Ryan was about to say something when his cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He glanced at the caller ID. “Excuse me, Wes, I have to take this.”
Walters nodded.
Once out of Walters’s office, Ryan swiped his screen. “What’s up, Ive?”
“Ryan, there’s some new development. According to a staff at the front desk of the Crystal Palace, on the day Blackwell was murdered he came down to the lobby around six p.m. to greet a woman. Normally, guests to Crystal Palace condo must sign in at the front desk. But the staff didn’t sign the woman in since it was clear she was Blackwell’s guest.”
“Anyone see the woman leave the building?”
“No. The staff said traffic was heavier in the lobby during evening time, residents come back from work or go out for nightlife, hard to track everyone’s comings and goings.”
“Are there surveillance cameras in the lobby area?”
“Yes, only one, mounted above the entrance door. We’ve requested a copy of the recording. But there is a corridor connecting the condo to the Crystal Palace Hotel next door. It’s possible she could’ve exited the condo through that corridor and left from the front door of the hotel.”
“Good. I’m pretty much finished here with Walters and I will be back at the station soon.”
A few minutes later, Walters accompanied Ryan toward the front door. As they passed the reception desk Ryan said to the ice queen, “Thanks for your help Miss . . .”
“Loveless, Simone Loveless,” she said. This time she bothered to stand up and offer her hand. Ryan shook it.
It was cold.
Chapter 4
Paris, two months before the murder
She was putting final touches on a sketch of gingko leaf earrings when her cell vibrated on the coffee table. She leaned forward to look at the screen. Some number she didn’t recognize. She hit the “decline” button and settled back on the couch. The cell buzzed again, began to shimmy toward the edge of the table. She caught the phone before it could fall to the floor. This time the screen displayed a name, André, Design Directeur of the Cartier House, her most important client.
“Gerel, cherie, I know it’s short notice, but could you please come to my office tomorrow? I need you desperately.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, André, what do you need?” she asked, smiling into the phone.
“A potential client wants to meet tomorrow morning. He wants us to design, or rather, reproduce a piece of nineteenth century Chinese art. And he asked for you specifically,” André said breathlessly.
“Is this the kind of client who wants to custom design a piece of jewelry worn by some famous person eons ago?”
“Close, but not jewelry. He said the piece he wants us to reproduce is going to be based on the one and only Empress Seal of the Qing Dynasty. He claimed that very few people have ever seen the original.”
“Well, if it’s duplicated then it won’t be the one and only anymore,” she said. She liked teasing André. “Besides, you know treasures like that were most likely ill-gotten in the first place. Why would he ask for me, anyway?”
“He said he’s impressed by the nineteenth century imperial court jewelry collection you’ve designed for Cartier. Now ma cherie, don’t give me a hard time. You can lecture me after you get here, but you’ve got to get here first,” André begged.
Gerel sighed, “Okay, André, only because I love you.”
“I love you, too. A demain.”
*
At nine-thirty a.m., half an hour ahead of the appointment time, Gerel arrived at Cartier headquarters on Rue du-Faubourg in Paris’s Saint-Honoré district. She checked in with the security at the lobby and was greeted by André’s assistant on the second floor.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Garnier, the directeur’s already in the conference room with the client,” the young assistant whispered apologetically, tilting her chin at the meeting room on the other side of the hallway. “He told me to ask you to join them as soon as you arrive.”
“Merci.”
Gerel headed toward the meeting room, exchanging niceties with several cubicle-dwelling staff along the way. At the opaque glass door to the meeting room she stood still for a second. She knew how to greet a potential Cartier client. A subtle upturn of the corners of her mouth was all it took. Clients, especially male clients, had considered her sexy and elegant, exactly the designer they would want to craft the kind of jewelry they had in mind—sexy and elegant. But today, it was different. The person she was about to meet may not quite fit the profile of her clientele. She had a strange feeling about this whole thing. Why would anybody want a jewelry designer to replicate a historical artifact? Usually she would turn this kind of request down, but she didn’t want to disappoint André. So, no beguiling smiles, she would be just Gerel today. She pushed the door open.
“Ah, Gerel, cherie, you made it!” André said dramatically, he usually reserved that kind of feigned excitement for clients with big bank accounts and even bigger egos.
“André.” She nodded and glanced at the man on the opposite side of the cream-colored rectangular table, designed more as a work bench.
Switching to English, André made the introduction, “Oh, this is Mr. Wesley Walters, from New York City.”
The man behind the table rose. He looked about forty years of age, tall, broad-chested, well-tailored steel grey suit over a silver-grey shirt. His thick, cropped dark hair was threaded with grey at the temple. He greeted her with an outstretched hand. “Ms. Garnier, it’s a pleasure.” His voice was deep and mellow, reminding her of a regal baritone in a classic opera.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Walters.” She shook his hand across the table.
“Call me Wes, please.”
“Okay, Wes.”
He remained standing until she took her seat next to André. “I have to apologize, Ms. Garnier,” he said, lowering himself to the chair.
“Gerel, call me Gerel.”
“Okay, Gerel,” he winked, a smile flitting across his mouth. “As I was saying, I arrived early so André and I started chatting without you, hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Gerel turned her eyes to the photos in front of Walters.
“Oh, as I was telling André, this is the seal I’d like Cartier to replicate.” He spun a letter-sized glossy photo upside down and slid it to her across the table. “It’s a Qing Dynasty imperial court seal, commissioned during mid-to-late nineteenth century. But of course, it’s not an official seal judging from its unique design and feminine motif—it’s a piece of decorative art. We call it the Empress Seal.”
Gerel shifted the photo slightly so she and André could examine it together. She could tell right away Walters was right. She’d seen quite a few official Qing Dynasty emperor seals. They were usually made of jade, boxy in shape with a large face. The one in the photo was unique, a cylinder of brilliant cobalt blue circled by a golden phoenix, diminutive and feminine.
Walters slid over a thin stack of paper. “You’ll find the anatomy and measurement of the seal in these sketches. The phoenix is made of pure gold and the face is a large ruby. I’d say its design is quite unconventional for that time period, but the technique is classic cloisonné. Look carefully. You’ll see every piece of the phoenix’s feather is gold secured by thin silver strips at the edge. The same technique was used to affix the tiny emeralds on the tail of the bird.”
Gerel flipped through each page and handed them one by one to André, who studied them with occasional ‘woos’ and ‘ahs’ of wonderment.
After turning over the last piece of drawing to André, Gerel studied the photo again. “So, the seal in this photo is the actual size,” she said without looking up, “but there’s one thing missing . . .”
“You mean this,” Wes said, sliding the last piece of paper across the table. “That’s what the face of the seal looks like.”
Gerel looked at the photo in front of her—the image of a red rose, enlarged three- or four
-times actual size. “It’s certainly unique. But since it’s not three-dimensional, it’s hard to determine the exact size of the stone used to create the face of the original seal,” she pointed out.
“That’s where your expertise comes in, I hope, to recreate without seeing the real thing. I hope you can understand, the owner doesn’t feel comfortable revealing the whereabouts of such priceless treasure,” Wes said apologetically.
“Of course, we understand, Mr. Walters,” André cut in. “Being discrete is of paramount importance at Cartier. Mademoiselle Garnier and I will do our best.”
“I understand. Like a reproduction of a master painting, the artist duplicates it from a photo copy, not from the original,” said Gerel dryly.
Walters smiled. “I knew you’d understand, Gerel. So, would you do us the honor of overseeing the replicating process?” Walters said, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Wes, why me? I specialize in jewelry design, never done anything like this. Shouldn’t you ask for someone who is more experienced in reproduction of historical artifacts?”
“Gerel, you’re too modest. André was telling me about your credentials before you arrived. Your work is admired by your clients and peers alike and you’re starting to make a name for yourself . . .”
Gerel was uncomfortable with Walters’s flattery. “André, I hope you are not exaggerating to Mr. Walters.” She turned to André, who avoided her inquiring stare.
Walters laughed. “I can assure you André is not exaggerating. Besides, I’ve done some research on several candidates. These days you can find almost anything on the internet. I get to know their work, and I also found interesting anecdotes of their background.”
“I didn’t know that I had to pass a background check for the job,” Gerel tensed.
André finally came to the rescue. “Forget about background and experience, the nineteenth century imperial court collection Mademoiselle Garnier designed speaks for itself—she is on her way to becoming the queen of period jewelry design.”
“Well said, André,” Walters said. “I hope you’ll accept the job.”
“Okay, I’ll consider it. But I have another question. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Ask away.”
“Are you the owner of the original seal?”
“You are quite perceptive, Gerel.” Wes rose and walked to Gerel’s side of the table in steady steps. “Let’s just say the original Empress Seal may not be for the whole world to see, but the replica, when it’s complete, will be christened at my gallery and celebrated at other well-known museums and galleries for many years to come. And I hope, Ms. Garnier, you’ll be part of this memorable process. Here’s my card in case you’d like to contact me directly. May I have your card, if you happen to carry one?”
*
From the Cartier House, Gerel went back to her studio apartment near Le Marais. She plopped herself on the cot-like couch, a sketchbook on her lap, a pencil in hand. On her way back from her meeting with Wesley Walters she’d received a text message from a client, “Love the gingko leaf earring design, give me some ideas of a matching necklace.” Design images whirled in her mind, but her hand seemed to have lost its usual dexterity. An hour later and all she’d gotten were tooth marks in her pencil. With a deep sigh, she shut the sketchbook and tossed it on the coffee table. Her eyes hit the source of distraction—a business card lay seductively on the coffee table, its black and gold letters embossed on soft suede-like paper. Wesley W. Walters, W Gallery, New York City. Slowly, she wriggled her legs off the couch and dropped her feet to the floor. She heard that little voice again, a voice in her head she’d been struggling to ignore since she’d left André’s office: You’ve got the job that most artists could only dream of. Why aren’t you excited?
“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded too big for the tiny studio apartment.
What’s bothering you, Gerel? From the messenger bag by her feet she drew a stack of papers and scattered them on top of the coffee table. There they were, photos, sketches, and specifications of the seemingly real but mysterious Empress Seal. Or was it just some rich collector’s fantasy? He saw a picture somewhere and was arrogant enough to think his money could somehow recreate and own a piece of history. If the Empress Seal did exist, who was the current owner? Wesley Walters had been clever to avoid the question. He’d even played on what he perceived to be her secret desire—fame and prestige. Success trumped the money itself, not that commission for a project like this would hurt. It could speed up her plan to have her own design firm rather than being beholden to established, big name firms for freelance work that would never allow her free rein of creativity.
Gerel was fully aware that Paris only considered her a young and upcoming jewelry designer. She had work to do to secure the status enjoyed by the likes of Paloma Picasso and Jade Jagger, the crème de la crème in her field. She had honed the skill of discerning client sentiment, a skill perhaps more important than her design talent. She could tell after a short session the real motivation behind a prospective client’s desire to commission a piece of jewelry—vanity, status, nostalgia, passion, love, lust, power. The Empress Seal was not jewelry, but she was familiar with the world of priceless antiques. Something like the Empress Seal usually would have been on display in some famous national museum or passed from one collector to another at some prestigious auction house. In that case, there’d be records. But a cursory check with several pertinent sources had found nothing to prove the seal’s existence. That left only one possibility. The Empress Seal, if there was such a thing, must’ve belonged to some private collector for many, many years.
Who really owned the original Empress Seal?
Wesley Walters wasn’t willing to answer the question.
And Wesley Walters himself. He exuded the confidence of an alpha male. But beneath his dark chocolate voice lurked danger.
Loud rings startled Gerel. It was from her landline. She rushed over to the cordless phone on the bedside table just before the answering machine kicked in.
“Gerel, where are you? I called your cell but you’re not answering . . .”
“Sorry André, I muted my phone before our meeting with Mr. Walters and forgot to switch it back. What’s up?”
“Remember Mr. Walters commented on the unique design of the Empress Seal? How it’s not the classic boxy shape of the official Qing Dynasty seals?”
“Yes.”
“I did some research after you left and guess what I’ve found in the Cartier archive?” André whispered excitedly.
“What?”
“An Emperor’s Seal. According to our record, Cartier was commissioned by the French ambassador to China back in 1873. It was a gift to the emperor of the Qing Dynasty but identical to the Empress Seal, except larger and encircled by a dragon.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I’ll message you the picture right now.”
“Thanks, André.”
Where’s my cell? She remembered she’d placed it on the coffee table a couple hours ago before she settled on the couch waiting futilely for creative inspiration to hit her. It must be somewhere under those mystifying images of the Empress Seal.
Chapter 5
New York City, present day
In his cubicle, Ryan was studying the Blackwell case file of his interview with Wesley Walters the previous morning when Ive asked over the partition separating his desk from hers, “So what do you think of Wesley Walters?”
It hadn’t been two days since Blackwell IV was found dead. Yet at One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the New York Police Department, pressure to solve the case was escalating like water boiling in a teakettle. The investigation was moving at a snail’s speed, Ryan had been told by his boss. After all, William Blackwell IV was England’s distinguished citizen. There was talk that Her Majesty was considering a knighthood for his ultraistic contributions to the world. Mr. Blackwell’s death was not just an un
fortunate incident, it was an out and out international scandal.
But here in New York City, the gruesome murder of the celebrity Brit was a golden ball being chased by a pack of panting, drooling dogs—reporters with reputations ranging from sleazy to righteous, vying for every tiny scrap of information.
“We need to get some credible leads fast to keep this situation from escalating into something that could seriously damage the time-honored relationship between the colony and Her Majesty’s Kingdom,” Ryan had said sarcastically to Ive the moment he stepped into the office. And all morning he couldn’t stop imagining a team from New Scotland Yard swarming at One Police Plaza.
Ryan answered Ive from the other side of the partition. “Walters? Scholarly, a Harvard professor turned art dealer and gallery owner.”
“That might have something to do with it,” Ive said wryly.
“Something to do with what?”
“By scholarly, you mean stuck-up and condescending.”
“Hey Ms. Fancy Starbucks latte, you haven’t even met the man.”
“Don’t have to. I’m just looking at your notes. Harvard professor of Far East culture and art, owner of Manhattan’s newest gallery that caters to high-profile international clientele, being buddy-buddy with blue bloods like Blackwell? He’s earned the right to be stuck-up and condescending. If you ask me, I think he’s the type who thinks he puts his pants on differently than the rest of us. By the way, drinking that dishwater they call coffee here doesn’t make you more of an average working American than I am.”
Ryan popped his face over the partition and smiled down at Ive.
“Regardless, I got the impression Blackwell’s death really hit him hard,” he said.
Ive looked up from her desktop screen and sighed, “I know, I know, being a pompous asshole doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. I was hoping Walters would offer us something useful, but it seems we’ve got nothing so far.”
The Face of the Seal Page 5