by Jeff Lindsay
Erik interrupted, a shocked look on his face. “That was not an authorized—”
“Erik!” Tim said in an unexpectedly commanding voice. Erik looked at him with surprise. Tim locked eyes with him. “Ten days, Erik,” Tim said firmly. “We have ten days until the jewels arrive. And you know bloody well it will take twenty to get ready.” He spread his hands. “The man is good. I questioned him, and he knows his stuff. And he’s right here.” And then very softly, he added, “And like it or not—he is family now.”
For a moment Katrina thought that was exactly the wrong thing to say; Erik turned red, and his face seemed to swell up. But at last he gave a heavy sigh and flicked a glance to Katrina. He frowned. “Well . . . ,” he said.
* * *
—
The face-to-face meeting between Erik and Randall went a great deal more smoothly than Katrina had dared to hope. Erik had grudgingly allowed her to sit in on it if she promised not to butt in. For fifteen minutes so far, she’d been sitting on the edge of her chair, trying as hard as she could not to bite her fingernails and watching with increasing amazement as Randall overcame Erik’s objections. One at a time, with smooth and careful logic, he knocked down every doubt Erik expressed.
But even though Katrina could see that Erik was impressed, he had still not given his approval. She knew exactly what his last, unconquerable objection would be: money. Like so many people born into wealth, Erik was an inveterate cheapskate. And beyond that, he had a completely paranoid conviction that absolutely everyone who approached him, or anyone in the family, did so only to get at the family’s money. Katrina knew, therefore, that Erik was still more than half convinced that Randall was a gold-digging scalawag. But since she was forbidden to speak, she couldn’t coach Randall on the subject.
And to her great relief, she didn’t have to.
“Mr. Eberhardt,” Randall said, “I’m aware that many people will think I married your sister to get at her money. You may think so yourself.”
“Oh, well now, that’s—” Erik said.
Randall held up a hand. “Please,” he said. “You are head of the family and its financial watchdog. Protecting Katrina and her interests is vitally important—and I would be dismayed if that thought didn’t cross your mind.”
“Yes, of course,” Erik said, mollified. And Katrina had to smile, seeing Randall play her pompous brother so smoothly.
“So,” Randall went on, “let me first state positively that I have not taken one red cent from Katrina—”
“So she says,” Erik muttered.
“And I never will,” Randall said with a moral force that even Erik had to find convincing. “I would find it demeaning and unmanly.” He ran his hand over the top of his neatly shaved head, and his signet ring flashed in the light.
Erik blinked. “Your ring,” he said, somewhat hesitatingly.
Randall frowned. “Sorry, what—oh, my class ring?” He held up the hand with the ring on it. “I guess it’s kind of silly to wear it all the time,” he said, shrugging.
“You went to Choate?” Erik said.
“Yes,” Randall said.
Katrina could see that her brother was impressed, and for once she was grateful that he was such a snob.
“Well, well,” Erik said thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize you were—” And he waved a hand to finish the sentence—because, Katrina thought, it doesn’t sound good to come right out and say “upper class” or “one of us.”
“In any case,” Randall resumed. “I think my experience and knowledge speak for themselves, and I realize this museum is a different thing, I understand that.” Randall went on as if Erik hadn’t said anything. “But the basics remain the same, and I am quite familiar with what’s involved. Of course, as a matter of principle, I would never have tried to shove my way in the door here. That would be the kind of gauche, nouveau riche behavior I detest.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Erik murmured.
“I didn’t ask for this job. I’m not sure I really want it at all—but whatever anybody might think, I care deeply for Katrina,” he said. “And this museum is important to her—because it’s important to her family. YOUR family. And the museum—the family museum—Katrina’s family—faces a crisis that I can help solve.”
“That may be true, but—” Erik began.
“So for Katrina’s sake—for the family’s sake—I’m willing to look like something I find very distasteful,” Randall said. He made a face like he’d bitten a sour lemon and rubbed his beard. “I can only hope that I do a decent job, prove my worth. And that in time I can overcome that negative opinion. To that end,” he said, taking a deep breath, “give me six months with no salary. If you are pleased with my work after that, you can pay me. Until then, nothing. I won’t even take the customary commission on buying new works.”
“Who told you a commission is customary?” Erik said. “I can assure you, it is not.”
Randall looked surprised. “Oh!” he said. “But according to the records Benjamin—” And then he shut his jaw with an audible click.
“What?” Erik said. “According to the records Benjamin did what?”
Randall shook his head. “Speak no ill of the dead,” he said.
“If there is ill to speak about Benjamin filching money from the museum’s budget, I bloody well want it spoken!” Erik said.
Randall looked embarrassed. “I, um—I had assumed that, that it was, you know . . . because on every single transaction, um . . .”
“Benjamin took a piece of every transaction?” Erik said, turning bright red with anger. “ALL of them?!”
Randall nodded.
“How much?” Erik growled through clenched teeth.
Randall looked down. “Five percent,” he said.
Erik glared at Katrina as if it was her fault. “Why didn’t we know this?” he demanded. Without waiting for her answer he turned back to Randall. “Bring me those records,” he said. “I want to see for myself.”
Randall looked up at Erik and raised an eyebrow. For a moment, Erik frowned back at him, apparently puzzled that he had not been obeyed instantly. And Katrina could no longer stay silent. “Erik, for the love of God,” she blurted out, “you can’t order him around if he doesn’t have the job!”
Erik turned the frown on her and blinked. Then he got it. “Oh,” he said. He turned back to Randall. “You’re hired.”
CHAPTER
24
Monique couldn’t remember when it happened. It had probably been sometime in the last week, when all the prep was done and she’d started to work on the actual piece, but it really wasn’t possible to say for certain. She had studied the photos Riley had given her, made a few notes, and then started collecting all the photos and information she could. She made some rough sketches, gathered materials, and began.
She started the actual crafting of the piece exactly as she always did, slowly, methodically, paying extraordinary care to each minute detail, even those that would not be visible when she finished. But as she worked in her usual way, she couldn’t help thinking about what she was making, who she was making it for, and what all logic dictated had to be the result of trying something so completely insane. They’re going to kill him, she kept thinking. They’re going to kill Riley. She was certain of that: Riley would be killed. And it would be her fault because he’d said that his only chance would be if she made a perfect copy. That made it very hard to concentrate.
But Monique tried. She worked methodically, deliberately, carefully, and with a complete lack of inspiration. It all seemed mechanical, uninteresting—because no matter what she did, it couldn’t possibly be good enough, and Riley would be killed.
She didn’t want to think about why that mattered so much. She was not that interested in any of her other clients. She didn’t necessarily want them to die, but if they did, she would regret o
nly that she’d lost a client. She’d even said that to Riley. But with Riley, the thought felt different. If he died—if he was killed because her copy wasn’t good enough—
She told herself he was just another customer. But she didn’t believe herself. And when she asked why he was special, her mind would veer away from the question and tell her to get back to work. And she would try . . . But somehow, she knew that what she was doing was not good enough.
And then, for no real reason, it happened. As she worked and tried to kick her mind out of its self-digesting fugue, she stopped thinking and something else took over. Suddenly, Monique floated up out of her normal, careful working habits and elevated to a new, much higher plane. She didn’t plan it, didn’t do anything to make it happen. But she went from meticulous to obsessive. Time stopped having any meaning. Only this one small piece of work mattered—nothing else had any real existence.
Monique forgot to eat, sleep, bathe. She did nothing but work, rework, improve. When she was so exhausted she couldn’t stand up, she would snatch a quick nap on her sofa, only to jerk awake in a sweat with some new detail suddenly flooding her brain, and she would leap up and get back to work. Whatever new space she now inhabited, wherever the obsessive thoughts came from, it didn’t matter. She only knew this piece had to be the best thing she’d ever done. It had to be perfect. She no longer consciously thought that making it perfect might save Riley’s life, but that belief began to grow in her, too, without any reflection at all about why that might matter to her. She simply worked on, approaching an exquisite artistry she had never touched before.
At some point she became vaguely aware that someone was standing behind her, watching her work. Annoying, but not enough to make her stop or look. She didn’t know who it was, and she didn’t care. She was pretty sure it was Riley, but that didn’t matter. She was working.
“It’s beautiful,” the voice behind her said. Yes, that was Riley’s voice.
“Go away,” Monique said. “It isn’t ready.”
And it was, in fact, far from ready. The main jewel itself was set in the frame, with the crown filigree rising above it, but none of the detail was in place yet. So many smaller gems to set, so much elaborate fine work—and Monique was not really satisfied with the main setting, either. There was just so much . . . “Go away,” she repeated, frowning with concentration.
Again, some small watching piece of her consciousness knew that he stood there for a long moment, studying her now and not the piece she worked on. But finally he left, and Monique worked on.
There were so many details, so many small but vital pieces that had to be just right—had to be flawless—and somehow she had to keep them all in her head, their relation to one another, their comparative size and color . . . So many things to think of all at once. But she did. Somehow she could easily keep it all whirling at the same time in a mental picture of complete clarity. She was raised up to a level where everything was clear and perfect and she was a part of it and could not possibly make a mistake.
And then one day, finally, it was done.
Monique stood up from her worktable and stared down at what she had wrought. For a moment she forgot that she was looking at something she had made and just let herself be dazzled by the thing itself. It was perfect, amazing, the most beautiful thing that had ever been. It was so remarkably flawless in every tiny detail that it just might work. It just might save Riley Wolfe.
Monique smiled.
And then a gigantic battering ram of total fatigue smashed into her and she barely managed to stumble across the floor to her sofa and fall onto it before a great wave of all-encompassing sleep wrapped around her and took her away to a timeless, thoughtless depth that washed away everything.
Monique had no idea how long she’d been asleep. There was no way to know; she’d fallen onto the couch completely oblivious to the hour, day, month, and slept so completely that she could not tell if she’d been out for an hour or a week.
A sleep that deep makes waking to reality seem a little bit unreal, out of focus, and Monique’s waking was exactly that. It seemed to her, impossibly, that someone was leaning over and kissing her on the forehead. Nobody did that to her. Not even her father had ever done something like that.
So she blinked her eyes open with no guarantee that she would see anything that made sense. And for a moment, nothing did make sense. There was just a strange moving blur in front of her eyes, a blur that slowly receded, until it turned into a man’s face standing over her and looking down with an awe-stricken expression. “Monique,” the man said—Riley? “I have never, in all my life, seen such a perfect piece of work.” Yes, it sounded like Riley’s voice. “I can’t even—it’s—it’s completely amazing. YOU . . . are completely amazing.” And he bent over and kissed her on the forehead again.
She pushed him away and struggled to sit up. “What time—Jesus, what day is it?” Her voice was somewhere between a rasp and a croak, and she put a hand to her throat.
“It’s Wednesday,” Riley said, an answer that made her want to kick him, and so did the smile that came with it.
She jumped up abruptly, suddenly overcome with panic for no reason she could name. She ran to her worktable, the sweat already starting on her forehead—and there it was. Monique took a deep breath, and then another, and just looked down at it in wonder.
The Ocean of Light.
For a long moment she just stared. It was the most beautiful and perfect thing she had ever seen. She knew in her heart that she could not possibly have made anything so amazing—but there it was.
A firm but gentle hand came down on her shoulder. She didn’t look to see who it was. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from her Ocean of Light.
“Monique,” a soft voice said—Riley’s voice. “Go back to sleep.” His voice was filled with a gentleness she never knew he was capable of, and she looked up at him and blinked.
Riley smiled, a smile that matched the softness of his voice. “You have done something wonderful,” he said. “Something no one else in the world could ever do.” He put his arm around her waist. “Now come on, go back to sleep. You have earned it.”
Monique didn’t resist as he led her back to the sofa. But she did turn back for one last long look at her creation. It caught a beam of light and seemed to glow from within with some kind of divine fire. “Yes,” Riley said. “It is the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Really.”
Monique looked a moment longer before she turned away. And as Riley eased her down onto the sofa, she was smiling.
She was still smiling, soft and gentle, as Riley covered her with a quilt. She closed her eyes and was already asleep when Riley bent over and kissed her. He stood above her for a long moment, staring down at her with a soft smile that matched her own. “Perfect,” he whispered.
Then he wrapped the perfect copy of the Ocean of Light in velvet and left.
* * *
—
Frank Delgado stood in the sunshine and was grateful for its warmth. He still wore his light summer jacket, and it was just barely adequate on this cool late afternoon. There was a definite edge to the wind, a reminder that fall was here and winter was close behind. And here, on this exposed hilltop, he felt that chill.
He didn’t care. He could have been lying nude in an ice bath for all he cared. Because he had been right, and he was here to prove it. It was real, and he’d found it. He was standing in the place where it all began.
He’d found the Big House on the Hill.
Delgado didn’t really need to get out of the car and stand in the yard of the dilapidated old house. In fact, he didn’t really need to come see it at all. He had all he needed. And he knew what his next move had to be. But he had started this trip to find out all he could about Riley Wolfe’s past. He had wanted to dig out puzzle pieces and see how they fit in order to understand Riley Wolfe—in order, of course, to
catch him.
Aside from that, though, there was a very real pleasure in simply looking at this place. And he’d spent enough time and effort finding it that he felt he’d earned a field trip to look at it. It was a kind of reward for a job well done, to see the place that had launched Riley Wolfe.
Not that the job was actually done. He hadn’t even started on the real job, catching Riley Wolfe. But now he could. Now he had a picture of what was driving Riley Wolfe. Sitting there in his car, he flipped open his notebook one more time. Looking over the many notes he’d written, he allowed himself to feel satisfaction. He’d been right more often than wrong, and he was looking at the payoff for all his work.
There was one remaining question. He didn’t know if it was important, and he knew he would not find the answer here, at the Big House on the Hill. Maybe he would never know the answer. Maybe it wasn’t really important. He had to assume it wasn’t because he had enough to go on. Still, it bothered him not to know.
Why “Riley Wolfe”?
Of every possible name in the world, why had J.R. Weimer picked that one?
It was a small thing, a detail that was probably unimportant—but it had been the question that started him on Wolfe’s back trail, and it nagged at Delgado. He had the backstory now without it, but he also had a feeling it mattered, that it meant something. It was easy to make guesses, like, “‘Wolfe’ stands for ‘lone wolf’ or ‘predator.’” But it could just as easily be something obscure—maybe J.R. had been a fan of detective fiction, named himself for Nero Wolfe. It was spelled the same. And why “Riley”? It was an Irish surname—did being Irish have some significance for the boy? As far as Delgado knew, there were no connotations to the name that would be meaningful for a thief, or a predator, or a lone wolf, or—what the hell. Whatever the reason, Riley Wolfe had picked that name. That was the fact of it. Any guesses Delgado could make didn’t matter. It was all just cheap parlor psychology. J.R. probably just liked the sound of it.