Sweet Revenge (17 page)

“Merry Christmas, Phoebe.” Celeste brushed her lips over both of Phoebe’s cheeks, then on a sudden impulse hugged her. “Sleep well.”

Phoebe walked to the stairs, pausing once to look back. Adrianne was standing beneath the portrait, the portrait of Phoebe Spring in the prime of her youth and beauty, beneath the power and glamour of The Sun and the Moon. With a last smile Phoebe turned and walked up alone.

“How about some more eggnog?” Adrianne asked quickly. Celeste caught her hand before she reached the punch bowl.

“Sit down, honey. You don’t have to be strong for me.”

It was heartbreaking to watch. Layer by layer, degree by degree, Adrianne’s control crumbled. At first it was a trembling of the lips, a blurring of the eyes. Strength melted into hopelessness until she sat, weeping into her hands.

Saying nothing, Celeste sat beside her. The child didn’t cry enough, she thought. There were times tears helped more than bolstering words or comforting arms.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“Because it’s better than screaming.” There wasn’t a drop of liquor in the house, not even a dram of medicinal brandy. “Let me make you some tea.”

Adrianne dragged her fingers over her eyes. “No, I’m all right. Really.” She sat back, deliberately relaxing. She’d taught herself how to ease the tension out of her limbs, her mind, her heart. It was a matter of survival. “I guess I’m not feeling very festive.”

“Feel like talking to a friend?”

With her eyes closed Adrianne reached out and found Celeste’s hand. “What would we do without you?”

“I haven’t been too much help lately. The last few months the play’s taken most of my time and energy. But I’m here now.”

“It’s just so hard to watch.” Adrianne kept her head back. The tears had been an indulgence she hadn’t realized she’d needed. It felt good, so good to be empty. “I know the signs. She’s drifting away again. She tries. It almost makes it worse to know how much effort she makes. For weeks now she’s been fighting the depression, and losing.”

“Is she still seeing Dr. Schroeder?”

“He wants to hospitalize her again.” Impatient, Adrianne pushed herself off the couch. She’d had enough self-pity. “We agreed to wait until after the first of the year because the holidays have always been so important to Mama. But this time …” Trailing off, she looked up at the portrait. “I’m going to drive her up the day after tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry, Addy.”

“She’s been talking about him.” By the way Adrianne’s voice tightened, Celeste understood she was referring to her father. “Twice last week I found her sitting and crying. Over him. The day nurse told me Mama had asked her when he was coming. She’d wanted her hair fixed so she’d look nice for him.”

Celeste bit back an oath. “She’s so confused.”

With a laugh Adrianne looked over her shoulder. “Confused? Yes, she’s confused. For years she’s been given drugs to keep her emotions from falling too low or reaching too high. She’s been strapped down and fed through tubes. She’s been through stages when she can’t even dress herself and others when she’s ready to dance on the ceiling. Why? Why is she
confused
, Celeste? Because of him. All because of him. One day, I swear it, he’ll pay for what he did to her.”

The cold hate in Adrianne’s eyes had Celeste rising. “I know how you feel. Yes, I do,” she said when Adrianne shook her head. “I love her too, and I hate what she’s been through. But concentrating on Abdu, and on some kind of revenge, isn’t good for you. And it won’t help her.”

“When the end is important enough,” Adrianne repeated, “it more than justifies the means.”

“Honey, you worry me when you talk that way.” Though she detested taking Abdu’s side, Celeste felt it best for all of them. “I know he’s the cause of many of Phoebe’s problems, but he has given back something over the past few years, making sure there was enough money for her treatment and her living expenses.”

Silent, Adrianne turned back to the portrait. It wasn’t yet the time to tell Celeste that was all a lie. Her lie. There had never been a cent from Abdu. Sooner or later she’d have to tell her, but for now she wasn’t certain if Celeste could handle the truth about where the money had come from.

“There’s only one payment he can make that will satisfy me.” Adrianne folded her arms to ward off a sudden chill. “I promised her that one day she’d have it back. When I have The Sun and the Moon, when he knows how much I detest him, I may wipe the slate clean.”

New York, October 1988

Black gloves clung to the knotted rope, going hand over hand, supple wrists taut but flexible. The rope itself was thin, yet strong as steel. It had to be. The streets of Manhattan were fifty stories below, shiny from the early morning rain.

It was all a matter of timing. The security system was good, very good, but not impenetrable. Nothing was impenetrable. The preliminary work had already been done in a few hours at a drawing board at a computer with a set of calculations. The alarm had been disengaged, really the most elementary part of the job. It had been the cameras scanning the hallways that had determined the method of break-in. Entrance from inside would be inconvenient at best. But there were other ways, always other ways.

There was only a drizzle now, and the chill that went with it, but the wind had died. If it had still kicked, the figure hanging on to the rope would have been bashed into the brick face of the building. Streetlamps made greasy rainbows in the puddles so very far below; the clouds masked the stars overhead. But the black-clad figure looked neither up nor down. There was a light film of sweat on the brow below a snug stocking cap; it sprang not from fear, but concentration. The figure slipped down another foot, focusing on the rope while strong legs bent and pressed against the bricks for support and balance. Even ankles had to be well tuned, flexible like a runners or a dancer’s.

The body and mind of a thief were as important, often
more so, than the bag of tools required to open a lock or foil an alarm.

There was little activity on the streets, an occasional gypsy cab scouting for a fare, a lone drunk who had wandered over from a less affluent neighborhood. Even New York could be subtle at four
A.M
. If there had been a parade with marching bands and floats, it would have made no difference. For the figure in black there was only the reality of the rope. A missed grip, an instant of carelessness, would have meant a nasty death.

But success would mean … everything.

Inch by cautious inch, the narrow terrace with its abundance of potted plants and sturdy railings came closer. The pores and cracks of the bricks, the tiny flaws in the mortar, could be seen clearly. If the drunk had looked up and been able to focus, the black figure would have appeared tiny, an insect crawling along the face of the building.

No one would have believed him. In the fuzzy-headed morning after, he wouldn’t have believed himself.

It was tempting to hurry, to give in to cramping shoulders and aching arms and just take the last few feet in a leap. Steady, patient, the figure hung in the air, letting instinct guide the final descent.

Black sneakers skimmed the railing, swung back, and found purchase, stood poised there, slim and dramatic. No one heard the laugh, but it came, quick and satisfied.

There was time, now that feet were firmly planted on the terrace floor, to look out at New York, and the odds that had been beaten. It was a great city, a favored city, almost a home for one who had never really found a home. It had grit and glitter, and what it lacked in compassion, it made up for in possibilities.

Central Park was a patchwork of color, majestically rural from this height and in this season. Trees were gold and bronze and scarlet, triumphant in their final burst of color before the cold and the wind swirled down from Canada to sweep the leaves aside.

This stretch of Central Park West was quiet. It was a street for doormen and dog walkers, for doctors and old money. Though it was part of the city, the true frenzy, the rush of reality, was a cab ride, and a world, away.

Beyond the trees, beyond the reservoir, buildings sprang
up, taller and sleeker than this elegant old apartment house, They were the future, perhaps. They were certainly the present. In the dark they were shadows looming, or perhaps promising. Anything that could be bought, sold, traded, or desired could be found within those buildings or, a bit grimier, on the streets. There was a price to any facet of luxury or lust. New York understood that and wasn’t coy about it.

The city was dozing now, resting up for the day only a few hours away, but its energy was still in the air, pulsing. There could be great victory here, or miserable failure, or every sensation in between. Some, like the thief, had experienced it all.

Turning from the rail, the figure walked quietly across the terrace and knelt by the doors. There was only the lock to deal with now, and locks were only an illusion of safety. From a dark leather bag came a small tool kit.

It was a very good lock, one the thief approved of. It took just under two minutes to pick it. There were some who could have done it in less, but they were few.

As the latch clicked open, the tools were carefully replaced. Organization, control, and caution were what kept thieves out of jail. This one had no intention of going behind bars. There was still too much to be done.

But tonight the future would have to wait. Tonight there were ice cold diamonds and red hot rubies for the taking. Jewels were the only booty worth stealing. They had life and magic and history. They had, perhaps most important, a kind of honor. Even in the dark a gem would flirt and flash and tease, like a lover. A painting, however beautiful, could only be stared at, admired from a distance. Cash was cold, lifeless, and practical. Jewels were personal.

For this thief every heist was personal.

The sneakers were silent on the gleaming floor. There was a light, homey scent of paste wax that lingered from the morning’s polishing and competed against some spicy autumnal bouquet. Because it appealed, the thief smiled and took a moment to draw it in. But only a moment. In the generous shoulder bag was a high-powered flashlight, but it wasn’t necessary here. Every inch of the room had been memorized. Three steps, then a turn to the right. Seven steps, then left. A staircase wound there up to the second floor with a
balustrade hand-fashioned with brass leaves and cherubs. In the alcove below was a high marble pedestal. There was a sculpture on it, pre-Columbian and priceless. The thief ignored it and moved silently into the library.

The safe was behind the collected works of Shakespeare. The thief laid a finger on
Othello
, tipped it back, then spun around as the lights flooded on.

“As they say,” came a calm, beautifully modulated voice, “you’re busted.”

The woman in the doorway was dressed in a glimmering pink negligee, her pale, angular face gleaming with night creams and her silvery-blond hair swept back from her brow. At first glance she would have been taken for a youthful forty. She admitted to forty-five, which was still five years shy of the mark.

She was small, and unarmed, unless the banana in her hand counted. With her head thrown back dramatically, she pointed the banana at the thief. “Bang.”

The thief let out a sound of disgust and dropped into a deep leather chair. “Dammit, Celeste, what are you doing up?”

“Eating.” To prove a point, she nipped off a bite of banana. “What are you doing skulking around the library?”

“Practicing.” The voice was husky, low, but definitely feminine. She began to peel off her gloves. “I nearly robbed you blind.”

“Thank goodness I raided the refrigerator.” Celeste swept across the room as she had swept across so many stages. Pieces of her roles remained with her, from Lady Macbeth to Blanche DuBois. It was the toughness of her own character, the one-time New Jersey native who had stormed her way to Broadway, that allowed Celeste Michaels to dominate the sum of her strongest parts.

“Adrianne dear, not that I like to criticize, but it isn’t really cricket to burgle when you have a key.”

“I didn’t use it.” Pouting, Adrianne pulled off the cap. Her hair, nearly as black, fell past her shoulders. “I came down from the roof.”

“You—” Celeste took a deep breath, knowing it would do no good to shout. Instead, she sat in the chair facing Adrianne. “Are you crazy?”

She merely shrugged. It was, after all, a question she’d
heard before. “It nearly worked. If you had any willpower, it would have worked.”

“So it’s my fault.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, Celeste.” Adrianne leaned forward, gripping the older woman’s hands which were studded with a sapphire on the left ring finger and a diamond on the right. Adrianne’s were bare. Any rings she owned had been sold long before she’d begun her career. “You wouldn’t believe how it feels, to hang over the city that way. It’s so quiet, so solitary.”

“So birdbrained.”

“Darling, you know I can take care of myself.” Adrianne touched her tongue to her top lip. Her mouth was wide and generous, as her mother’s had been. “Aren’t you wondering why your alarm didn’t sound?”

Celeste adjusted the hem of her negligee. “I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

“Celeste.”

“All right, why?”

“I turned it off this afternoon when we had lunch.”

“Thank you very much. You left me unprotected against the underworld.”

“I knew I’d be back.” Because the energy was still flowing, Adrianne rose to pace the room. She was a small, delicately built woman who moved like a dancer, or like a thief. Her hair skimmed down her shoulder blades, straight as an arrow, lifting and falling as she turned. “It was so easy once I thought it through. I doctored the alarm, so that when you turned it on, it short-circuited the terrace doors. I waltzed in a couple of hours ago and chatted with the security guard. His wife’s arthritis is acting up again.”