The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  She could do exactly the same in a relationship with Ash.

  “If we’d met through Julie—maybe at a show of your work—all of this wouldn’t be so strange. Then again, if we’d met that way, you might not be interested.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Anyway, we didn’t.” She looked across to the window, still boarded up. “You’ve got a lot going on, Ash.”

  “More all the time. You didn’t push me out when you had the chance, so you’ve got the same.”

  “I’m the queen of multitasking. In a couple of days, I’ll have a view of the river, a little dog, orchids to tend and a personal gym that’ll either intimidate me or inspire me to exercise. I’ll still have a book to write, a blog, a present to buy for my mother’s birthday—which I think is going to be one of those little lemon trees because how cool would it be to grow your own lemons inside in Alaska? And I’ll still have what may be a stolen Imperial egg worth more than I can fathom to figure out, the low-grade anxiety that I may have a killer watching me and the puzzle of potentially really good sex with a man I met because he lost his brother.

  “That takes some juggling,” she decided. “So I’ll try to be nimble.”

  “You forgot the painting.”

  “Because it intimidates me more than the personal gym or the sex.”

  “Sex doesn’t intimidate you?”

  “I’m a girl, Ashton. Getting naked in front of a guy for the first time is monumentally intimidating.”

  “I’ll keep you distracted.”

  “That could be a plus.” She drew a tiny heart in the condensation on her glass of lemon water. “What are we going to do about the egg?”

  And so, he thought, the situation was back. “I’m going to show it to Oliver’s uncle—the one he worked for. If Vinnie can’t identify and verify, he’ll know someone who can.”

  “That’s a really good idea. Once he does . . . Because either way it’s valuable. Either reasonably valuable given the craftsmanship or scary valuable. So once he does, what are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to take it with me tomorrow, to the compound. The security there rivals the U.S. Mint. It’ll be safe while I deal with the rest.”

  “Deal with how?”

  “I’m working that out. Vinnie’s bound to know collectors—big collectors. Or again, know someone who does.”

  She had an excellent imagination, and put it to work trying to imagine someone with countless millions to indulge a hobby. She house-sat annually for a gay couple who collected antique doorknobs. And had house-sat over the winter for a twice-widowed woman who had a fascinating collection of erotic netsukes.

  But multiple millions? She’d have to work harder to imagine that. She needed a picture, she decided, a face, a background, even a name to give her a boost.

  “There has to be something about this client in his files, in his correspondence, somewhere.”

  “I’ll go through it.”

  “I can help with that. I can,” she said when he didn’t respond. “Sometimes clients pay me an additional fee to organize their home offices or paperwork while they’re away. In any case, she had to know. Oliver’s girlfriend, Sage, had to know about this. All those intense conversations,” Lila continued, staring at the boarded-up window, remembering. “All the arguments, the excitement, anxiety. I took them as personal relationship stuff, but now . . . It had to be about the egg, the client, what he, or they, were trying to pull off.”

  “She knew some,” Ash agreed, “but not enough. You said she was crying, pleading, terrified. I think if she’d known where Oliver stashed the egg, she’d have given it up.”

  “You’re probably right. She knew what it was, what he planned, but maybe not where he kept it. So she couldn’t tell, and he was out of it, so he couldn’t. Whoever killed them made a mistake, drugging him that way, assuming the woman would be the easier mark, would tell once she was scared or hurt enough.”

  She rose, picked up dishes. “You’ve got things to do, people to see.”

  He stood with her, took the dishes out of her hands, set them down again. Then closed his hands around her arms. “He’d have told her it was to protect her. ‘Listen, beautiful, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. I’m just looking out for you.’ Part of him would’ve believed it.”

  “Then it was partly true.”

  “He didn’t tell her because he didn’t trust her, and because he didn’t want her to have as much control as he did. His deal, his way. And she died for it.”

  “So did he, Ashton. Tell me this.” She closed her hands around his arms in turn—contact for contact. “If he could have, would he have told, would he have given it to this client to save her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let that be enough.” She rose to her toes, pressed her lips to his. Then found herself caught against him, sinking again, heart quivering as he took her under.

  “I could distract you now.”

  “No question about it. But.”

  He skimmed his hands down her arms. “But.”

  They went back in. She watched him set the leather box in the shopping bag, lay the tissue over it and the envelope, the money. “I need to leave tomorrow. There are some arrangements I have to finalize in person. Since I’m cornering you into the funeral, why don’t you see if Julie will come on Sunday, if you’d be more comfortable.”

  “It might be awkward for her and Luke.”

  “They’re grown-ups.”

  “A lot you know.”

  “Ask her. And text me the address where you’re staying next so I’ll have it. You said Upper East?”

  “That’s right. Tudor City.”

  He frowned. “That’s a haul from my loft. I’ll get a car service for you when we schedule sittings.”

  “Subways—you might have heard of them—run right through the city. So do cabs and buses. It’s a miracle of mass transit.”

  “I’ll get the car service. Do me a favor. Don’t go out again.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but—”

  “Good.” He picked up the bags, started for the door.

  “You should take a cab or a car rather than walk with that thing in that stupid bag. You should take an armored car.”

  “My armored car’s in the shop. I’ll see you in a couple days. Call Julie. Stay in.”

  Pretty free with the orders, she thought as he left. And he had a smooth and clever way of making them seem like favors or just good sense.

  “I ought to go run around the block a few times just for spite,” she told Thomas. “But it’s not worth it. Dishes, then book. And what the hell, I’ll call Julie.”

  Nine

  Ash chilled a tall glass. A brutally cold gin and tonic was Vinnie’s favorite summer drink, and since he was about to impose in a big way, the least he could provide was the man’s drink of choice.

  Vinnie hadn’t asked questions when Ash called. He’d just agreed to swing by after he closed the shop. Ash heard the sorrow in his voice, and the willingness to help, and knew he’d need to use both when he pulled Vinnie into the . . . situation.

  He was a good man, Ash thought as he surfed the Internet for more information on the egg. Happily married for nearly forty years, a canny businessman with an unerring eye for value, father of three, besotted grandfather of six. Or it might be seven by now.

  Have to check the spreadsheet.

  He’d taken Oliver on, knowing full well he was taking on the unreliable and capricious in his sister’s only son. But it had seemed to work. Everyone got along with Vinnie, that was true enough, but he expected—and received—good value from his employees.

  Whenever Ash had asked, Vinnie always said Oliver was doing well, was coming into his own, had a knack for the business and a way with the clients.

  His way with them, Ash thought now, might be the root of the problem.

  He sat back a moment, studied the egg. Where had it been, he wondered, this exq
uisite and whimsical gift created for Russian royalty? Who’d gazed upon it, run their fingers over its details?

  And who wanted it enough to kill for it?

  He pushed away from the computer at the sound of the buzzer.

  “Archer,” he said into the intercom.

  “Hey, Ash, it’s Vinnie.”

  “Come on in.” He released the locks, walked out of the sitting area and started down.

  Vinnie stood, leather briefcase in hand, his exceptional suit a subtle gray chalk-striped paired with a crisp white shirt—despite the heat and the workday—and a precisely knotted Hermès tie in bold paisley.

  His shoes carried a high gloss shine; his hair swept back in white wings from a tanned face set off with a neat, natty goatee.

  He looked, Ash always thought, more like one of his well-heeled clients than the man who bargained with them.

  He looked up as Ash came down. “Ash.” His voice still carried the Jersey of his boyhood. “A terrible time.” Setting his briefcase down, he embraced Ash in a hard bear hug. “How are you holding up?”

  “There’s a lot to do. It helps.”

  “Busy always does. What can I do? Olympia’s coming in tonight, but she’s going straight to the compound. She told me not to come until Sunday morning, but I think Angie and the kids will go up tomorrow.”

  “She and Angie have always been close.”

  “Like sisters,” Vinnie agreed. “She’d rather have Angie than me—than Nigel, when it comes to it. There must be something we can do for you, once we get there.”

  “Can you talk her out of the bagpipes?”

  He barked a short laugh. “Not in a hundred years. She’s convinced Oliver would want them. Do the police know any more?”

  “Not that they’re telling me.”

  “Who would do such a thing? Sage—they seemed to suit each other. I think they might have been happy together. I can only think it had to be a jealous ex. That’s what I told the police when they came to talk to me.”

  “Did she have one?”

  “A woman like that, with her looks, her lifestyle? She must have. Oliver never mentioned anyone, but she must have. But he was happy, that’s something we have to remember. The last few weeks, he was so energized. He talked about taking her on a trip. I think he planned to propose. He had that excited, anxious air about him a man gets when he’s about to take a major step.”

  “I think he planned a major step. I have something I want you to look at. Upstairs.”

  “Of course.”

  Ash led the way to the elevator. “Did he say anything to you about a deal he was making, a special client?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. He did some very good work the last few months. Very good work. He handled two estates, acquired some excellent pieces, some with specific clients in mind. He had a knack, the boy had a real knack for the business.”

  “So you’ve said. Let me fix you a drink.”

  “I wouldn’t turn one down. It’s been a hard few days. The shop . . . we’re all shaken. Everyone enjoyed Oliver, and bless him, he enjoyed everyone. Even when he infuriated you, you had to love him. You know how he was.”

  “I do.” Ash led Vinnie into the compact studio kitchen, took the chilled glass out of the cooler under the wet bar. “G and T, right?”

  “You know it. You’ve got a wonderful place here, Ash. You know, when you bought it, I thought, For God’s sake, why doesn’t the boy convert it into apartments and make some money off that real estate? I can’t help myself.”

  “Me, either.” Ash mixed the drink, added a twist of lime, then got himself a beer. “Live in a crowded, busy city—have plenty of quiet personal space. Best of both.”

  “You’ve got just that.” Vinnie tapped his glass to the bottle. “I’m proud of you. Did you know Sage bought one of your paintings? Oliver mentioned it.”

  “I saw it when I got his things. Most of his things. Come in here, will you, and tell me what you think of this.”

  He turned away from the studio, went across a hallway and into what he’d outfitted as his office.

  The egg stood on his desk.

  Vinnie had an exceptional poker face. As he’d lost to him more than once, Ash had a reason to know. But now, Vinnie’s face filled with the stunned delight of a rookie drawing four aces.

  “My God. My God.” Vinnie rushed toward it, dropped to his knees like a man paying homage.

  But Ash saw after a moment’s shock, Vinnie had simply gone down to eye level.

  “Where did you get this? Ashton? Where did you get this?”

  “What have I got?”

  “You don’t know?” Vinnie pushed himself up, circled the egg, leaned down to study it so closely his nose all but brushed the gold. “This is either Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot egg or the most magnificent reproduction I’ve ever seen.”

  “Can you tell which?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From a safe-deposit box, Oliver’s box. He sent me the key, and a note asking me to hold on to the key until he got in touch. He said he had a testy client to deal with, and a big deal in the works. I think he was in trouble, Vinnie. I think the trouble is sitting on my desk. I think what got him killed is sitting on my desk. Can you tell if it’s real?”

  Vinnie dropped into a chair, rubbed his hands over his face. “I should have known. I should have known. His energy, his excitement, the mix of anxiety. Not about the woman, but this. About this. I left my briefcase downstairs. I could use it.”

  “I’ll get it. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For bringing you into this.”

  “He was mine, too, Ash. My sister’s boy—her only boy. I taught him about things like this. About antiques, collections, their value. How to buy and sell them. Of course you called me.”

  “I’ll get your briefcase.”

  He’d known he’d add to the grief, Ash thought. A price paid. But family called to family first. He didn’t know another way.

  When he came back with the briefcase, Vinnie was standing over the egg, hunched over it, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose.

  “I’m always losing these things.” He took the glasses off, set them aside. “I can’t seem to keep a pair more than a month, if that. But I’ve had my jeweler’s loupe for twenty years.” He opened the briefcase.

  He took out thin white cotton gloves, pulled them on. He switched on the desk lamp, examined the egg through the loupe, inch by inch. He handled it with the care of a surgeon, peering at tiny mechanisms, brilliant stones.

  “I’ve acquired two eggs—not the Imperials, of course, but two lovely pieces circa 1900. I’ve been fortunate to see, even be permitted to examine, an Imperial egg owned by a private collector. This doesn’t make me a leading expert.”

  “You’re mine.”

  Vinnie smiled a little. “In my opinion—and that’s opinion—this is Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot, one of the eight missing Imperial eggs. There’s only one photograph of this egg, and that is a poor one, and there are some slightly conflicting descriptions. But the workmanship, the quality of material, the design . . . and it bears Perchin’s mark—Fabergé’s leading workmaster of that period. It’s unmistakable to me, but you’ll want a true expert opinion.”

  “He had documents. Most of them are in Russian.” Ash took them out of the envelope, handed them to Vinnie.

  “I couldn’t begin to translate these,” he said, once he’d glanced through them. “This certainly looks like a bill of sale, dated 1938, October fifteenth. And signatures. The price is in rubles. It looks like three thousand rubles. I’m not sure of the exchange rate in 1938, but I’d say someone got a serious bargain.”

  He sat again. “I know someone who can translate the paperwork.”