appraisal agreement and e-mail the documents to me. She IM'd to confirm receipt. While we waited, Marianna led me outside to the backyard.

“Walter's passion was his walking sticks. Mine is my garden. Come look.”

Marianna had created a wonderland with eight-foot statues and a fountain reminiscent of the one in the Place de la Concorde in Paris. Ten-foot-high boxwoods wound through the yard, forming a private walkway.

“I'm speechless,” I said. “All I can do is stand here and marvel.”

She laughed. “Thank you. It's taken forty years of work for it to look like this.”

My phone vibrated. Gretchen had sent the receipt and contract. “Let me read through these documents to be certain they're correct.”

“Do you want to come inside?”

I smiled at her. “Something tells me that somewhere in this garden, there's a bench.”

She laughed. “I knew you were a woman of discernment the first moment I met you.” She started down the path, and I followed. “You won't be too chilly?”

“No, it's downright balmy today. What a difference a day makes.”

The path curved to the left, then to the right, circling back on itself. An opening, marked by a latticed arched trellis, gave access to a secret garden. Four stone benches surrounded another, smaller fountain.

“Spectacular,” I said. Ten minutes later, I asked for her e-mail address and forwarded the documents. “Everything is in order. If you can print them out, we can sign the forms and I can get started on the appraisal.”

“Thank you, Josie.”

She printed out a copy of Walter's notes; then we signed the documents and shook on the deal. I was back at work by eleven.

I carried the walking stick into the office and held it above my head. “We get to do a test appraisal. Who wants to get started?”

“Me,” Fred said, before Sasha could reply.

“You all right with that?” I asked her.

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sure. I've got plenty to do.”

I handed it and the paperwork over. “Let me know what you discover as you discover it, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, his unerring focus already activated. He was running his index finger along the underside of the elephant's trunk.

I headed upstairs, white-hot curious about what Fred would learn.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

At five of four, I was sitting alone in Interrogation Room One waiting for Ellis to signal me, when my phone vibrated. It was a text from Fred.

“I found another opening. The elephant's trunk hides a trick latch.”

I replied, “Wow.”

“Double wow.”

I smiled, put my phone back on the table, and glanced at the one-way mirror. Ellis was in the observation room talking with a technician, a different man than the one who'd come to my place. I couldn't decide which was worse, looking at myself in the one-way mirror or looking away. In either case, I felt conspicuous, and knowing people were watching me, or could be, was unsettling.

Ellis came in and sat across from me. He had a stack of blank index cards and a pen. He placed a metallic blue water bottle emblazoned with the Rocky Point Police Department logo beside the pen. The logo was fancy, a gold and black triangular shield with the words “integrity,” “courtesy,” and “service” running along the sides. A phone unit sat off to the left, with a set of headphones attached by a long black cable that snaked across the table and down the side.

He asked if I was ready, and when I said yes, he put on the headphones and used his index finger to shoot at the one-way mirror, signaling “Go.”

I glanced at the printout of Ralph Kovak's e-mail and dialed. It rang four times, a hollow, echoing sound, before he answered.

“Mr. Kovak?”

“This is Ralph.”

He sounded old.

“I'm Josie Prescott. I placed the ad about the Fabergé egg snow globe. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

“Glad to. What can I tell you?”

“When did you make it?”

“Last month sometime.” He made a hoarse sound, maybe a laugh, kind of a snort.
Hawn
. “Now that I'm retired, I don't keep work records. Never going to again, and that's the truth.”

“I don't need work records, so that's not a problem. Who was your client?”

“Why are you asking?”

“References.”

“I can give you plenty of solid references. Some going back sixty years. That's right, young lady. I'm seventy-eight now, and I've been working with metal since the war. The big one.”

“That's great. Thanks. Have you been doing jewelry work that long, too?”

He made another
hawn
sound. “No, ma'am. That's only been fifteen years, since I retired.”

“Fifteen years is a good amount of time.”

“You liked my work, did you?”

“I had the sense you had to hurry some.”

Hawn.
“You got that right, young lady. That customer was going hell to leather. Didn't give me time for nothing beyond the minimum. I wasn't happy with that and I wasn't happy with what I did, but he said it was good enough, and here you are asking for another one, so I guess he was right.”

“Where are you located?”

“Cleveland? You?”

“New Hampshire.”

“Never been there.”

Ellis flipped an index card toward me, using the same wrist-snapping move Jimmy used with cocktail napkins in the Blue Dolphin's lounge. I was so intent on my conversation with Kovak, I hadn't noticed him writing. The note read, “How did they meet?”

I read Ellis's question, then repeated it aloud. “Did this guy find you through an ad, too?”

“That's right. My son-in-law found his posting on an industry forum, same place he found yours.”