The window side of the diner boasted booths with red faux leather coverings, and featured the same tabletop design as the counter. A ceramic tile floor bore the scars of many years of use. Harsh blue light from a string of fluorescent bulbs presided over this surreal world of food odors, noise, and clinking tableware.
Jan disliked eating at the counter. He couldn’t spread out, and more to the point, he hated people watching him eat at close quarters. He looked around, hoping to nab an empty banquette. He saw none. Hope of spacious solitude dashed, he shuffled to the counter like a man condemned to a poison meal, when two men rose abandoning the coveted booth seats. Jan glanced around for potential competition before scurrying past the men and onto the still warm plastic. He looked back at the men as they paid their bill. Both looked Middle Eastern. One seemed vaguely familiar, but Jan couldn’t remember where he would have seen him.
You’re hallucinating. Hunger plays tricks—you know that.
Jan had slept late—consequently he was behind his time. His walk to the diner had made him starved for the diner’s spécialité de la maison—hearty Swedish pancakes with pure Vermont maple syrup. Weak from anticipation, Jan looked around for his favorite waitress. She was headed his way.
“Wanda, you spoil me! How did you know I was here?”
“I saw you walking up the street, so I had Cook make some for you,” Wanda said, stretching her long torso across the booth’s table, giving it a swipe with a damp cloth. She began piling the dirty dishes into a battered Tupperware bin with one hand, while she snatched the tip left by the previous customers with the other. As she tidied the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers, a paper napkin slipped out from under a rack of worn menus. Jan picked it up and was handing it to Wanda to take away when he noticed something.
“Hello, what’s this?” he said.
“Just some leftover trash. Here, I’ll take it.”
“No wait,” Jan said, “There’s writing on it. Maybe it’s a love note.” He arched his eyebrows in mock excitement. “Or maybe it’s a treasure map.”
A busboy arrived with Jan’s meal. He handed it off to Wanda and retreated into the kitchen.
“Sweetie, you’re getting delusional from lack of food. Eat! Eat!” she said as she slid an oval platter piled with fluffy cakes onto the marred table. “The plate is still hot, so be careful.”
Jan pushed the plate of pancakes to one side and carefully opened the thin paper square to its full size.
HE FLIPPED it front and back, turning it every which way. The words, some spelled out and others abbreviated, were written in black ink, some of which had bled through the tissue-like paper. After a frustrating moment, he sighed.
“Hmm… doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“What did I tell you? We get all kinds in here. And most of them haven’t been taking their medicine,” she added, laughing.
Jan refolded the napkin and tucked it into his shirt pocket, snapped his morning paper open, and began to eat as he read the headline news: ANOTHER DIAMOND MERCHANT ROBBED IN JEWELER’S ROW. STUMPED POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY.
Jan chuckled at the obvious jibe. I’d love to be there when the mayor reads this!
Thirty minutes later he had finished reading most of the newspaper and was staring through the restaurant’s fogged glass window, reflecting on his life. He had achieved much in the way of making a life when one considered his childhood years that could only be described as disadvantaged. However, he had been blessed with an excellent mind and an equally excellent parochial education. He couldn’t have known at the time what an extreme burden providing that schooling had been on his devout parents. Then there was Tim Morris—powerful, immensely wealthy, and at times, utterly insensitive to Jan and his visceral need to be loved.
Wanda approached the pensive Jan and asked, “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”
“What?” Jan scanned the cutlery and peeked into the tiny coffee creamer. He said, “Oh, ah, no thanks, Wanda. I’m good.”
Jan downed the dregs of his now tepid coffee and picked up the bill Wanda left behind. He had noticed something intriguing on the napkin but he wasn’t about to share it with Wanda, nor did he want to open the fragile paper more than was necessary. Jan refolded his newspaper and slipped it under his arm. He left a generous tip for Wanda and headed for the cashier. He was anxious to get a better look at the napkin and its cryptic message.
Jan left the Broad Street Diner, heading home at a brisk pace with the full expectation of walking off much of his pancake breakfast. He stopped briefly on the corner of Broad and Lombard Streets to admire a gleaming Jaguar E-Type sports car parked close to the curb. Jan was no stranger to fast sports cars. It was an addiction he freely admitted to, and indulged in. He squatted beside the long car and studied his reflection. Like a lover fondling a new conquest, he delicately stroked the black paint. He chatted with the motorized feline. “God, you’re beautiful. It seems I’ve waited all my life to be this close to you. Before now I never realized how you excite me—may I kick your tires?”
Jan glanced at his reflection a moment more and ran his fingers though his golden hair. A reflection that was not his suddenly appeared. A voice spoke from behind him. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Jan stood and turned. A long-dormant yet familiar tingle stirred in his loins. “Sure is—yours?”
An olive-skinned young man with masses of auburn curls and dark eyes faced Jan. A set of keys dangled loosely from his fingers.
“Yep. Wanna go for a ride?” the car’s owner said, with a twinkle in his eyes that could mean only one thing.
“Ah, no thanks, I have a date—with a lady.”
“Oh, gosh I’m sorry. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” replied Jan, smiling.
The young man returned Jan’s smile, and said with barely concealed disappointment, “Lucky lady.”
The Jaguar chirped as the electronic lock released its hold on the door. The owner slipped into the driver seat. A moment later the sleek cat leapt from the curb and fled into the morning traffic.
Jan watched as the car turned onto Pine Street and disappeared. He smiled at the obvious come-on. Hmm, he was cute. Then he remembered the napkin with its cryptic message.
I’ve got to get this to Mrs. Fabian.
Jan had met Aïda Fabian shortly after he took over the control as North American Mundus master. At the time, he remembered thinking Aïda was one of the most regal-looking women he’d ever seen—tall, with a peaches-and-cream complexion, she had long silvery hair all swept in a swirl atop her head. But it was the softness of her brown eyes that underscored what seemed to Jan to be her ability to read his soul.
Jan jogged home, arriving breathless on Camac Street. He picked his way over the leaf-strewn cobblestone street as he headed for Aïda Fabian’s home and their Friday morning ritual. Over a pot of Russian Caravan tea, the two played armchair sleuths as they discussed the latest offerings in the Philadelphia newspaper. Jan would select the most sensational headlines, and then the pair dissected and analyzed the articles in turn. He stopped just short of Aïda’s house and surveyed the charming street of aged façades, gnarled trees, and misshapen brick sidewalks. Here he’d begun to thrive among a cross section of fascinating people. “God, I love this place,” Jan admitted to the empty air.
Chapter 17
Philadelphia
One block from Jeweler’s Row
BOBBY O’FARRELL parked his car in the Liberty Place parking garage. Today was special—the highlight of his career. Bobby was a courier, but not just any kind of courier. Many years ago, he’d forgotten how many, an unnamed caller left a phone message for the young, and at the time, unemployed man with a wife to support. There was a job to be had, if he wanted it. Yes, he wanted it!
On the seat next to Bobby was an attaché case complete with a security chain and wrist cuff. The case contained one of the rarest of all gemstones—the fabled Vice-Regal Diamond. The Indian king N
ader Shir had the stone cut and fitted into a crown for his beloved queen. The diamond was all that remained of the more than one hundred rubies, pearls, and emeralds that had made up the headdress. Bobby had checked and rechecked the case before flying from New Delhi to Rome, and then on to Philly. His car was still in its usual place at the airport lot. A fine layer of grit testified that it had sat undisturbed for a week. No one knew, or was supposed to know, that he had the jewel with him, let alone that he was about to casually walk down a city street and deliver it to Spencer & Hillier, jewelers to Philadelphia’s glitterati.
Bobby drove the company car into the parking slot. He turned off the engine and pocketed the car keys. He brought the case onto his lap. Slipping the cuff over his right wrist, he closed and locked it then pushed the key into a tiny slit on the side of the attaché case. Only one other key matched the cuff’s lock, and that key was with Spencer & Hillier. He stepped out of the car, set the motion-sensitive alarm, then turned toward the car park’s exit.
The blow was crushing. Later, Bobby would say that he heard nothing, saw nothing, remembered nothing. Right now all he could think about was the awful pain. People were shouting questions at him. Who is the president of the United States? What city are you in? What was the Titanic? Do you speak English? Bobby tried to focus. He tried to answer, but all he could think of was the pain, and the blood. Why is there so much blood?
Chapter 18
Philadelphia
Thomas Jefferson Hospital
DANIEL JELSKI walked into the hospital room.
“Mr. O’Farrell? My name is Daniel Jelski. I’m an attorney.”
Bobby looked up from the magazine he’d been reading.
“Attorney? I’m not buying a house, and I’m not suing anybody. I don’t need an attorney.”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. It is you who is being sued… by Spencer and Hillier.”
Bobby furrowed his brow. “Sued? What for?”
“Not for the loss of the Vice-Regal Diamond,” Daniel said as he pulled a metal chair close to the bed and sat down. “You are bonded, of course. The insurance company will settle with any claimants, but the chance of avoiding a court appearance is unlikely. Spencer and Hillier is claiming that your losing the diamond caused them not to get the fee for their services, and, more importantly, they allege that this situation has cost them business. They feel that their one-hundred-year-old reputation is damaged.”
Daniel looked at Bobby, waiting for a response.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Bobby threw back the bedsheet. “Look at me! They cut off my hand, for Christ sake! So, what? You’re here to serve me papers? Nice of you to do it in person.”
“I’m not representing Spencer and Hillier. I’m here to represent you—that is, if you want me to.”
“What are you, some kinda ambulance chaser? You just hang around like a hyena waiting for the sick and the dying?”
Daniel slipped one of his business cards into Bobby’s left hand. Bobby saw Templars of Law embossed on the card. He looked more closely at Daniel. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never been introduced,” Daniel answered, truthfully.
The two had never met, but Daniel remembered Bobby from the Kensington neighborhood where they grew up. He knew, too, that Bobby O’Farrell had once been Jan’s best friend.
Bobby tossed Daniel’s card aside saying, “Well, I can’t afford a lawyer, and I certainly can’t afford one with a Rittenhouse Square address!”
“Actually, I was hired to represent you.”
“Who would spend money on me?”
“Anonymous.”
“You don’t know who hired you?” Then sarcastically, “Now I know this is a joke.”
“Your benefactor, if I may use the term, wants to remain unknown. It’s not all that unusual.”
“Well, it is to me. If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh.”
Daniel sighed and then shifted in the chair “Sir, we have a lot to talk about, and not much time to do it in. I have to say, you’re lucky to be alive. Your attackers didn’t count on you falling against your car. That’s what set off the alarm.”
Bobby held up his handless arm. “It didn’t stop them from doing this to me. How am I supposed to… to… and you say I’m lucky!”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but let’s just get through this first, okay?”
Bobby shook his head wearily. “Where do you want me to start?”
Chapter 19
Camac Street, Philadelphia
AÏDA FABIAN’S house sat square in the middle of Camac Street. Two doors down on her right was Jan’s doublewide townhouse. Directly across from Jan’s house lived Kat Manlove, a woman straight from a Harlequin romance novel. To Aïda’s immediate left lived Larry Sinclair, an aging retired army general with a penchant for women’s underwear and vintage Balenciaga gowns. In many neighborhoods he would have been an object of scorn, but among the eccentric denizens of Camac Street, he was welcome.
“My dear, you mustn’t think harshly of the general,” Kat had said to Jan on their first meeting. She had dragged him toward a bouquet of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. Sweeping her arm around the gaily decorated room, now crowded with people, she said, “As you can see, he throws the most wonderful parties!”
Two doors down from Kat Manlove, and directly across from Mrs. Fabian’s home, lived Charlotte De Vere. Every Friday morning, sleet, snow, or shine, Charlotte chaired the planning meeting of the Quaker City Opera Company.
This particular Friday Aïda Fabian sat patiently in her high, wingback chair. Her “power” chair as she called it. She was waiting for Jan. Beside the chair was her constant companion, Schiller, a 110 pound Rottweiler. Before her a gleaming silver tea set stood on a round table of bird’s-eye maple. Beside this table was a set of Sèvres china, reputedly owned by Napoleon Bonaparte’s onetime mistress, the Countess Maria Waleska. Aïda ran her fingertips over each piece. She knew where every item was, right down to the location of the spoons and white linen.
Opposite Aïda’s chair, a smaller version of her “power” chair waited for Jan. She kept it reserved for these Friday occasions. A tall case clock set between the front windows ticked away the minutes. Aïda thought that a clock’s tick-tock was the loneliest sound in the world.
“Wonder what’s keeping Jan,” Aïda said absently.
Schiller raised his massive head and replied with a heavy sigh before relapsing into his nap.
For many years Aïda had been a mover and shaker in Philadelphia politics. She knew everyone. She had been a powerful voice in Mundus, also. But that was before the accident. She picked up the morning paper and fingered the edges of the pages. Disgusted, she dropped it back onto a side table. Of course Aïda could read her own copy, specially delivered to her door each day, but that would mean reading in Braille and accepting for the millionth time that she was irretrievably blind. No, she preferred to wait for Jan.
Chapter 20
Philadelphia
Quaker City Opera House
CHARLOTTE DE Vere looked up and shook away the mass of black curls that gathered around her face, just as Bruce Fletcher, the Quaker City Opera’s stage manager, hurried into the small conference room used for Friday staff meetings. Bruce muttered a muffled sorry and took his seat. His coffee, already poured, had gone cold. Nonetheless, he took a sip. Coffee preparation for meetings was Elizabeth’s expressed wish. Refusing to drink it, cold or blazing hot, would only beg the wrath of the company’s set director and the wrath of Elizabeth Morales, which was to be avoided whenever possible, as many a stagehand had learned from experience.
Before Charlotte could speak, Elizabeth Morales piped up, “Well, Bruce, where the hell is he?”
The “he” Elizabeth referred to was Aram Faji, the company’s costume designer.
“Thank you, Liz, you took the words right out of my mouth
,” Charlotte said icily as she searched Bruce’s face for the answer.
“Damned if I know!” Bruce said. “The last time I saw him was Monday. He told me he’d have the new costumes ready today. When he didn’t show up this morning, I thought he might be sick, so I called his house. His phone has been disconnected. I even called the Broad Street Diner to see if he was still there.”
The two women exchanged wondering glances, and then looked at Bruce with expectant frowns.
“He has breakfast there every morning—I thought you knew.”
Charlotte drummed her fingernails on the tabletop and said, “I didn’t know. Is it important?”
“No… I guess not,” Bruce said, unsure why he felt embarrassed. He wrinkled his forehead. “You know, what’s weird is his phone being disconnected. People do that when they move house. You’d expect him to mention something if he was doing that, especially since he has a boy in school. Yet the people at the diner said he did eat there early this morning. They said they noticed him especially today because he’s usually alone, but today he was with somebody. So I can’t figure why he’s a no-show.”
“Well we can’t wait much longer. I have a meeting with Rena Frank to go over the program notes for the season. Aram’s report is the only item pending before finalizing the winter program,” Charlotte said. “I had my heart set on kicking off the season with the Handel.”
“What’s to stop us? He’s not the only one here who knows how to sew beads,” Elizabeth said.
“Don’t you have enough to do with the sets?” Bruce snapped. The remark was clearly intended to suggest that Elizabeth was putting her nose in where Bruce felt it didn’t belong.
“You had my set report last week. Did it look incomplete to you?” Morales said.
She didn’t wait for Bruce’s reply. Turning to Charlotte she said, “I could get a costume design proposal ready by next week.”
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