"You were about to tell us about encountering Bernard Lord roughly fifteen years ago?" Lauren steered the conversation back on track.
Slick Frankie studied Lauren carefully. "Local girl makes good, right?"
Lauren shook off his comment. "I don't really think that has anything to do with the conversation, but, yeah, I'm from Philly."
"Nice. I like to see young people stay close to their roots. My younger son, first thing you know, he moves to Tucson. Tucson! Who lives in Tucson?"
Lauren sighed. Loudly. "Arizonans. To get back to Bernard Lord—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Slick Frankie said, acting as if he were going in that direction all along. "Hypothetically speaking, mind you, I would have to say that it's not easy unloading goods like the ones you mentioned. It takes a certain clientele—people who don't necessarily consider little things like documented provenance. In their case, the value might not even be what's important." He stared at Lauren while he spoke, choosing his words carefully.
"And do you know such people personally?" Sebastian asked.
Slick Frankie smiled. "Don't we all?"
"Can you be more specific? Can you link anyone with the art we're after?" Lauren was losing her patience.
Slick Frankie placed his hand on his chest. "Let's just say for the sake of argument that I may have heard about some art objects affiliated with your man Lord—perhaps even the ones you mention—coming into the hands of certain people. Beyond that, all I can say is, mum's the word."
Slick Frankie held up his hand and looked at Lauren. "You're the reporter, right? Your job is to track down the story. So you figure it out." He glanced at his watch and whistled casually. "And with that, I must end our little tête-à-tête. I need to attend my grandson's Little League game in Cherry Hill. But before I depart the premises, I believe you, sir, were going to show me how much you appreciate me?"
"Well, I'm not going to be a party to this," Lauren said. She gestured to Sebastian. "When you finish your business you can find me in the gift shop. I'm going to buy souvenirs for my niece and nephew. Do you have anyone you want me to buy things for?" She arched her eyebrows.
He scowled. Last time his mother had called him—an occurrence about as frequent as a sighting of Halley's Comet—she'd said something about one of his stepsisters having a baby. "I think I have a step-niece—if there's such a thing."
Lauren was incredulous. "You don't know?"
"You should be ashamed," Slick Frankie admonished.
"Please, I don't need lessons in morality from someone whose activities are questionable at best—and that's just referring to you." Sebastian pointed at Lauren. "As for you—"
"I'm outta here." She waved goodbye and hastened down the hallway.
A few minutes later Lauren was paying at the cash register when Sebastian arrived. "Here. This is for you." She thrust a small package at his chest and stuffed another package into her bag.
Sebastian opened the wrapping and slowly lifted out a toddler-size T-shirt with the aquarium's logo. He turned it around several times before shifting his eyes to Lauren. "Not to question your judgment, but don't you think it's going to be a tight fit?"
"Please, it's for your step-niece, which you may or may not have." She didn't bother to wait as she headed out the door. "You know, it's statements like that that really make me wonder about you." She marched down the ramp circling around the seal pool. The parking lot was a five-minute walk, and it had started to sprinkle. She turned up the collar on her jacket and buried her chin in her chest.
"Great," she muttered. When it rained, her fine, straight hair became limp—wet noodle limp.
But for a change, it wasn't her hair that bothered her. It was the fact that Sebastian seemed so dislocated from family and friends. How could anyone be so isolated that they didn't even know their relatives? My God, there wasn't a christening or a wedding or a funeral in her family—and she meant her extended family, down to second cousins once removed—that she hadn't attended. Sometimes over her own dead body—slightly ironic in terms of the funerals—but then that was her problem.
Even more perplexing was why a man who did not know the extent of his own household was so concerned about returning artworks to their rightful homes. Something was missing in this equation. The man of mystery was only getting more mysterious with time. Frankly, it would have been a lot simpler if he had just remained a two-dimensional hunk. A warm-blooded sex toy. Someone to touch. And kiss. And lick…
"Earth to Lauren. Darlin', are you planning on walking back or would you like a lift?"
Lauren stopped and raised her head. Only then did she realize that she had walked right past Sebastian's parked car. He stood at the passenger side and held the door open for her.
"Sorry. I was thinking about the case and forgot where I was." Well, it was kind of true. Sebastian was an integral part of what was going on.
"That's what I like about you—always on the job. And speaking of the job, Slick Frankie gave me the name of an antiques-cum-junk-dealer guy—he's a vendor at some big flea market in Lambertville."
Lauren nodded. "It's up in central Jersey, across the river from New Hope in Bucks County. A real tourist destination."
"That's what he said. Apparently the big day for horse-trading is Sunday, so he's sure to be there." Sebastian shut the door.
"Which means since tomorrow's Saturday, I'll have a chance to start going through the local missing persons claims and DOAs for the past six months," Lauren said when he got in the car. "That's about when you said Bernard Lord stopped picking up his benefits checks, right?"
Sebastian's cell phone rang. He stopped in the middle of slipping on his shoulder harness to answer it. "Excuse me. I'm expecting a call from the office in Washington."
He reached for his phone and flicked it open. "Alberti," he answered succinctly, then listened. "Yes, yes. I understand." He snapped the phone shut and put it away. He slanted her a narrow-eyed glance before starting the engine.
Lauren felt a cold front immediately engulf the car's interior. And it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning, which was off. "Something you wanna share?"
Sebastian pursed his lips. Placing his arm over the back of her seat, he turned around to look behind him and backed out of the parking spot.
"That was Slick Frankie." He said finally, after shifting into first. His words were clipped. "He was a little confused. Something about your partner accosting him after we left." He slanted her a look, this one more critical than the last. "Something you want to share?"
"I don't know what you expect me to say. I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about." Lauren ran a hand through her damp hair. "Don't tell me you don't trust me, yet again?"
Sebastian shifted the gear into second. "Sometimes I don't even trust myself."
* * *
8
« ^ »
Things only got more frigid in the car as Sebastian pulled onto Riverside Drive
.
It was really more than Lauren could stand. She was disappointed in him for not believing her, when she had thought they were past that stage. She was even more disgusted at herself for being disappointed that he didn't believe in her. The first was lame. The second was pathetic.
Best just to concentrate on getting the story. She was damned if she was going to have to keep justifying her behavior, let alone the behavior of others. "You're going to have to get on 676 South to get to 38 Roebling," she snapped. "Remember?"
"Who knows what will surface there? Our mystery caller?"
Lauren stared out the window. She refused to be baited. She was just hoping they'd uncover some information relevant to the story. Bernard Lord may have stopped going to the post office, but that didn't rule out the possibility that he had gone to ground. That he'd still be living on this street was probably too much to ask.
Oh, brother, was it.
Lauren and Sebastian didn't even bother to get out of the car when they got there. Actuall
y, "there" was something of a misnomer.
Lauren sighed. "Now I know why this address rang a bell."
"In this case, 'address' is a euphemistic term." Sebastian tapped his fingers on the wheel. "There is no 38 Roebling."
"Well, that's because there is no Roebling—at least, not anymore," she corrected.
He turned to her, his patience clearly stretched thin. "I think I can see that for myself."
"Two or three years ago, maybe more, there was an explosion in one of the buildings here. Seems the guys in some underground meth lab didn't quite heat their chemicals the right way. Ka-boom. It took out most of the block, and the few buildings remaining were severely damaged. The City fathers, in their ultimate wisdom, decided to raze the street with hopes of rejuvenating the area. Yadda, yadda, yadda."
Sebastian surveyed the wreckage. It looked like Dresden after the war. "Well, I think we can safely deduce that hope no longer springs eternal. I'll take you back to the hotel." He started up the car.
Lauren couldn't bear the thought of sitting in a hotel room with him. There was only one thing left to do—face an even greater evil—Friday family dinner. "Before you get carried away with driving, would you mind taking the Walt Whitman Bridge into the city instead of the Ben Franklin?" she asked.
"That seems a little out of the way."
"I've got an appointment in South Philly, and that puts me more in the general direction. It's not related to Bernard Lord's case. Trust me."
"You think after the phone call I just got I should trust you?" He negotiated the rush-hour traffic without breaking a sweat, despite the fact that Jersey drivers liked to tailgate within millimeters of the car in front, and turning signals were more an afterthought than a compulsory indication of shifting lanes. "Wherever you go, I go. Even if it's to hell."
"Truer words were never spoken." Lauren crossed her arms over her chest. "In that case, follow the signs for 76 East. And don't say I didn't warn you."
As soon as Sebastian pulled into an empty parking space on South Tenth Street
—a true miracle if ever there was one—Lauren opened the car door.
"Auntie Laurie, Auntie Laurie, did you bring me anything?" A strapping eight-year-old girl banged open the screen door and tumbled down the steps of the row house.
What was once a modest neighborhood of brick row houses with high stoops was now an ode to aluminum siding and fake stone facades that were a big mistake even when they came into fashion in the fifties. Most of the residences had also sprouted enclosed front vestibules with delightful detailing like opaque glass louver windows. Lauren's parents' home was no different. Its particularly apt touch was the black metal silhouette of a coach and horses neatly screwed to the bottom of the white aluminum screen door. The only thing missing that would have completed the ambience was a miniature replica of the Rocky statue.
"Hi to you, too, Tabitha," Lauren returned the greeting.
Tabitha, sporting an oversize Villanova sweatshirt and baggy jeans, skidded to a halt in front of Sebastian's Mercedes. "Hey, way cool. Is it yours, Auntie Laurie?"
"Not quite. It belongs to Sebastian here. But if you want, after dinner he'll turn on the ignition and let you sit in the driver's seat. He'll even tell you about his John Deere tractor if you're very good."
Tabitha stared at Sebastian with a reverence that, in this neighborhood, was usually reserved for the Pope or the captain of the Philadelphia Flyers. "You have a tractor?" She practically choked on the words.
"Here, take this inside," Lauren said before Sebastian could speak. She thrust the shopping bag from the aquarium at Tabitha. "There's something for you and your brother—" Tabitha made a face at the mention of her brother "—I figure you'll know which is which."
Tabitha, no stranger to the right end of a present, scampered back up the steps and through the front door. Lauren turned to Sebastian. "Unlike most pre-teen girls, Tabitha is not a Britney Spears wannabe but a Monster Garage aficionado. You are now officially a god in her eyes. I'm sure that true wisdom will prevail when the hormones kick in."
Sebastian smoothed his tie with his hand and buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket. "Monster Garage? Auntie Laurie?"
"This way." Lauren motioned with her head for him to follow. "It's only going to get worse."
Lauren opened the front door and immediately heard Tabitha's less-than-dulcet tones. "Grammy, Pop Pop, Auntie Laurie's got a boyfriend."
Lauren glanced over her shoulder at Sebastian, who had noticeably blanched. "I told you."
"Tabitha, inside voice," came a soothing reminder from the kitchen in the back. And Lauren wondered why it hadn't occurred to her to suggest they stop at a bar and get a quick drink before coming. She also thought that Tabitha was probably right to shout, seeing as the Phillies baseball game on the television was turned up loud enough to drown out most civilized conversation.
Lauren slipped off her jacket and folded it over the newel post at the stair landing inside the door. She turned to the living room, where her father occupied his plaid recliner and her brother was hunched over the coffee table chowing down on Chex Mix.
"Hey, Dad." She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Her father, a gnome of a man with the kind of blond hair that goes white with age, patted her forearm but kept his attention on the game. She raised her head and acknowledged her brother. "Carl."
"Who bunts with nobody on and no outs? Tell me, who?" Carl asked, gazing up at Lauren and stopping with his hand halfway to his mouth. His eyes quickly took a sharp left at Sebastian. He raised an inquiring chin. And munched.
Sebastian shrugged. "Other than Ricky Henderson in his glory days, and Juan Pierre and Kenny Lofton today, I'd say very few."
At that, Lauren's father looked up. Carl swallowed.
Lauren stood up straight. "Dad, Carl, this is Sebastian Alberti, a colleague who's visiting from D.C. to work on a story with me. Sebastian, this is my father, George Jeffries, and my brother Carl."
George nodded. "Take off your jacket and tie and make yourself at home." He tipped his head at his son. "Make some room on the couch, Carl. And slow down on the nibbles. Your mother made a pot roast big enough to feed a Salvation Army gathering on Christmas Eve. Laurie, let your mother know there's an extra mouth to feed, and you can set a place at the table." He doled out the orders without missing the groundout to shortstop.
"I'm pleased to meet you, but really, I wouldn't want to impose on a family gathering," Sebastian said, attempting to back away gracefully. Sharks, fences, idiot managing editors and potential thieves—all these various sundries didn't seem to hold any terror. But the sight of one South Philly dad, and boy, did Sebastian look ready to hightail it in a hurry.
"Nonsense." George pointed to the couch. "You'll be doing me a favor. There is no way I can finish the pineapple upside-down cake myself, which would dearly sadden my wife, Alice. Sit."
Sebastian glanced at Lauren, who shrugged and made an I-told-you-so face. He shot back a you'll-pay-for-this stare. And succumbing to forces greater than he, Sebastian loosened his Zegna tie and faced the music. "As long as you're offering, I'd be mighty delighted."
Carl, his pale pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt stretched a little too tightly across his ample stomach, scooted down and passed Sebastian the bowl of party mix. Carl was an actuary who had left the old neighborhood and now lived in Kennett Square
with his ever-expanding family and waistline. A true upscale suburbanite, he could afford mass-marketed designer pastels. "Just try and leave me the peanuts, okay?" he said personably to Sebastian.
Lauren shook her head at this display of male bonding and escaped to the kitchen.
Tabitha was running around her baby brother, who sat in a high chair methodically dropping peas onto the floor. "I'm a shark and I'm going to eat you," she shouted, pointing to her new T-shirt with a large shark jaw stenciled on the front. The baby squealed and only mildly objected when a tall and tired-looking woman placed the new hat Lauren had bough
t on his head. It had multicolored tentacles flopping in all directions.
Lauren came over and kissed the baby on his slobbery cheek. "Like the look, Teddy—a baby Rasta in the family."
"Just don't give him any reggae CDs, okay? I've got him listening to these overpriced Mozart-for-babies CDs, which are supposed to instill a love of classical music, as well as higher SAT scores, and I don't want the kid corrupted." This was from Teddy's mother and Lauren's sister-in-law, Maureen.
Lauren liked Maureen, even if she did make silly purchases. Originally, Lauren's mother hadn't been keen on the marriage but as soon as the first baby was born, those worries went out the window. Besides, at five foot seven, Maureen was expanding the Jeffries gene pool to maximize the chances of having the next generation of family members top the five-foot-four mark.
"Tabitha, stop running around and exciting your brother," Maureen ordered calmly. Or was it with exhaustion? Lauren wondered. Maureen was already expecting her third child, and at four months, she was starting to show a little tummy.
"Play in the backyard," Lauren's mother suggested as she closed the oven door and stood up. "Maybe you can pick some dandelions to put in a juice glass."
Lauren's mother was one of those immensely sensible women. Standing five-foot in her Rockport walking shoes, Alice Jeffries styled—styled was somewhat of an overstatement—her dark blond-gray haircut in a wash-and-wear pageboy. Over her wraparound jean skirt and lime green, long-sleeved polo shirt she wore a white butcher's apron. Indeed, Alice Jeffries' father had been a butcher.
"Okay, Grammy." And Tabitha took her random energy out the door.
"So who's the dreamboat you brought home?" Maureen inquired none-too-subtly.
Lauren opened a cabinet and reached for a dinner plate. "He's not my dreamboat. He's a colleague. We're investigating a story together, and since he was from out of town and had nowhere to go tonight, he came along." It wasn't an outright lie. She pulled out a drawer under the counter and grabbed an extra knife, fork and spoon.
THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Page 10