Dr. Trent observed the calm way Abby's father took in the discussion. “What do you say, Douglas? Do you believe it to be in the best interests of the Smithsonian Institution for Abby to wear the Hope Diamond during her presentation?”
Douglas nodded, contemplating the question. “We have yet to discuss what those interests may be, Secretary Trent.”
Board members murmured agreement.
“Fantastic point. We have set two goals for this event. The first is to raise publicity for the Museum of Natural History, and the second is to raise money to fund our ongoing programs. We are funded, in large part, by Congress, but we must raise additional monies to further the reach of our initiative. This event will do that.”
“And do you believe you will raise more money if my daughter wears the diamond?” Douglas asked.
“I do.”
“Why is that?”
“Because when the jewel is taken out of its case, it instantly propels this event to a new level. Our patrons have deep pockets but short attention spans. If we can capture their imaginations, we will meet our financial goals.”
“I agree that your bottom line would certainly be inflated, but I'm not sure the security risks are worth that potential.”
Dr. Trent nodded in agreement. “That is a concern that has not escaped our attention. We are working closely with the security experts at Diebold International, as well as our in-house team. I have reviewed the security manifest, and I feel certain the measures we have in place will be more than adequate.”
“Adequate measures are not sufficient, Dr. Trent.” Elizabeth Baker said, her voice short and clipped.
Peter held up a hand. “Mr. Mitchell has the floor, Madam Senator.”
Douglas Mitchell pressed back into his chair, deep in thought. “I can tell you that I trust my daughter,” he said. “And that I know her to be more than capable of delivering what you expect of her. If you can give the committee assurance that you have this event under control, then I will gladly give you my vote.”
“You have my full assurance, Mr. Mitchell, and I look forward to Abby's presentation. Now, for the official record, can I get a verbal count on this agenda?”
Dr. Trent's proposal was approved by a margin of four to three, the tie breaker being Abby's own father.
After attending to a handful of business affairs in her office, Abby spent the remainder of the day with the event staff at the National Museum of Natural History. The only space large enough to host a fully catered meal for three hundred and fifty people was the Rotunda, best known to museum goers for the giant taxidermied Great African Bush Elephant on display in the middle of the room. Originally, Abby attempted to find a way to hide the massive pachyderm, but as her plans solidified, she realized it provided the exact centerpiece she needed for her presentation.
The event planning staff from Experiences Unlimited was already at work draping red, blue, and green silk along the walls and around the columns. Thirty-five round tables, were stacked in piles along the wall, each capable of accommodating ten guests. As soon as Abby verified the seating placements, staff members would arrange and set the tables.
“Is it just me or does it seem like two days prior is a bit early to begin setting up for this event?” Jacqueline Dupree, owner of Experiences Unlimited asked.
She and Abby stood beneath the four-story Rotunda, craning their necks to see the elaborate stone medallion that embellished its peak.
“Typically, yes,” Abby said, “but this fund-raiser is unique. We've had to jump through endless hoops to make it happen. In this case, forty-eight hours may not be enough time.”
“I understand that you had to close off this entire wing of the museum?”
“We did. And that was no small undertaking, let me tell you. It was a matter of securing the perimeter.”
“I can't imagine,” Jacqueline said. “But it looks as though things are coming together beautifully, wouldn't you say?”
Abby surveyed the Rotunda, pride swelling for the first time. Over the next two days, lighting specialists would create a state-of-the-art visual display that would transform the Beaux-Arts style structure into something reminiscent of sixteenth-century India. She was about to answer Jacqueline's question when her phone rang.
“Do you need to get that?”
Abby looked at the display and saw Alex's name for the third time that day. “No,” she said, smiling sadly at Jacqueline. “This is the last thing I need.”
Alex snapped his phone shut after leaving Abby a second message. He pulled his Mercedes to a stop before the Department of Motor Vehicles. Images of the silver BMW rolled through his mind, and he stiffened with an unfamiliar sense of worry. Wülf tailed him on more than one occasion while he was with Abby, and now, in the wake of her prolonged silence, he grew uneasy. Just as he pondered tracking her down, his phone buzzed, indicating a text message.
He read Abby's text with a scowl: “I'm buried at work. See you on Saturday.”
This is a problem, he thought.
But he had other business to attend to. Alex Weld entered the DMV building and picked his target carefully. There were three women behind the counter, but only one of them looked lonely. He chose her line despite the fact that it was the longest.
The name plate read Myra Spencer. She was short, just over five feet, and a little on the heavy side. Divorced most likely. A single mother. At least two children. This should be easy.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her tired eyes glanced at him from behind her computer screen.
“Most likely not.”
“Excuse me?”
He smiled, easy, comfortable.
Myra Spencer blushed and tucked an unruly clump of hair behind her ears.
Alex straightened the nameplate. “You see, Myra, you aren't actually allowed to tell me what I want to know.”
The sound of her name on his lips caused a flush of fresh color across her cheeks. “How is that exactly?” she stammered.
He leaned across the counter, voice low, and eyes steady. “I need a name.”
“What kind of name?”
Alex grabbed a pen and scratched down the license plate number of the silver BMW that he had committed to memory. “I need to know who this car is registered to.”
Myra took the paper. “I can't do that, sir.”
He smiled again, devilish. “That's just what I said a moment ago. You can't help me.”
The look on her face said that she would very much like to. “I'm sorry. I can't.”
“Pity,” he whispered. “I had my hopes pinned on you, Myra.”
She fingered the paper and tapped her front teeth together. Both of her co-workers were helping other people, oblivious to their conversation. She cast furtive glances in both directions. “You just need a name?”
“Nothing else. No address. And I'll tell you what, Myra,” he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I don't even need a first name.”
Her fingers flew across the keyboard and she licked her lips.
“I can't do any harm with a last name can I?” Alex smiled.
She giggled nervously. “I suppose not.” Myra Spencer found what she was looking for and scratched the name on a piece of paper. She slid it across the counter, doing her best to touch Alex's hand in the process.
He graced her with a final mischievous glance as he took the paper. Alex Weld read the name written in spidery handwriting, and the blood drained from his face.
18
ABBY FORCED HER WAY THROUGH A BOWL OF COLD CEREAL FRIDAY morning, trying to forget the breakfast date with her father that never happened. She stood over the kitchen sink chewing stale corn flakes and battling a desire to crawl back into bed.
The last few weeks had been filled with so much activity that the silence of a lonely morning was distracting. Abby regretted sending Alex the text last night, but he would know by the look on her face that something was wrong, and she didn't have the emotional reserves to explain the dysfunctional state of
affairs with her dad. She dumped the remainder of her breakfast down the disposal.
Abby gathered her things and headed for the door. Just as she pulled it open, her phone rang. She hesitated, fearing it was Alex, but saw Dow's number on the caller ID.
“How was breakfast?” he asked the moment the receiver touched her ear.
Abby winced. “There was no breakfast.”
“What do you mean? I thought—”
“He canceled by email.”
“No phone call?”
“Of course not. Phone calls are too—”
“Personal,” Dow said.
She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to shed another tear on her father's behalf. “It's my fault really. I should know better. You tried to warn me.”
There was silence on the other end for a moment and then, “Why didn't you tell me?” His voice was gentle.
“I didn't want you to feel sorry for me.”
“You did nothing wrong, Abby. This is just the way he is … the way he's always been.”
“Small comfort when I'm the one caught in the crosshairs.”
Dow sighed, and Abby knew he was searching for words that would make it better. She loved him for trying. “Are you hungry?” he finally asked. “Can I take you out for breakfast?”
She turned her back on the kitchen where her dirty cereal bowl lay in the bottom of the sink. “That's okay. I've eaten.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Besides, I need to get to work. I have a few last-minute details to take care of at the Rotunda, and then I need to pick up my dress.”
“Abby,” he said, his voice wavering with reserve.
“Don't say it, Dow.”
“I think we need to reconsider this whole thing.”
“No,” she shook her head. “No, we don't.”
“You're not ready.”
She pressed her thumb into her right temple, but her voice stayed remarkably calm. “I have to.”
“We can find another way.”
“There is no other way, Dow. You know that. We need this.”
“I don't know.”
“I can do it. I'll be fine.”
He relented. “We love you, sweetie. You know that, right?”
“I do,” she said. A smile warmed her face for the first time that morning. “I have to go.”
“Okay, we'll see you tomorrow night.”
Abby set the phone on its cradle and left for work, her will braced with new resolve.
The apartment was stripped bare, except for a leather couch, glass coffee table, and a suitcase. Alex glanced around the small penthouse. Empty. Lonely, even. He filtered the thoughts through an established order of habit. Leaving. This is what he did.
On the coffee table beside his laptop lay a small black notebook. He opened the laptop and began typing the first of 520 lines. Date. Name. Location. Fee. And object. In that order. He spaced down twice and typed the next line of barely legible handwriting. It took him three hours, but he didn't stop until he was finished.
Alex saved the document to a flash drive and tucked it into his wallet. Then he took the small black notebook to the kitchen, turned on the gas burner of his Viking range for the first time, and dipped it into the blue flame. He waited until it was ablaze and then set it in the sink. When only ashes remained, Alex turned on the water and washed the debris down the drain.
Abby popped into her office long enough to check her voice mail and see if there were any emails that needed a quick reply. She hadn't been there more than two minutes when Peter Trent stuck his head in the door, grinning from ear to ear.
“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.
She tucked her phone between her chin and her shoulder. “At the Rotunda with the event coordinator.”
“I should have called your cell phone.”
“Why? What's up?”
Dr. Trent smiled. “I met with the Board of Regents yesterday to discuss you wearing the Hope Diamond.”
The phone slipped from her grasp, and Abby scrambled to catch it before it fell to the floor. “And?”
“It was a tight vote, but they approved.” He beamed, pleased with himself. “Oh, and your father was a real lifesaver.”
Sudden nausea rose in her throat. “My what?”
“Your dad,” he said casually. “It came down to a tie breaker, and he cast the deciding vote. He wants you to wear the diamond. Isn't that great?”
“Of course,” she said, short of breath. “He's on the board.”
“Yes, he has been for … what … fifteen years?”
“Twenty,” she whispered, her mouth dry and her mind clouded. “The board met yesterday?”
“Yesterday morning. Removing the diamond from its case requires board approval. I tried to get in touch with you all day so I could tell you the great news. Of course, Daniel Wallace will get his boxers in a knot, but it looks as though this little idea of mine is going to work!”
“Great,” she said, her voice small and weak.
“I'll let you get back to work. I know you've got a lot to do.”
Peter Trent left her alone with the crushing knowledge that her father was in town for at least one full day without making any attempt to see her, or even talk to her for that matter. Abby Mitchell sank into her chair but she didn't cry. Instead, she welcomed the rage that consumed her.
“Dow!” DeDe called from their bedroom, her head buried inside the closet.
“Yes, dear.”
“Where are my diamond earrings? I can't find them.” A slight panic pressed beneath her ribs.
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean you don't know? I have to find them.” DeDe crawled farther into the closet, turning over shoe boxes and baskets.
Dow walked into the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. “DeDe?”
“Abby needs them.” Her voice was frantic as clothes flew over her shoulder. “And I just saw them a couple of days ago. I don't know what I'll do if I've lost them. How could I have been so stupid?”
“DeDe,” he said again, but she ignored him.
“Don't just stand there. Help me look!”
“DeDe!” he snapped. “Will you just turn around for one second?”
She faced her husband, ready to give him a verbal lashing, and saw the long flat velvet box in his hands. “You found them.” She breathed in relief.
“Right where you left them.”
She shook her head. “In the safe?”
He nodded. “In the safe.”
DeDe reached for the box with shaking hands, but he took a step back. “Why don't you let me take care of these?”
She nodded, relieved. “Probably best.”
Isaac grabbed the package from the delivery man and took it immediately to his office. There was no return address, but the postage mark indicated it had been sent Priority International Overnight from Saint-Tropez, France.
He exhaled slowly as he took a letter opener and cut open the seams. Inside was a black leather box containing a new passport with an origin of issue indicating Portugal, a birth certificate, driver's license, and four credit cards, all with unlimited balances. Beneath the papers lay a small device, no larger than a laptop battery. Such devices were hard to come by and cost a king's ransom. A rare smile spread across his face. “Now that was worth every penny.”
19
ABBY STOOD BEFORE THE MIRROR IN HER BEDROOM, SLIGHTLY EMBARRASSED but also pleasantly surprised at her own reflection. The floor-length black dress had little ornamentation, but given her choice of jewelry for the evening, it hardly needed any. The strapless gown hugged her tightly at the waist where the gauzy fabric then flowed out in almost liquid form as she moved.
She increased her already substantial height by another three inches with a pair of strappy black heels. Abby's hair was swept upward, pinned, and tucked into a series of soft, loopy curls. At the last moment she had decided to invest the time and money to have her makeup done, and the woman
at the salon did wonders with a series of creams and powders she didn't know even existed. Her dark brown eyes looked sultry instead of swollen—smoky and playful.
Her cheeks colored slightly as she took in the swath of bare skin across her arms and shoulders. It was hardly inappropriate or overly revealing, yet she couldn't help but feel there was nothing sexier than bare skin.
Abby turned around to see the full effect in the mirror. She pulled at a bare earlobe, feeling somewhat naked without DeDe's earrings.
The buzzer rang, announcing Alex's arrival. Abby took a deep breath, grabbed her purse from the bed, and went to let him in, her heels clapping on the bare wood floors. She pulled the door open; her smile stretched ear to ear.
Alex gazed at her with mouth open, but said nothing.
“Well, hello to you too,” she said.
“You look … I mean … wow.”
She pulled him into the apartment. In his hand he held a single white rose.
“For me?” she asked.
“I missed you,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her ear.
Abby ran a finger across Alex's cheek and pulled his face to hers. She kissed him, melting into the warmth of his lips.
He pulled back, blue eyes ablaze. “What was that for?”
“It's been three days.”
Isaac lay flat on the roof as he watched the crowd of people stream into the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History. The Rotunda began filling up half an hour earlier as those Washington socialites unconcerned with arriving fashionably late trickled in. Below him, security guards checked each guest against the invitation list before they entered.
Night had fallen over the city an hour earlier, and as soon as the sun set, Isaac pulled his Mercedes into the parking garage at Union Station on the east end of the National Mall near the Capitol Building. Then he took the Metro to the Smithsonian Station, emerging on Constitution Avenue.
An observer outside the museum would have noticed nothing unusual about the well-dressed businessman in suit and tie who carried a briefcase.
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