The Stolen Chalicel (12 page)

“You’re right. It’s
their
problem.”

“I think the attack helped a little. It’s a diversion. The reporters will be busy uptown. Nobody is going to notice when I leave this morning.”

“Good,” said Moustaffa, softening his tone. “You’re right. Fly, my little bird. Catch the desert wind and fly.”

Balthazar Restaurant, Soho, New York

T
IPPER
V
ER
P
LANCK SAT
in the booth and sipped a Bloody Mary very slowly. The crowded downtown bistro was filled with the usual mix of fashionable artists, designers, and filmmakers. Conrad sat across from her, his expression supercilious as he surveyed the menu. Before his movie success he had cheerfully lived on a low-rent diet of hot dogs and pizza, but now that he was a recognized director nothing was ever good enough.

She didn’t want to talk to Conrad right now. There was too much on her mind, after what had happened that morning at breakfast.

She had eaten her morning meal with Ted at their apartment on Fifth Avenue. Her husband had consumed his habitual three-minute egg, half a grapefruit, and one slice of brown toast with English marmalade. Initially, he had acted as if nothing had happened. But then, in the most chilling tone, he had asked her to please come with him to the living room. She had gathered up the folds of her cashmere robe and followed him down the hallway.

VerPlanck sat on the couch and patted the seat cushion for her to join him. She had no idea what he was doing. Sitting side by side, they looked mutely out at the room. After a long pause, he spoke.

“Do you notice anything amiss, Tipper?”

She looked around. Not one item was out of place. The antique furniture was polished to a gorgeous patina and books were perfectly placed on the coffee table. Wood for the fireplace was laid in a chevron
pattern on the hearth. Even the orchids were in full bloom. The living room could have been photographed for a decorating magazine.

“No,” she said.

He closed his eyes in a display of patience, exhaled slowly, and turned to her.

“Try
harder
.”

“Stop playing games, Ted. What do you want me to
say
?” she snapped. Her head was throbbing.

“My cup is gone.”

“
O-K.
You don’t have to carry on. If you want Consuela to bring you another coffee, I’ll ring for it.”

He looked at her as if she were insane.

“No, not my
coffee
cup. My
Sardonyx Cup,
” he said, pointing across the room.

She looked at the wall niche. The pedestal was empty.

“I see,” she said.

There was silence. What did he want
her
to do about it? Then she suddenly remembered Charlie Hannifin’s little proposal about stealing Ted’s art. She flushed bright red.
Could Charlie have stolen it?

“I’m . . . so sorry . . .” she stammered.

He took her distress for sympathy.

“I know, it’s awful,” he said confidentially. “Listen to me, Tipper, we can’t tell
anyone
.”

“If you say so,” she said, not really comprehending.

“I’m going to make private inquiries. I don’t want the police involved.”

She nodded, relieved that he seemed to require no real response from her.

“That is all,” he said.

She got up to leave.

“Tipper,” he said gravely. “I am doing this for you. To protect you. If we have one more disaster, the press will use it as an excuse to start hounding you again. They’d never leave you alone.”

Her heart lurched. She didn’t dare answer. The guilt was overwhelming.
He was protecting her.

“Thank you, Ted,” she managed to say, chastened.

Across from her Conrad was talking to the waiter about his order. She took another sip of the Bloody Mary and felt the vodka kick in. Oh yes, that was much better. To hell with Ted and his stupid cup!

Tipper smiled at Conrad, slid her hand under the table, and squeezed his knee. He was such a handsome man, especially with that silk shirt half-opened on his chest. It wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all.

Time Warner Center,
One Columbus Circle, New York

S
INCLAIR AND
C
ORDELIA
walked into Ted VerPlanck’s glass-walled office. His shipping firm was global in scope, one of the top freight-moving operations in Asia and Europe. His offices reflected enormous wealth, the decor very stylish, with chrome and black leather Italian-designed furniture—clearly the private fiefdom of a powerful man.

“How good of you to come so quickly,” VerPlanck said as he shook Sinclair’s hand.

“How are you, Ted?” Sinclair greeted him. “Jim Gardiner said you needed to meet right away.”

“Yes, it’s urgent.” VerPlanck stared distractedly at Cordelia.

“May I present Cordelia Stapleton?” Sinclair said.

VerPlanck looked closely at her, hesitating.

“Aren’t you the young woman I met last night?”

“Yes, and thank you again for everything.”

“It was my pleasure.” VerPlanck smiled. “I had no idea you were looking for my old friend John Sinclair.”

“I guess I never mentioned his name.”

Cordelia turned to Sinclair to explain. “Mr. VerPlanck was kind enough to escort me out of the museum when they evacuated it last night.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I got separated from Delia.”

“Have you heard anything further about what happened?” Cordelia asked.

“Nothing concrete,” VerPlanck answered. “The investigation is not complete. Please, please have a seat.”

Cordelia took her place in one of the modern leather chairs, but her attention was drawn to the scene below—an unimpeded vista of Columbus Circle from the fifth-floor window. Yellow taxis swirled around the traffic circle like bees. A statue of Christopher Columbus stood atop a column, his head cocked to the side, a hand on his hip. Beyond the intersection were eight hundred acres of green trees.

“What an incredible view of Central Park!” Cordelia exclaimed.

“Yes, one forgets how big it is until you see it from above,” VerPlanck remarked.

“Is that the Metropolitan Museum over there on the far side?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, you can see the roofline of my apartment, right there,” VerPlanck pointed out. “It’s the one with three chimneys.”

“Jim Gardiner told me about the theft. I still can’t believe someone robbed you,” Sinclair said, taking a seat across from VerPlanck.

“It hardly seems real, even today,” VerPlanck said. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“Certainly, but why me?” Sinclair asked.

“I’m sure Jim Gardiner told you; I don’t want the police involved.”

“Why not?” Cordelia chimed in.

“The publicity.”

“Certainly the press would be sympathetic,” Sinclair insisted.

“I don’t want to draw attention to my art holdings. I prefer to recover the cup through private means.”

Ted VerPlanck leaned back, his long frame draped over his chair. “Do you think you can help?”

“Certainly, I can try,” Sinclair replied. “But I need more information.”

“Such as?”

“I’d like to see the layout of the apartment so I can get an idea of what happened. Was it an amateur job or professional? That sort of thing might help me pinpoint what kind of people we are dealing with.”

“That’s easily arranged,” VerPlanck said.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Margaret, have Gavin bring the car around please?”

VerPlanck checked his watch.

“It’s noon already,” he said. “We’ll head over to the East Side. I do hope you can stay to lunch.”

Conservation Labs,
Brooklyn Museum

I
T WAS NOON
when Holly Graham juggled coffee and newspapers onto her desk. Luckily, she didn’t have to be there earlier. Her head was aching from too much champagne and lack of sleep!

Beautiful sunlight flooded through the window. Her office was situated where the north light was best—essential for the detailed repair work she did on the museum collections. The office was so bright she could grow a ficus tree in the corner and a couple of African violets on the windowsill.

There wasn’t much time to relax this morning before heading out. Her team had been preparing a CAT scan over at North Shore Hospital. The mummy they were working on today required a climate-controlled truck, 70 degrees temperature, and constant humidity of 40–60 percent.

It was a lot of work. They had to place the cartouche in custom-cut foam and then in a wooden crate. Carter always insisted that the mummy’s eyes be painted on the top of the outer box, as a courtesy. He said the deceased needed to see where they were going.

Thinking of Carter brought back the memories of last night.
Had she really let him hold her in his arms?
The thought of it made her smile. He probably didn’t have a clue why she was so upset. She’d look for him later to thank him for his concern.

But first things first. Caffeine! She wasn’t going to budge before finishing
her coffee. Holly sat down at her desk and pried the lid off the paper cup. The steam smelled glorious.

The first sip helped wake her up; then she turned to the newspaper headlines:

SECURITY SCARE AT THE GALA!
FIRST LADY FLEES FANCY FETE!

The images were dramatic. People leaving, police cars on the sidewalk. Holly was startled to read a headline on page two.

Rome Gala Robbed—Rare Artifacts Stolen!

Was the evacuation related to the burglary? As she started to read the details, her phone rang. The sound startled her and the coffee sloshed all over the desk. Mopping up the mess with a napkin, she grabbed the receiver on the fifth ring.

The voice that greeted her was the one she had been hearing in her mind all night.

“Good morning, Holly. How are you?” Sinclair’s deep tones sounded confident, in control. “I’m calling to make sure you’re all right.”

“Hello, John. I’m fine. No ill effects,” she managed to say, sounding surprisingly normal.

“I half expected to get your voice mail.”

“I needed to come in. It’s a busy day.”

“I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“Not at all. It’s very thoughtful.”

Holly shut her eyes; the formality of the exchange was excruciating.

Sinclair’s voice shifted to a brisker tone. “Actually, Hols, I wanted to ask a favor.”

“What’s that?”

A surge of excitement went through her. Was he going to ask to see her again?

“I’ve given your name and contact number to an art collector who had a rare antiquity stolen last night. His name is Ted VerPlanck.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He wants to put out some feelers. If you don’t mind, he may get in touch with you.”

“Sure, John,” she said, trying not to sound deflated. “I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

Sinclair seemed to notice something in her tone, so he went on to explain.

“I hope it’s not an imposition, but I remembered that art security is something you know a lot about.”

She fought to keep her voice dispassionate.

“Yes. I’ve been consulting with the FBI fairly regularly about stolen art, so I’d be happy to talk to him.”

“Great. His attorney, Jim Gardiner, may call you directly.”

There was in imperceptible pause as Sinclair’s voice switched to a heartier register.

“So . . . it was nice seeing you again, Holly.”

“You too, John,” she said as her heart flopped over. Would he ask her out after all? But her hopes were dashed instantly.

“Take care,” Sinclair said and rang off.

Holly put down the phone and exhaled. How was it he could rattle her after all these years? She twisted her hair back up into a chignon and secured it with a pencil. It was time to get over the man. But since they parted company there had been no one even remotely as exciting as Sinclair. In fact, these days her social life was pathetic. The only confirmed date she had was with a two-thousand-year-old mummy.

She glanced at her watch. Almost time to leave for the CAT scan. The appointment at the hospital was for one p.m.

As she started to gather her things, her supervisor poked his head in. Holly’s greeting died on her lips. He looked absolutely distraught.

“Holly, how late were you here last night?”

She searched her mind quickly.

“About six o’clock . . . I guess. I remember I was running late for the gala.”

“Did you go to the storeroom at all yesterday?”

“No, I was working with the CT images on my computer. I found something unusual with Artemidorus. He—”

“He’s gone,” the director said, cutting her off.

An awful lurch of fear stirred deep down inside her.

“Maybe someone—”

“No.”

She stared at him in silence.

“He was stolen,” he said. “I need to call the police.”

“Oh, my
God!
Are you
sure
?”

“Yes, I am
very
sure. I may need you later, to answer some questions.”

“Absolutely. If anyone wants me I’ll be at North Shore Hospital doing a scan.”

19th Police Precinct,
East Sixty-Seventh Street, New York

W
HEN
C
ARTER
W
ALLACE
walked up to the counter, the cop at the desk didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, I have something to report about the gala last night.”

“At the
Met
?” the cop asked with sudden interest, putting his pen down. That was a good sign. Carter didn’t want to spend his entire day convincing some jaded officer that he had something serious to report.

“I saw some very suspicious activity last night,” Carter explained. “Two guys loading a van. I wrote down the license plate number.” He pulled the scrap of paper out of his jacket and offered it.

“Hold on to that for a moment. I need you to fill out some forms.”

“Sure.” Carter tucked the number back into his pocket.

The officer slid a sheet of paper onto a clipboard.