Gerel’s brain snapped back into the present after being frozen, watching the surreal scene unfold before her eyes. The rotten railing had saved her life. It was time to give it a new life, together with so many other things in this beaten down villa.
Chapter 20
New York City, the day of the murder, 5:50 p.m.
William Blackwell glanced in the paneled mirror in the dark mahogany armoire in his spacious master bedroom. The reflection grinned at him, dapper, in control. He had put on a charcoal grey tuxedo blazer with black lapel over a silver-grey Oxford shirt. A slim pair of dark grey trousers skimmed the shiny top of a pair of black patent derby shoes, sandy hair well moussed but artistically messy.
Grudgingly, he turned away from the mirror as he congratulated himself for the image he’d created—a perfect blend of Casino Royale high roller and sophisticated hipster. Several neckties were scattered on the super-king-sized bed. He’d tried them all on but decided go sans tie. He didn’t want to appear stuffy, rigid. He picked up the herringbone coat he’d laid out on the bed and slung it over his shoulder. He looked into the mirror a final time—he’d just added a touch of English Gentleman to the ensemble. David Beckham would be envious.
Then he remembered something. He went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The porcelain pill box was sitting on the middle shelf, promising him enhanced pleasure for the evening ahead. He took the box out and opened it. Only a few left. Too bad he was leaving New York, no more of these would be coming from Wesley, but he was sure he’d find the same thing in London. He put one in his mouth and swallowed with a swig of tap water. It’ll be a fun evening.
Blackwell bounded down the spiral glass staircase that seemed to float between the two floors of the penthouse, his steps extra springy, his mood light as a soaring bird. The day had gone swimmingly. Final agreement with an unnamed buyer had been reached, pending, of course, the results of the authentication of the red diamond to be conducted in less than twenty-four hours. It worked out well. The diamond would be with him for one more day, giving him ample time to dazzle Gerel that evening. Hopefully dazzling her could lead Gerel to doing the deed he’d fantasized. Tomorrow, a whopping ninety million dollars would be transferred to his account with the push of a button. There’d been good news on the property front. A realtor had promptly responded to his inquiry. “You won’t have any problems, Mr. Blackwell. I have a couple of potential clients who would be glad to take the penthouse off your hands right away and at the price you require,” the woman had chirped on the phone. He bet she was already calculating the hefty commission coming her way.
He was ready to say goodbye to New York City. Not final goodbye like he’d never visit it again, but it wasn’t a second home anymore. He’d had some good times here, some of it memorable. God knows I’ve paid enough for that.
Blackwell stepped into the private elevator. The door closed soundlessly. He examined his reflection again in the wrap-around mirror and practiced a couple of smiles that experience told him had the most positive impact on women. It should work for a French chick like Gerel. He could feel the rising heat of those amber eyes, searing, translucent. Even when they glared with contempt and distain, they could still make his dick hard, his soul shudder. The Empress Seal was gone, all the insufferable hoopla over—for good. But out of all the drama came Gerel, a total stranger who’d been fanning the fire of his wildest imagination ever since Wesley Walters presented him her photo as a possible candidate to replicate the Empress Seal. He came to know her work—the nineteenth century Qing Dynasty imperial court costume jewelry collection she’d designed for the Cartier House. He researched her bio: Paris’s up-and-coming young jewelry couturier whose lineage could be traced back to the imperial court inside the Forbidden City. Soon she’d come to his dreams, her body half veiled in a flaming red silk robe, long dark hair pooled around her supple breasts like lustrous silk . . .
She was the woman in his great-grandfather’s book. He had first read about her when he was only thirteen, hiding in the wine cellar of the family’s townhome in London. She was the concubine of the Son of Heaven, the Emperor of the Qing Dynasty. Her name was Meigui, Rose.
The elevator door glided open. Blackwell shook off the fantasy that had been swirling in his head. It’s showtime.
*
New York City, the day of the murder, 6:19 p.m.
Gerel followed Blackwell into the private elevator. The door closed, boxing her in dread and uneasiness. She doubted her decision to come here. She’d let the mai tais go to her head, asking if she could see the red diamond. Who knew if what Blackwell told her was true. It could be a ploy to get her to his penthouse. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for it. But every time she had thought of pulling a no-show, she heard Mama’s voice, murmuring to her from a world away from the ancient Stone Wall Village in Beijing, “The face of the Empress Seal was a precious stone, given to Sarnai by Jacques the French priest, Meigui’s father, who died before she was born.”
It was true the stone was precious all right, it could be the rarest and largest red diamond ever discovered in the world—that’s if Blackwell was not exaggerating. But it was something other than the value of the stone that had tugged at her. The red diamond, the face of the Empress Seal, was in many ways the faces of Sarnai, Jacques, Meigui, and her great-grandmother Lis. The faces of her ancestors which most of them, until a week ago, she didn’t know she had. She owed it to herself to face the stone that had witnessed so much history.
So, she decided to stick with her decision to go to New York City, but at least she’d done the right thing to turn down Blackwell’s dinner offer. Blackwell’s money and name could get her closer to her dream, her own brand and house of jewelry design, but she was not willing to get there holding onto the arm of Britain’s infamous playboy. She would just take a look at the stone and be on her way to Paris without having to endure too many of Blackwell’s advances. And she would certainly not “do the deed” as Blackwell surely expected would happen before the evening turned into night. But one way or another, she’d have to set foot in his luxury abode, and there would be just the two of them. He could become brazen, she didn’t want to let him have a chance to become physical. She’d formed a plan and hopefully nothing too unpleasant would happen.
Inside the penthouse, Blackwell slung the herringbone coat off his shoulder and tossed it on the nearby armchair. He leered at Geral’s long, camel coat. “Why don’t you take your coat off and make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m fine, I won’t be here long.” Gerel sounded casual, a cool smile on her face. I hope the sleeping pill will kick in soon, not too soon though.
“Would you like another drink?”
“No thanks, I’d like to have a look at the stone if you don’t mind.”
“Aren’t you impatient . . .” Blackwell chuckled, it sounded more like a sniffle. “All right let’s get this over with, so we can do something more fun perhaps. Follow me please.” He turned toward the spiral glass staircase. Gerel noticed a slight wobble in his feet as he climbed onto the first step. At the top of the staircase, Blackwell swayed toward the expansive door to the master bedroom. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little oozy, they make serious martinis downstairs, you know.” A faint slur to his words.
Once inside the bedroom, Blackwell disappeared into the walk-in closet. A moment later, he blundered out, holding a small black pouch. He plopped himself on the enormous bed covered with crisp white sheets. He grunted at the sight of the neckties strewn on the bed. He thrust them aside. His fingers clumsily loosened the drawstring pouch, he managed after a few tugs and pulls to shake out the contents. A red stone, the size of a large quail egg, rolled onto the gleaming white bedsheet. Gerel remembered what Blackwell had told her in Beijing, that the red diamond was a raw stone, hardly processed. She wasn’t expecting a dazzling stone, but what was in front of her was rough, a bit dull, more like a pebble stone, without any trace of the clarity and brilliance that one
would associate with a diamond.
“Hard to believe it could be a diamond, but the gemologist who examined it promised that—that . . .” a sleepy voice said to her. Gerel looked away from the stone to Blackwell. His whole body was spread on the bed now, half propped up on his elbow, his head resting on his palm, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“What did the gemologist say?”
“That the diamond’s in . . .” He didn’t get to finish, his elbow went limp, his head hit the bed. He was asleep.
Shit, maybe one pill would’ve been enough.
Too late now. She’d better get out of there. I should take a picture of this, she thought. She pulled out her cell and aimed it at the diamond. It looked more like a bloodstain on the white sheet. She clicked the photo button and the image flew onto the cell screen.
There was a click in her mind, too, it stopped thinking. She picked up the red diamond, the face of the Empress Seal. It felt cool, heavy for its size. Gerel dropped it in her coat pocket and walked out of Blackwell’s bedroom as if she’d just taken back something that was hers in the first place.
*
New York City, the day of the murder, 9:24 p.m.
Simone Loveless slipped out of the 21 Club restaurant. The air outside was cold, wet. She welcomed it. She’d been cooped up in the wine cellar with nine Chinese artists plus Wesley Walters for almost two hours. The stuffiness down there was unbearable but the place was obviously irresistible to the Chinese. They could care less about the prohibitive price tag that came with an evening of private dining and drinking in the legendary prohibition-era booze cellar. Wesley would foot the bill and she was just there to fulfill her duty as Walters’s assistant, though Wesley had often introduced her as his right-hand woman. Yeah, right. This evening, her job was to take pictures, god so many pictures, individual and group, from every angle possible. She’d hardly had time to touch her food, not that she had any appetite. The Chinese didn’t seem to be able to hold their booze. A couple glasses of the impossibly expensive wine and they turned red and loud, bawling at each other in a language that hit her ears like laser beams. By the time the main course was served, her head was pounding, her lungs seemed to have deflated, the walls of wine bottles threatened to topple over on her.
I have to get out of here.
Her palms pushed against the edge of the table, the chair scraped the floor with a loud screak. Nobody seemed to be paying her any attention except for Wesley, staring at her coolly from across the table. “Bathroom,” she mouthed, and turned to the long flight of stairs, up and out. She hoped Wesley didn’t notice she’d taken here cashmere shawl with her, she wasn’t coming back.
Simone took another gulp of the lung-piercing air, wrapped the shawl around her, and hurried toward the Crystal Palace Residence a few blocks away. This might be the last fighting chance she had, she’d better grab it before William skipped town. She’d called him that morning, he didn’t want to talk but had asked her to return the key to his penthouse. “Business is calling, got to get back to London soon. Could you please drop the key I gave you when you have a chance? You can leave it down at the lobby,” he said airily, as casual as if he had just asked her to drop off a batch of dry cleaning.
“Why would you want the key back?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’m selling the penthouse, won’t be back here that often anymore.” Again, cool, no big deal.
“Does Wesley know that? And you’ve promised . . .”
“Simone, I didn’t promise you anything. I said I’d consider what you proposed. But things have changed, and I won’t be coming to New Yok anytime soon.” William’s voice turned serious.
You bastard, son of bitch. She clamped her palm on her lips to block the curses from bursting out of her mouth. “I need to talk to you, face to face, you owe me that. Can I come over?” At least her voice didn’t shake.
“No, can’t do today, maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you later to let you know.” The phone went dead.
Simone had stared at her cell for a long time before accepting the fact that William had hung up on her. She was a fool, a delusional moron to believe someone like William Blackwell could be her knight in shining armor, even for a moment, a moment that could see her through to a possible lifetime of independence. What’s a million, or two, to someone whose fortune is worth hundreds of millions, someone who had never even worked for a day? She would have done unspeakable things to earn it.
She hated herself and resolved to never see William again. But as the day dragged into evening, she weakened. Maybe she should just go to him unannounced, maybe when he saw her, when she had finished doing him for the last time, maybe there would be some tenderness left in his black heart . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .
But her planned six p.m. visit was thwarted by that French bitch. She’d seen Gerel with William, walking toward the private elevator. Her blood boiled with jealousy and anger. So this slut must be the business calling back in London, she put her hooks in William, now she’s on her merry way to join the exclusive crowd of the rich and famous . . .
Simone had darted out of the Crystal Palace Residence lobby and went straight to the bar at 21 Club to await Walters. When Wesley Walters arrived with his crowd of so-called artists, she had already downed two vodka martinis, or three. She needed them to plaster a smile on her face and deal with the mind-numbing, insufferable evening ahead of her, or as the Chinese had said, “A quintessential American cultural experience.”
Now, Simone turned the corner on 6th Avenue and 58th Street. She didn’t care if William was in his penthouse with Gerel, doing whatever they were doing. She’d charge in and confront him. After all she had a key to return.
She entered through the private entrance to the Crystal Palace Residence building, the understated yet privileged door. And yet she had the access key that was reserved only for the owners of the penthouses. Maybe there was still hope for her yet.
Simone opened the double door to the penthouse. “William,” she called in warning. She’d like to avoid a scene of animal-like humping if possible, though that exact image had been flashing intermittently in her mind’s eye all evening.
All was quiet. Nobody was on the first floor. Damn, she’d have to go upstairs.
“William,” she called again, winding her way up the glass staircase.
The master bedroom was wide open, the ceiling chandelier on but dimmed. William lay askew on the bed, head buried in the nook of his elbow, fully clothed. Not what she’d expected. “William, William.” She rushed over and shook his derby-shoed feet that stuck out off the side of the bed.
A low groan came out from under that head of messy sandy hair, his body didn’t move. Simone unwrapped her shawl and tossed it on the floor. She kicked off her stilettos and climbed into the bed. She grabbed William’s shoulder, attempted to flip him onto his back. But William rolled over on his own, eyes still closed. His hand flung out to clutch Simone’s jacket lapel. “Gerel, darling, you’re not going to leave me, are you?” he murmured, pulling her down toward him.
Simone fell on top of him, she could smell the gin on his breath. “William, let go of me, wake up you idiot. Gerel’s gone,” she hissed, struggling to get up.
“Gerel, don’t go, stay with me, I’ll make you famous . . .” William’s arms dropped, splayed out, his head lolling to one side. Seconds later, he was asleep again.
Raging heat scorched her core, jealous fire snaked through her veins. Blood pounded savagely in her head, her brain exploded. “You fucking bastard!” She let out a savage scream, her fists came down on William’s chest like hammers.
William’s arms curled up, a reflex to fend off Simone’s pounding fists. His eyes flew open, pale, glassy, staring at her.
“Look at me, I’m not your whore. I’m not your whore!” Simone kept screaming at those unseeing eyes, they mocked her, taunted her as if saying you’re nothing but a fucking whore . . . whore . . . whore . . . The echo rumbled in her head, on and on and on.
When the rumbling subsided, a wave of calmness came over her, washing away the madness that had ravaged her being. She looked down, the bastard’s body lay limp between her bent knees. I’ll show you what your whore could do to you. Her eyes turned slowly to the neckties bunched up on the bed next to William’s head. She picked the purple one, it was his favorite. Calmly, she looped the tie around his neck. She’d done this before, she’d make a crisp knot, how spiffy he’d look. Only today, it would be extra crisp and tight. She brought both ends of the tie around to the front. With a twist of her hands, the tie formed a single, loose, half hitch knot. A swift yank, the knot cuffed his Adam’s apple tautly. She kept pulling the ends tight, away from each other. William’s eyes opened wide, she could see the sheer terror in them. Can you see who I am now? She pulled tighter. His body convulsed, his arms flinging and thrashing wildly, hitting her shoulder, her chest, her face. She didn’t care, she just pulled the tie tighter . . .
*
New York City, the day of the murder, 9:56 p.m.
It was almost half an hour since Simone had left the table to go to the bathroom. What’s she doing in there? Wesley Walters thought to himself. He’d noticed Simone wasn’t herself this evening. She hadn’t been herself for quite a while, and he had an inkling as to why. William was leaving. He’d told Wesley so two days ago when he got back from China. Walters had pretty much accepted the reality. He had gotten a lot out of this special relationship with William. It could’ve lasted longer if it wasn’t for that French froufrou. With Simone, things were a bit different. Walters knew she’d been counting on William for her retirement fund. Like most women in Walters’s life, she was just a slut who’d served a purpose—William’s special purpose. But the bitch must be skillful. On and off William had kept her around longer than any other woman he’d bedded. If William was willing to pay her, it was his prerogative. Heck, come to think about it, to William Blackwell, wasn’t Wesley Walters nothing more than an experiment? Though an exciting one. And he’d paid for that thrill. As far as Walters was concerned, everybody came out a winner, maybe even Simone.
The Face of the Seal Page 26