Hesha settled himself in the back seat of his car. He put the jewelry case and the folder that went with it into a hidden safebox. His driver waited in silence. “Thompson. I have further business in Queens.” The black car ceased idling, sliding into traffic like a shark into a school of lesser fish, and began to trace a path south off of Manhattan. “You’ll drop me off at a brownstone,” and he gave the address. “Take the necklace to our own place here. Have Alex take the shipment down to Baltimore tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Place a call to the agency. Use one of the corporate names; start a background check on an Elizabeth Dimitros, middle initial ‘A,’ residing in or around New York, currently employed by Rutherford House Antiques. I’ll send a note to Janet later with some details I’d like looked into.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be back at the brownstone by three o’clock. I don’t expect that you will have to wait very long.”
Thursday, 24 June 1999, 10:17 AM
Rutherford House, Upper East Side, Manhattan
New York City, New York
Amy Rutherford walked into the bindery holding a mug of coffee in one hand and the check for the Egyptian collar in the other. “Lizzie?!”
“Yes, Mrs. Rutherford?” asked Elizabeth, glancing up from her silk work on the diary.
Her boss flinched, nearly spilling her morning cup down her dress. “Aunt Agnes is an ocean away, and so is she. You call me by my mother-in-law’s name again, and I’ll have you tarred and feathered. Oh, Lord. You didn’t hear that. Do you realize I live in fear of your finding a job somewhere the Rutherford family doesn’t demand the royal treatment from their own damn staff? Where the hell was I? The check. The collar! Liz? Have you any idea what you’ve done?”
Elizabeth looked up in shock. “Wasn’t the price high enough?”
“The price? Do you realize you brought it in a quarter percent higher than we’ve ever gotten out of Ruhadze?” She shook her head. “You’re going to have to teach me your sales technique.”
Elizabeth stared at the diary for a moment. “I played it by the book, Amy. I swear. I followed Miss Agnes’s instructions to the letter.”
“Then they worked better for you than they ever did for Aunt Agnes.”
“I just…went over the provenance and talked about the workmanship.”
“Did he quiz you?”
“Yes,” she said, emphatically. “It wasn’t an easy sale, Amy. I felt like I was defending my thesis before the board again.” She leaned back in her chair. “And then we got to talking about my desk—”
“That reminds me, dear, Antonio and the boys are making a delivery in your neck of the woods today. Is it ready to go?”
“It’s fine. Solid as a rock.” Elizabeth made a note on the pad beside the bindery phone. “I’ll call the super to let them in. They can pick up the paintings while they’re there; the three by the door are cleaned and crated again.
“Wonderful. The desk. Ruhadze was interested in the desk?”
“Sort of.” Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples. “Amy, what do you know about this guy?”
“Why?”
“I’m having dinner with him tonight.”
Amy Rutherford stopped with her mug at her mouth. A lesser woman, a woman who did not have Rutherfords as in-laws, might have choked or spluttered. “You deliberately waited until I had hot coffee in my mouth.” She tapped her well-manicured hands on the chair’s arms. “Do you mean dinner as in a date?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Oh, Lord. Do you realize—no, of course you don’t. Look. We have five clients on our books for whom we will drop anything. Aunt Agnes and my sweet, sweet mother-in-law roll over and play dead for these people. One of them is royalty, three are corporations, and one is Hesha Ruhadze. He’s insanely rich, incredibly well-connected, particularly for…well, I hate to sound prejudiced, but, for a black man…and knows more about real antiquities than…than Mother. I think he made his money in the business.”
Elizabeth nodded. “But I want to find out about him, not his credit rating, Amy.”
“He’s supposed to be some kind of recluse. At least, he’s not showy. There are so many ‘celebrities’ grabbing the headlines that even the Ford heirs can’t make the news without a robbery.” She threw her hands into the air. “He’s polite. He’s charming. I don’t think he’s married.”
“That’s always nice to know.”
“Yes.” Amy shook her head, looking at her employee. She’d always thought of Liz as a plain-Jane, compared to the kind of fashion product New York turned out by the thousands and called beautiful. Bookish and intelligent, a quick learner with a cool head—whether in spite of or due to that bizarre imagination of hers—but that sort of thing seldom led to dinner invitations from millionaires. “Tell me all about it, dear. Oh, Lord. What on earth are you going to wear?”
Thursday, 24 June 1999, 6:58 PM
Charles’s Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, Manhattan
New York City, New York
The taxi lurched to a stop at the awning of Charles’s Fifth, and a doorman stepped smartly forward to attend the passenger. A young woman in a long, gunmetal-silver satin evening dress stepped delicately onto the pavement. She leaned into the window to pass a note to the driver. The sun, which was turning New York smog into something like ochre mist, brought out a few strands of copper in her hair, and turned her light tan deep umber. The cab pulled away.
As the glass doors were opened for her, Elizabeth took one last survey of herself. Amy had tried to drag her to some ridiculously couture boutique; Liz put her foot down at the idea of entering anything that couldn’t call itself a store or shop and mean it. The gray gown would do, and although Amy had at last admitted it, she informed the younger woman that further dates with Ruhadze would mean that Liz would finally need more than one “real” dress.
Elizabeth entered the salon, and after a moment’s doubt, approached the man at the podium at the end of the room. He snatched upon the hesitation, and began before her: “Miss Dimitros? Mr. Ruhadze’s secretary called ahead; Mr. Ruhadze has been detained slightly. He asked me personally to see that you were comfortable.” He led her through the crowded restaurant to an alcove with a small, linen-covered table and two luxuriously upholstered chairs. A waiter appeared at his side, holding a tray; the tray held a water glass and a small phone.
“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Dimitros?” asked the patriarchal maître d’ as his minion set the water and the phone at her place. “Our wine list—”
“No, thank you. Water will be fine while I wait.”
At 8:19 the phone rang, and Elizabeth watched it for a moment as though she had forgotten what phones were for. She swallowed the last of her soda and picked up the tiny handset. “Hello?” she asked the machine.
“Elizabeth? This is Hesha. I’m terribly sorry. I’m at a business meeting. My lawyers have just ordered in and expect me to stay and finish the deal with them. I would walk out now, just to stagger them, but I’d only have to see these buffoons again tomorrow morning if I did. I’m afraid I’ll be at least another hour.”
“Oh. Well, maybe another time, then.”
“No. You must be starving. Please, go ahead and have dinner. I recommend the boeuf bourguignon; it’s the house specialty. Enjoy it and pity me with my cardboard Chinese takeout.” His voice fell a note. “I won’t stand you up, Elizabeth. I promise.”
“Good luck with the deal.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”
“’Bye.”
Thursday, 24 June 1999, 8:23 PM
Near Abingdon Square, Greenwich Village, Manhattan
New York City, New York
“Yes, Thompson?”
“Janet calling for you, sir. The agency came through with the report on Miss Dimitros,” said Thompson, as the car emerged from the garage to street level. One eye was on the traffic ahead, the other on a blinking light o
n his console.
“Put her through.”
“Good evening, sir. Would you like the highlights, or should I fax it to you?”
“Both, please. Go ahead.”
“Full name, Elizabeth Ariadne Dimitros. Born September 28, 1970, to Christopher and Melissa Dimitros. One sibling; an elder brother, Paul Theodore Dimitros. The family is mostly Greek; the Dimitros children are the third or fourth generation in America, depending on which side you count from. ‘Dimitros’ is the Anglicized version of ‘Dimitrouleas’. I’ll spare you the rest of the genealogy.”
“Thank you.”
“Curriculum vita included in the fax; basically, she’s an art historian with the practical skills of a museum restorer—she worked as an intern at the Met several summers running—and special interests in anthropology, semiotics, symbolism, and half a dozen other things. Her master’s thesis and professional publications are also attached to the report. She’s nearly completed her doctorate; her dissertation proposal was not available for copy at time of investigation. She’s worked for Rutherford for four years as sales assistant, art restorer, appraiser and buyer. The older generation of Rutherfords seem to think she’s still in training; the younger partners regard her as an equal associate—or as near as possible for an outsider. The agency didn’t dig too deeply there; I presented the job as a full check for potential employee, current employers not to be alerted. I hope that’s all right?”
“Fine.”
“Now: There were a few…zingers.”
“Zingers, Janet?”
“She has no permanent place of residence. Her mail goes directly to Rutherford House. Her driver’s license expired two years ago; the address given on it is now occupied by a jazz musician with three cats and a drinking problem. Her passport was issued at about that time, so the agency expects it to be just as out-of-date.
“Second: Your note mentioned her father’s displeasure with her career choice? Brace yourself. He really did have a fit. Christopher Dimitros died of a stroke two months after Elizabeth took her master’s degree. His wife blamed their daughter for his death, and moved to California to live with her son’s family almost immediately after the funeral. Paul Dimitros stays in touch with his sister, but the rest of her relatives won’t talk to her—even the ones who still live in New York and Jersey.”
“I see.” Hesha stretched his legs, and regarded the speaker with calculation. “Other relations?”
Janet cleared her throat, and her employer could see, in his mind’s eye, the exact look of disapproval on the woman’s face. Janet Lindbergh was an efficient secretary and a model of discretion, but past middle-age, and of a generation that simply hadn’t discussed these things over the phone. “She’s not seeing anyone at the moment, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Three serious boyfriends; brief descriptions of the…affairs…are included in the dossier. The last liaison broke off two and a half years ago; the agency suggests a connection between her father’s death and her change in habits.”
“Thank you, Janet.” Hesha tapped his fingernails on the armrest thoughtfully. “Commend the agency on their speed and thoroughness; laser letter on company stationery, but with the puppet president’s signature in person. And be sure their investigation halts with this; I want her files and all hard copy removed from their offices.
“Will do.” She paused. Just before the connection went cold he heard her mutter, “And have a nice date, sir.”
Thursday, 24 June 1999, 9:57 PM
Charles’s Fifth, Upper East Side, Manhattan
New York City, New York
“Good evening, Elizabeth.” His voice carried clearly through the restaurant’s refined din—deep as a river and closer than her heartbeat.
“Good evening, Hesha.” She smiled ruefully up at her host. “Won’t you join me? They’re just bringing dessert.”
He sat down in the other chair, and waved a swarm of waiters away. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence grew, broken by the arrival of the maître d’—himself carrying the tray—with an outrage of chocolate and cup of hot tea for the lady, and a small, steaming, silver liqueur glass for his patron.
“Dinner was wonderful,” Elizabeth remarked when the entourage had departed.
“I’m glad to hear it. I wish I could have been here. You weren’t too bored?”
“No. It was fun, in a way.” He raised an eyebrow, and she continued. “A lady sitting alone in a place like this attracts…attention. I’ve had four rescue attempts from sympathetic gentlemen shocked to see me stranded. One family party tried to adopt the lonely wallflower. The waiters would keep dancing attendance—that was a new experience for me. And half a dozen tourists thought, because of the celebrity treatment, that I was someone they should recognize. They kept sending people past the table to get a better look.”
Hesha chuckled lowly. He sipped from the silver cup, and watched as she slipped a fork into the chocolate confection.
“Oh. This is fantastic.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and took another bite. She offered the clean teaspoon to her companion, with a flourish that indicated the dessert plate. “Would you like some?”
“Thank you, but the caffeine…”
“Even in chocolate? How terrible for you. I tried to give it up once—” she whittled away at the pastry parts—”but decided that skipping rope was less painful than skipping dessert.”
Hesha watched her finish. She relaxed with the teacup into the depths of the comfortable chair, and seemed willing to sit quietly if he cared for it. He let the cup of tea pass by in silence, and when she was done, he rose and offered his arm to her. She knew how to walk escorted, and they made stately progress through Charles’s Fifth to the exit. A low, black sedan pulled up to the curb within seconds of Hesha’s arrival on the sidewalk, and he smiled down at the woman by his side.
“May I offer you a lift?”
She bit her lip, doubtful. “I don’t want to take you out of your way. My house isn’t exactly on the beaten path.”
“Please,” said Hesha, holding the car door open for her, “get in. We’ll take you home.”
The heat of the June air was enough to give his fingers a little warmth, and so he steadied her shoulder, too, as she nestled into the lush upholstery. Thompson came around to his master’s side of the sedan, and Hesha joined his guest in the back seat. Elizabeth gave her address, and the car started off.
Hesha glanced at the driver and pushed a button. Dark glass slid smoothly up to give them privacy, and he gazed at his companion as if distracted before he spoke. “This wasn’t quite the evening I had planned, Elizabeth,” he said softly, confidentially—though in truth, of course, it was. He had arrived as soon as the summer sun would let him, and had hardly hurried to her side.
She looked at him, and shook her head slightly. “What did you have in mind when you asked me?”
“On Monday? Recompense for first aid. You tried to do me a favor. I don’t care to be indebted, particularly to strangers.” His eyes flickered over her face. “After last night, I was looking forward to the experience. You’re a rather unusual person.”
Elizabeth let the statement pass without comment, though the tone of his voice suggested a profound compliment. She felt a flush start at her shoulders, and hoped it wouldn’t show in the darkness of the car.
“I was also planning to show you a little mystery of my own,” he said. She frowned slightly, not understanding, and he continued. “There’s a piece I’ve been working on; a small statue that came into my hands without a great deal of history or background. I have some idea, now, where it might have been carved, but I thought I’d see if you could tell me anything about it.”
“I doubt there’d be anything I could see that you couldn’t.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Amy told me you were something of an expert on antiquities.”
Hesha gestured vaguely, modestly. “It was really ‘Sleipnir’ that convinced
me you might have an insight. You might have thought of it as silly, but I was…impressed. What you did was an in-depth forensic study of a common typewriter desk…. The point, really, was to let you in on a tantalizing puzzle I thought you might enjoy.”
“It sounds like fun. What period is the piece from?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
“I get no clues?”
“I don’t have it with me,” he explained, in mild disappointment. “The lawyers took too long.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t suppose… I have more business tomorrow, and a formal dinner…would it be too much trouble to ask you to meet me somewhere, around ten or eleven or so? I’ll bring the statue with me, and we can talk without all the waiters and tourists and gallants trying to rescue you.”
“No trouble at all.” Elizabeth swallowed a rush of hope, and brought out some of her business manner to bolster her courage. “But this time,” she said, facing him with determination, “I’ll be the host. I can’t say that my place is anything like so nice as Charles’s, but it is quiet, and comfortable, and it sounds like I’ll need my full arsenal of experts’ books behind me to cope with your puzzle.”
“And if you’re tied up by lawyers again,” she finished wickedly, “I’ll at least be able to get some work done while I wait for you.”
And Hesha, who had had layers of subtle hints ready to persuade her to bring him into her home, allowed himself to be argued into agreeing humbly to her suggestion.
“Thompson? You heard the number and the directions to her door? Arrange to have the apartment searched. Maximum discretion; no traces left to trouble her. In fact, I’d be obliged if you’d see to it yourself.” Thompson kept his eyes on the road, but his attention wavered. “Yes, sir,” he said, but his reply had less than its accustomed crispness. “May I say something, sir?
“If I didn’t value your opinion, Thompson, I would have made it clear at the beginning of our association.
Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 3