by Nora Roberts
On the street she ignored the cab she would have preferred and strode off toward the subway. She had a fistful of diamonds in her imitation leather bag. She smelled as though she’d bathed in dime-store perfume. Which indeed she had.
She enjoyed these subway rides as Rose. No one who knew her would walk beneath the streets. Here she was just a body among other bodies. Anonymous, as she had never been from the day she had been born. Her heels clicked on the concrete steps as she descended, and she remembered the first time she had left the streets to go underground. She’d been sixteen and desperate. Desperately afraid, desperately excited.
Then, she’d been certain a hand would fall on her shoulder, and a voice, the cold, deep voice of the police, would demand she open her bag. It had been pearls then, a single twenty-one-inch strand of milky Japanese pearls. The five thousand dollars she’d exchanged them for had paid for medicine and a month’s therapy at the Richardson Institute.
Now she walked through the turnstile with the ease of long practice. No one looked at her. Adrianne had come to understand that people rarely really looked at one another down here. In New York, people went about their business while keeping up the stubborn hope, or defense, that everyone else would do the same.
There was a rush of sound and wind from an incoming train. There was a smell, faint but somehow comforting, of old liquor and damp. Adrianne avoided a wad of gum stuck to the ground and joined the smattering of people waiting for the train that would take them downtown.
Beside her, two women hunched against the chill and complained about their husbands.
“So I says to him, you got a wife, not a goddamn maid, Harry. I promised to love, honor, and cherish, but I didn’t say nothing about picking up your slop. I tell him the next time I find your smelly socks on the rug, I’m stuffing them in your big mouth.”
“Good for you, Lorraine.”
Adrianne wanted to second that. Good for you, Lorraine. Let the bastard pick up his own socks. That’s what she loved about American women. They didn’t cower and cringe when the almighty man walked through the door. They handed him a bag of garbage and told him to dump it.
The train rumbled to a halt in front of them. People filed off, people filed on. She stepped on behind the two women. One quick glance had Adrianne crossing the car and taking a seat near a man wearing chains on his leather jacket. She always felt it wiser to choose a seatmate who looked as though he might be carrying a concealed weapon.
The train swayed, then picked up speed. Adrianne skimmed the graffiti and the ads, then the people. A man in a suit and tie with a briefcase tucked under his arm read the latest Ludlum novel. A young woman in a suede skirt looked dreamily out the black window while she listened to music through earphones. Down the car a man lay stretched along three seats with his coat over his head and slept like the dead. The two women were still discussing Harry. Beside her, the man shifted, rattling his chains.
At the next station the briefcase got off and three young girls who should have been in school piled on, giggling. Adrianne listened to them argue about what movie they would see, and envied them. She’d never been that young, or that free.
At her station she rose, shifted her bag more securely, then stepped out. It was foolish to regret what she’d never been.
Outside, the wind was brisk, cutting through the thin spandex of her pants and making a joke out of her fake fur. But this was the diamond district. There was enough heat radiating through the display glass to warm the coldest blood.
Princess Adrianne might stroll here now and then, window-shopping, making the merchants’ hearts patter with the hope that she would take a few baubles off their hands. But Rose came to do business.
A great deal of business was done on the streets from Forty-eighth to Forty-sixth between Fifth and Sixth avenues. The swifts, trying to look nonchalant, hawked last night’s takes. Stones, hot enough to burn their pockets, were waiting to be sold, popped from their settings and sold again. Groups of Hasidic Jews in their hats and long black coats scurried from shop to shop with attaché cases full of gems. Fortunes were carried along the narrow sidewalk by men who took care against even a casual brush with a pedestrian.
Adrianne took the same care; she had never, even at sixteen, dealt on the street. She preferred to take her business indoors.
Every window beckoned for attention. Tiffany’s or Cartier would dress them with more subtlety and class, but without the carnival flair that could draw in every man. Shiny stones against black velvet, armies of rings, legions of necklaces. Earrings, brooches, bracelets by the armful were all polished and positioned to catch the sun and the eye, Twenty-five percent off. What a deal.
She turned down Forty-eighth and slipped into a shop.
The lights were always a little dim, the ambiance a little seedy. At first glance it looked as if it were a business on the edge of bankruptcy. At second glance it looked the same. Jack Cohen had always believed it a waste to put money into appearances. If the customer didn’t like a little dust, let him go to Tiffany’s. But Tiffany’s wouldn’t take twenty down and twenty a month. A clerk glanced over as Adrianne entered but continued his spiel to the stoop-shouldered customer with a trace of acne on his chin.
“A ring like this’ll bowl her over, and it won’t put you in hock for the next ten years. It’s tasteful, you know, but flashy enough so she’ll want to show it off to her girlfriends.”
As he spoke, his eyes shifted to the door at the rear of the shop. With barely a nod of acknowledgment, Adrianne crossed to it. The low buzz told her that the salesman had released the lock. On the other side of the door was what passed as an office. Files were piled high on a metal army surplus desk. Crates and boxes lined the walls and the scent of garlic and pastrami hung in the air.
Jack Cohen was a short, barrel-chested man who wore a thick mustache as defense against the thinning hair on the top of his head. He’d come into the jewelry trade through the front door of a business his father had built up. His father had also taught him how to handle backroom negotiations. He prided himself on being able to spot a cop posing as a client as easily as he spotted a cubic zircon posing as a diamond. He knew what businesses were feeling the pinch, what dealers would be interested in a quick deal, and how to cool a handful of hot rocks.
When Adrianne stepped in, he was holding a briefke, a paper folded to form pockets for carrying loose stones. He nodded at her, then poured perhaps a dozen small, polished diamonds on the desk. With tweezers he began to separate and examine them.
“Russian,” he said. “Good quality. D to F.” Taking out a hand loupe, he studied each one in turn. “Ah, beautiful, just beautiful. V.S.I.,” he said, meaning very slight imperfections. “Such scintillation.” Then he mumbled, clucked his tongue and brushed two stones aside. “Well, well, an interesting package all in all.” Satisfied, he scooped the diamonds back into the briefke and slipped it into his pocket as casually as an Avon lady might pack up her samples. “What can I do for you today, Rose?”
For an answer, she reached in her bag and drew out a large chamois sack. Turning it over, she emptied the glistening contents onto his desk. Cohen’s little blue eyes lit up like sapphires.
“Rose, Rose, Rose, the day is always brighter when you’re in it.”
She grinned, pulled off her sunglasses, and inched a hip onto the corner of the desk. “Real pretty, huh?” The flavor of the Bronx was in her voice now. “I nearly died when I saw them. I said, ‘Honey, those are the prettiest things I ever saw.’ ” Her full mouth moved into a pout. “I wish he’d let me keep them.”
“I imagine they’re hot enough to burn your skin, Rose.” Making use of the loupe again, he began examining the necklace stone by stone. “How long has he had them?”
“You know he don’t tell me stuff like that. But not long. They’re real, ain’t they, Mr. Cohen? I swear, those rocks are so big they don’t look real.”
“They’re real, Rose.” He might have tried to play games wi
th her, but not with the man who fed him a steady amount of merchandise. “V.V.S.I., fancy stones with just a touch of pink. Excellent workmanship in this.” Gently, he set the necklace down and picked up the bracelet. “Of course, that’s neither here nor there. It’s only the diamonds that interest us.”
She poked at the necklace with the tip of a hot pink press-on nail. “I like pretty things.”
“Don’t we all? That’s what keeps us both in business.” Breathing through his teeth, Cohen studied the earrings. “A magnificent set.” He turned aside to push at a file and unearth his adding machine. Mumbling figures to himself, he clicked buttons. “A hundred and twenty-five, Rose.”
She pushed her chin forward. “He said I should get two fifty.”
“Rose.” Cohen folded his hands on his chest. With his calm blue eyes and thinning hair, he looked like a patient uncle. There was a .38 automatic under his rumpled jacket. “We both know I have to sit on these, warehouse them, so to speak, before I pass them along.”
“He said two fifty.” There was a whine in her voice now. “If I go home with half that, he’s going to be real unhappy.”
Cohen shifted back to the adding machine. He could pay two hundred and still make the standard commission, but he liked playing with Rose. If it hadn’t been for the reputation of the man she represented, he would have liked making the play more personal. “Every time you come in here, I lose money. I don’t know what it is about you, Rose, but I like you.”
She brightened instantly. It was an old game. “I like you too, Mr. Cohen.”
“How about a hundred and seventy-five, and a couple of those pretty little stones I was looking at when you came in? It’d be our secret.”
She allowed herself to look tempted, then regretful. “He’d find out. He always finds out, and he don’t like it when I take presents from other guys.”
“All right, Rose, I’m cutting my own throat, but we’ll make it two hundred. You tell him a set like that brings extra heat, and extra heat costs. I’ll have the cash in a couple of hours.”
“Okay.” She stood and tugged at her coat. “I can calm him down if he gets mad. He won’t stay mad for long. Can I leave the stuff here with you, Mr. Cohen? I don’t like carrying it around on the street.”
“Naturally.” They both knew he wouldn’t have the bad sense to steal from his best supplier. In his careful handwriting he wrote out a memo and passed it to her. This would serve as a receipt in any deal, legal or otherwise. “Go do a little shopping, Rose. I’ll take care of everything.”
* * *
Three hours later Adrianne dumped her bag, her coat, and her wig on the huge brass bed in her room. The contacts came out first, were cleaned and stored before she pried off the fake nails. Dragging her hand through her freed hair, she picked up the phone.
“Kendal and Kendal.”
“George, Jr., please. Princess Adrianne calling.”
“Yes, Your Highness, right away.”
With a sigh of relief, Adrianne kicked off Rose’s shoes before she sat on the bed.
“Addy, nice to hear from you.”
“Hello, George, I won’t keep you, I know how busy you lawyers are.”
“Never too busy for you.”
“That’s sweet.”
“And true. In fact, I was hoping we could have lunch one day this week. Social for a change.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Since he was a nice man and only half in love with her, she meant it.
“I read where you were getting engaged to some German baroness. Von Weisburg.”
“Really? Well, I believe we had a five-minute conversation at a political fund-raiser last month. I don’t recall marriage coming up.”
Dipping into her bag, she drew out a wrapped wad of hundreds. They weren’t new, nor were the serial numbers consecutive. The bills had the soft feel and sweaty scent of well-used money.
“George, I want to make a little contribution to Women in Need.”
“The women’s shelter?”
“That’s right. I’ll want the contribution to be made anonymously, of course, through your office. I’m going to transfer a hundred and seventy-five thousand into my special account today. You’ll take care of it?”
“Of course, Addy. You’re very generous.”
Adrianne riffled a finger over the edge of the bills. She remembered other women in need. “It’s the least I can do.”
Chapter Eleven
Behind him a lion roared more out of boredom than ferocity. Philip bit into a peanut and didn’t glance back. It always depressed him a little to see cats in captivity. He had an empathy for them, and more, for anything that found itself caged. Still, he enjoyed strolling through the London zoo. Perhaps it did him good to see the bars and cages and remind himself that he’d avoided looking through them from the inside throughout his career.
He didn’t particularly miss stealing. At least not very much. It had been a good, steady profession while it had lasted, and had certainly provided him with the means to live well. That had always been Philip’s main ambition. Comfort was always preferable to discomfort, but it was luxury that soothed a man’s soul.
From time to time he considered writing a thriller based on one of his more elegant heists. The Trafalgi sapphires perhaps. He had such fond memories of that particular job. It would be taken as fiction, of course. Truth was most often odder and more harrowing than make-believe. The pity was he didn’t think his present employer would see the humor or the irony of it. It was a project he could save for his retirement, when he was snuggled nicely in Oxfordshire raising hounds and hunting pheasant.
He could see himself as a country squire with muddy boots and a faithful staff—as long as it was a couple of decades off.
Popping another peanut into his mouth, he walked over to look at the panthers. Restless, angry, they stalked back and forth over the length of their enclosure, never quite able to take their captivity as philosophically as other cats. He sympathized. He was fond of their sleek lines and dangerous eyes. He’d been compared to one, by associates, by police, by women. In build and moves only, he supposed, because he was fair in coloring.
He continued to nibble on peanuts and told himself that when a man was nearing thirty-five he had to think about his health. Cigarettes were a filthy habit and one he had done well to give up. He felt positively self-righteous about it. It was a shame he was so fond of tobacco.
Taking a bench, he watched people walk by. Since it was remarkably warm for October, nannies and prams were in full attendance. He caught the eye of a young, pretty brunette strolling with a short-coated toddler. She smiled, gave him a quick flirtatious sweep of her lashes, and was more than a little disappointed when he didn’t follow her.
As he might have, Philip thought, if he didn’t have a meeting. Women had always been of interest to him, not only because they wore, and owned, the bulk of the baubles, but because they were—women. They were one more of life’s luxuries with their soft skin and fragrant hair. He glanced at his watch just as the second hand swept up to the twelve. It was one exactly. Philip wasn’t surprised when a portly, balding man dropped onto the bench beside him.
“Don’t see why we couldn’t meet at Whites.”
Philip offered the bag of peanuts. “Too stuffy. You could use the fresh air, old man. You’re looking pale.”
Captain Stuart Spencer grumbled, but took a nut. The diet his wife had him on was murder. If the truth were known, he was glad to be away from the office, from the paperwork, from the phone. There were days he missed fieldwork, though fortunately they were few and far between. It was more true, though he would never admit it, that the captain had an affection for the trim man beside him. Regardless of, or perhaps due to the fact that Spencer had tried for almost a decade to put Philip behind bars. There was something unceasingly annoying, and therefore satisfying, in working with a man who had skillfully eluded justice.
When Philip had made the decision to work with ra
ther than against the law, Spencer hadn’t been fooled into thinking that the thief had suddenly repented his crimes. With Philip it was business, first and last. It was hard not to admire a man who made his decisions with such exquisite timing and with personal advancement uppermost.
Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, Spencer huddled inside his overcoat. He had a blister on his left heel, the beginnings of a head cold, and was approaching his fifty-sixth birthday. It was difficult not to envy Philip Chamberlain his youth, health, and smooth good looks.
“Damned silly place to meet,” Spencer muttered only because it made him feel better to complain.
“Have another peanut, Captain.” Philip was too used to Spencer’s black moods to be bothered. “You can look around and think of all the hardened criminals you put behind bars.”
“We’ve more important things to do than eat peanuts and look at monkeys.” He dipped into the bag again anyway. The taste, and the scent of animals reminded him of Sunday trips to the zoo as a child. He harrumphed away the sentimentality. “There was another robbery last week.”
Intrigued, Philip leaned back and imagined smoking a leisurely cigarette. “Our same friend?”
“From the looks of it. An estate on Long Island in New York. Barnsworth—wealthy, upper crust. Owns department stores or some such thing.”
“If you’re speaking of Frederick and Dorothea Barnsworth, they do have a rather pricey chain of department stores in the States. What did they get taken for?”
“Diamonds.”
“Always my first choice,” Philip said, reminiscing.
“Necklace, bracelet. Insured for half a million.”
Philip crossed his ankles. “Well done.”
“It’s damned annoying.” Spencer sucked another nut into his mouth, then slapped his worn leather gloves against his palm. “If I didn’t know for certain where you were last week, you’d have some questions of your own to answer.”