by Amy Meyerson
He reaches into his back pocket for his society identification card and says something to Rich in German. Rich snipes back. Beck tries to decide if she’s irritated or charmed—she doesn’t need a knight in shining armor, cute as this knight may be.
When he gives her the books, he says, “They’re due back in a month. Maybe you should give me your number—you know, just in case I have to track you down.”
“Well, if it’s just to track me down...”
He hands Beck a pen and holds out his palm for her to write her number. It’s something she would have done in high school, something she can’t believe she’s doing now, at thirty-five. His hand is soft, and she fights the urge to rub her cheek against it. Instead, she wraps her fingers around his, closing his fist and locking her number inside. “It’s probably best if you give me your number, too. In case I need to renew the books or something.”
This comes out clumsy. Beck can feel herself blushing. The dimples in his cheeks deepen as he reaches into his pocket and produces a business card that reads Christian Fischer, PhD Candidate and Translator.
As she begins to walk out of the reading room, he calls to her, “I’m Christian.”
“I know—it’s on your card.” She turns back and smiles, deciding she’s indeed charmed. “I’m Beck.”
* * *
Beck walks into her building to find Tom standing in the hall outside their apartment, his sports coat draped over his arm. Her apartment. Soon to be someone else’s. Beck struggles to decipher what his presence means, especially given the frustration on his face.
“You didn’t return any of my calls.”
Beck reaches into her purse for her phone and sees that she has six missed calls from work. She shrugs as she brushes past him to unlock her door. “I was busy.”
She doesn’t invite him inside, but he follows her into the apartment, anyway.
“Besides, what’s it to you? We aren’t working on any cases together right now. It’s none of your business if I take the day off.” Beck hangs her purse on the coatrack, wondering if he’ll follow her into the kitchen as she opens a bottle of wine.
“You didn’t take the day off. You just never showed up. Karen was worried. I was worried.” Tom hangs his sports coat beside her bag, like he used to when he lived here.
“I don’t need you to worry about me,” she says as she disappears into the kitchen.
“My apologies for not wanting you to get fired.” Tom sits on the couch with his tie loose, his top two buttons undone, his posture insisting that he’s not leaving until she tells him what’s going on.
Beck dawdles in the kitchen as she opens a bottle of wine, trying to decide whether she wants him to stay, if she should try to get rid of him. It isn’t one of the expensive bottles Tom left. She finished those months ago. When she returns to the living room with two glasses and the cheap bottle, she waits for a snide remark, but he takes it obediently.
“I told Karen you were doing research for me. Please don’t make me regret covering for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to cover for me.”
“Jesus, Beck. What the hell is going on? This is shady, even for you.”
When they dated, Beck and Tom didn’t fight. They had the same neurotically clean living style, no major life changes to navigate. Now, Beck can see that if the fighting had begun, they weren’t equipped for it. She was too defensive. He was too self-righteous.
She must be making a wounded face because he immediately looks remorseful. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just... I know Helen’s death is hard on you, but your performance at work is lacking. People are starting to notice.”
“The FBI were here this morning,” Beck admits. She’s still not sure she wants to discuss this with Tom, but she needs to defend herself against his accusations on her performance, and she’s too tired to lie. “About Helen’s brooch.”
Tom sips his wine as Beck fills him in on everything she knows about the Florentine Diamond.
“So you have no idea how Helen had the diamond?”
“Not even a guess.”
Tom reaches for the bottle and pours himself another glass. His legs spread apart as he leans back.
“It’s probably a civil forfeiture,” Tom decides. “I’ll call my friend at the Justice Department tomorrow.”
“A civil forfeiture? Like in possession cases?”
“If the government knows a property was involved in a crime but doesn’t know who committed the crime, they can seize it, hold on to it until the court determines who it rightly belongs to. It happens with cultural property cases all the time—old coins, paintings, all types of artifacts. You’ll get a notice of the complaint, then you can file a claim and answer arguing that it belongs to you.”
“Do you think the Italians alerted the feds?”
“Who knows. Whoever did, they must think they have a legitimate claim to the diamond.”
“More legitimate than mine.” Beck turns away to the corner of the room where Tom used to keep his softball equipment. Tom follows her gaze to the empty corner.
They watch each other until Tom reaches out and tucks a loose piece of hair behind her right ear. As he inches closer, she wants to tell him to stop. When his breath grazes her lips, she cannot find her voice. Her resolve. She shifts toward him until their lips meet and soon they are kissing with more desperation than they ever had before. Tom has always been a measured lover, asking if she’s okay so much that she struggles to stay in the moment.
Today, he asks her nothing. He removes his tie, unbuttons his shirt, and pulls off his undershirt, stained with dried sweat. She’s forgotten how smooth his chest is, how strong. He holds his body a few inches above hers and searches her face. She waits for him to ask if this is okay, but desire overwhelms him and he pulls her up to undress her. Skin on skin, their bodies meld. It feels less familiar than it should. Already, he has become someone new. But so has she. She pushes him off her and mounts him. This time, it will be on her terms.
Eleven
Each evening, Beck checks the mailbox for the notice from the government stating that it has filed its complaint against the Florentine Diamond, even though Tom has told her it can take up to ninety days. She should be thankful for the extra time before the forfeiture case begins. Instead, she’s anxious, her patience waning. She hates not knowing what’s going to happen.
On the thirteenth day of waiting, she forgets temporarily about the notice. It’s a consuming day at work. One of the new associates misses a deadline on discovery and tries to blame it on Beck. It isn’t her fault, but it’s easier to just apologize and fix his mistake. Besides, the partner on the case knows that Beck would never miss a court deadline. When he thanks Beck, it’s obvious the partner understands the situation. This only angers the new associate, and he tells her she better not leave until it’s resolved. The afternoon continues tensely until seven when Beck has finally finished. As she’s hurrying toward the elevator, she passes Tom.
“Hey,” he says, planting himself in the middle of the hall so she cannot avoid him. “Working late?”
“Yup.” Beck tries to squeeze past him. They haven’t talked about that night two weeks ago. After they’d finished, they sat back on the couch, panting. It was the best sex they’d had, which made Beck realize how dissatisfying their relationship had been. Tom sighed, satiated, and it disgusted her. The smugness. The assumption that he could sit there for as long as he wanted. Beck found his pants and tossed them to him, saying, “I’ve got a busy morning tomorrow.”
He’d caught his pants, stunned, searching for the right words. “Beck, I—”
“I appreciate you stopping by.”
Tom nodded sheepishly and dressed. He probably assumed that she was conflicted over what had happened because she was still in love with him. Normally, this would bother her, but as he darted out, she found she didn�
��t care what he thought.
“Sorry about Steve,” Tom says, still blocking the hall to the elevator. He means the new associate, who gave her a hard time about the deadline. “He’s a dick.”
“He’s a lawyer,” Beck teases, and Tom laughs too hard. The tension is palpable. They are the only ones in the office and Beck fears he might kiss her.
“Want to grab a drink?” he asks.
“I need to get home. It’s been a long day.”
He continues to block the hallway, and Beck can feel herself growing irritated. “Any updates on the complaint?”
Beck shakes her head no.
“Get ready,” Tom says, awkwardly squeezing her shoulder before heading back to his office.
On the bus, Beck replays their brief encounter in the hall, pleased at how indifferent she was. It wasn’t an act. She really is over him. As she gets off at her stop and walks toward her apartment, her mind drifts to Christian, the blond boy from the German Society. He hasn’t called her, which surprises her. He’d been so forward. Then again, she hasn’t called him, either.
On her stoop, three men dressed sloppily in shorts and T-shirts are discussing the Phillies’ pitching staff. She’s about to tell them that it’s private property when they stand and ask her if she’s Rebecca Miller.
Before she can answer, their questions bombard her.
“Ms. Miller, can you tell us about the diamond you found in your grandmother’s possessions?”
“Do you know how your grandmother acquired the Florentine Diamond?”
“Is your grandmother a thief?”
“Ms. Miller, how do you feel about your grandmother being one of the world’s most elusive jewelry thieves?”
Beck pushes past them and heads inside, checking her mailbox. She’s distracted, focused on the three men on her stoop and what they called Helen—a thief. It’s their job, this line of inquiry, and she doesn’t fault them for it. But Helen was not a thief. Even if Helen didn’t come by the diamond honestly, she didn’t steal it.
Her attention refocuses when she spots a letter from the government. The notice. That must be how the reporters found out, since it’s also published online. Beck slides her finger beneath the adhesive and removes the paper from the envelope.
EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA
137.27-carat yellow diamond, valued at $3,000,000, seized by the FBI on May 17 from Rebecca Miller in Philadelphia, PA, for forfeiture pursuant to 18 USC 2254.
Along with a copy of the public notice of the forfeiture, the government has included a copy of the complaint filed with the court. The civil forfeiture case now has a name: United States of America v. One 137.27-Carat Yellow Diamond Known as the Florentine Diamond. The details in the complaint surprise Beck. She was expecting to read about a Medici heirloom, belonging to the Italian government. Instead, the complaint mentions the Austrian crown jewels, that the diamond is the national patrimony of Austria, taken unlawfully to the United States. That means the Austrians, not the Italians, alerted the US government to the diamond’s whereabouts. Beck curses Ashley and her fair-weathered friend, Georgina. If only her sister had been as tightlipped about the diamond as she had her husband’s indiscretions, the FBI might not have seized the diamond.
Not that the FBI physically seized the diamond. It’s still in the safe-deposit box at Federalist Bank. It constructively seized it. When Tom called his contact at the Department of Justice, he’d convinced the DOJ to have the bank change the lock on the box and leave the diamond in the vault. Generally, third-party custodians are a bad idea because they end up spending seized money or running away with it, but this is one of the most reputable banks in America. Besides, it’s not like the US Marshall Service wants a historic diamond in its possession.
The first thing Beck does is file a claim and answer. She does not need a lawyer for this. It’s simple enough.
Claim: The 137.27-carat diamond seized by the federal government belongs to me because I inherited it from my grandmother.
Answer: The government’s contention that the diamond was illegally taken from Austria is inaccurate because it never belonged to the Austrian government.
Even if it was an Austrian heirloom, that didn’t necessarily make it the property of Austria’s government. It belonged to the Habsburg Empire, which disbanded. It was debatable whether the diamond subsequently should have been handed over to the first Austrian Republic that rose in its wake. The new government had established a law, mandating all crown property be transferred to the state. But the republic only lasted fifteen years before it was overtaken by fascist leaders, then the Nazis. There’s no reason to assume it belongs to the current government. It’s the best answer she can come up with, even if it doesn’t assert the diamond is hers. For that, she needs more proof. So, she revisits the only viable leads she has, as unpromising as they may be.
Any luck with that maker’s mark? she writes to Viktor.
My dear, desperation doesn’t suit you.
Embarrassed, she drafts and erases several texts until he writes her again. I’m teasing. It’s tedious. But I’ll find it.
If Viktor is finding her desperate, Peter Winkler, a total stranger, must think she’s a complete lunatic. Still, she writes him again, vowing to herself that if he doesn’t respond this time, she’ll give up the fruitless quest. Besides, his father’s personal Habsburg collection is a long shot at best. Probably just a shoebox of double-headed eagle pins, newspaper clippings, and vanity interviews with the last empress.
With or without the memorabilia, she does have Kurt Winkler’s books detailing the fall of the empire, the royal family in exile. They could contain a clue about what happened to the diamond. And she has Christian’s business card in her wallet, which lists his services as a translator. She needed to hire a translator, anyway, and it may as well be one with dimples and crisp blue eyes. She dials his number, growing tense as she waits for him to pick up.
He answers like he was expecting her call. It puts her off guard, so she awkwardly dispenses with any small talk and launches into her offer to have him translate the books.
“How soon do you need them?” Christian asks.
“Like yesterday.”
She waits for him to ask why, uncertain whether she’ll tell him the truth.
“Let’s meet for a drink tonight, and you can give me the books. We’ll go over the table of contents to see what’s most important. If it’s only a few chapters and you don’t care about things like typos, I can get it to you in a couple of weeks.”
“Typos are fine.” She cringes. Beck cares deeply about things like typos.
“It’s a date,” Christian says, and Beck feels a flurry of excitement until she remembers the journalists outside. She’ll have to walk past them to meet Christian. She’ll have to hear them call Helen a thief. But she has to see Christian, she tells herself. Right now, the books are the only lead she has.
* * *
Jake rattles the box of chocolates as he sits in the lobby of the Reseda retirement home, waiting for Mr. Frankel. Jake has no idea if Mr. Frankel is lucid and, if he is, how much he remembers from his trip to America. He was only eight when he came over on the SS President Harding. But Jake suspects that being relocated to a new country isn’t something you forget, regardless of age.
Restless, he grabs a brochure from the table beside him, reading about the Jewish assisted living community. Jake peers down at the chocolates in his lap. They are not kosher. He debates hiding them under the chair when he spots a nurse helping a man with a walker toward the lobby. He’s dressed, like old people often are, in clothes too heavy for the warm weather. The man beams at him, and Jake can tell that Mr. Frankel wouldn’t care if Jake had brought bacon, he’s so happy to have a visitor. This hits Jake with a different sort of guilt. He didn’t lie to the nurse about why he wanted to see Mr. Frankel; he didn’t divulge any spe
cifics, either.
The nurse suggests Jake take Mr. Frankel to the rose garden, which Mr. Frankel tells him blooms year-round. “I don’t know how they do it. My roses were always dormant, even in summer. Somehow—” Mr. Frankel leans against the walker and uses his free hand to gesture across the expanse of yellow, white, pink, and red petals “—it’s always a sea of colors here. Are those for me?” Mr. Frankel eyes the box of chocolates Jake is holding.
“They aren’t kosher.”
“Won’t have to share them with the others, then.”
They find a bench and Jake helps Mr. Frankel rip the plastic off the box. Mr. Frankel scans the chocolates, debating which one to eat first.
“So, my boy, tell me about yourself,” Mr. Frankel says.
“I’m a screenwriter.” Jake can’t remember the last time he introduced himself this way. “Don’t worry, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why not? We’d make a good TV show. Half the home is old Hollywood.”
“Did you work in the industry?”
Mr. Frankel bites down on a square chocolate, caramel oozing down his chin. “I was a dentist.” He wipes the caramel, then licks his fingers. “So, I imagine there’s a reason you came to see me, other than to hear about my dental career.”
“I think you knew my grandmother, Helen Auerbach.”
Mr. Frankel searches his memory for the name, and just before he comes up empty, Jake adds, “From Vienna?”
“I haven’t heard that name in a long time.” He sighs dramatically. “We were very lucky. Although it didn’t always feel that way. I was glad to have my sister with me. I don’t know how the others did it, coming alone.”
Mr. Frankel reaches into his back pocket for his handkerchief. Jake worries he’s about to cry, but the old man uses it to wipe sweat from his brow. “What did Helen tell you about our journey?”
A journey, like it was an adventure. That was probably how the Goldsteins and the children’s parents presented it to them.