The Collector (31 page)

“Both in New York.” Ash glanced at Lila. “We had that wrong.”

“Both,” Kerinov confirmed, “until the twelfth of June, 1946, when the Nécessaire took another journey. This . . . excuse me.”

He opened the envelope holding the Russian documents. “Here, here.” And tapped a section. “This is Russian again, but incorrect. Grammatically, and some of the spelling. This was written by someone who isn't fluent, but has a working knowledge. It has the egg not by name but by description. It calls it an egg box with jewels. Lady's manicure set with thirteen pieces. Won by Antonio Bastone from Jonas Martin Junior in five-card draw.”

“In a poker game,” Lila murmured.

“It's my interpretation. As I said, it's not completely correct, but understandable. And Junior, you see.”

“The son tosses what he thinks of as a fancy trinket into the pot, probably when he runs low on cash, and thinks he has a winning hand.”

Kerinov nodded at Ash. “Surmising, yes. See here? Value agreed at eight thousand. ‘Hard luck, Jonnie,' it says. I found the younger Martin in the
Who's Who
for that year. He was twenty, a student at Harvard Law. I haven't yet found more than this name on Antonio Bastone.”

“Almost like a joke,” Lila put in. “Adding to the document in Russian. They never bothered to find out what they had. And this Jonnie certainly didn't care. Toss it into the pot, just some tchotchke around the house.”

“It's something Oliver would've done,” Ash said quietly. “Just as carelessly. It makes a kind of circle, doesn't it?”

Lila covered Ash's hand with hers, linked fingers. “Oliver didn't get the chance to learn from his mistakes. Now we have a chance to make it right.”

“We can find them.” Kerinov leaned forward, earnest, urgently. “I believe it absolutely. Their history has to be more thoroughly researched, the blanks filled in. Think of where they've been, where they've traveled. What they survived. They're not lost because they can be found. Vinnie—we would have poured vodka and toasted to the search.”

“And what would you do if you found them?” Ash wondered.

“They belong in a museum. Here. In the greatest city in the world. The Russians would perhaps complain, but the documents. It's all here. Sold and sold. They're great art, historical pieces. They should belong to the world.”

He picked up his glass again, then put it down abruptly. “You don't mean to keep them. To put them away in your own glass case? Mr. Archer, you're a wealthy man, you can afford to be generous. You're an artist, you must understand the value of accessible art.”

“You don't have to convince me. I wanted to know where you stood on it. Lila?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Oliver acquired these documents and the Cherub with Chariot.”

“I'm sorry, ‘and'? You maybe mean ‘for'?”

“And,” Ash repeated. “He acquired the documents
and
the egg.”

Kerinov all but collapsed back in his chair. His face went deathly pale, then filled with wild color. “My God. My God. He— You have it? You have one of the lost Imperial eggs. Here? Please, I have to—”

“Not here. It's safe. I think Oliver made a deal with someone, then played fast and loose, trying to up the ante. It got him and his girlfriend killed. And in trying to help me piece it together, Vinnie was killed. This is more than a treasure hunt.”

“I understand. Please, a moment.” He rose, walked to the window, back to the table, to the window again. “My heart is pounding. I think, what would my father say—a man who studies the past and has little use for rich men's toys. What would he say if I could tell him his son had some part in bringing this piece of history back to the world?”

He came back to the table, sat down as slowly, as carefully as an old man. “It's foolish perhaps to think of my father at such a time.”

“No.” Lila shook her head. “No. We want their pride.”

“I owe him”—Kerinov tapped his T-shirt—“so much. For myself,
one who perhaps looks at rich men's toys as art, this is a life's work all at once. Vinnie . . .”

He trailed off, pressed his fingers to his eyes. When he lowered them, he linked his hands on the table. “You've taken me into your trust. I'm grateful. I'm humbled.”

“Vinnie trusted you.”

“I'll do for you what I would have done for him. Anything I can. He thought of you as his,” Kerinov said again. “So I'll do everything I can. You've actually seen it. Touched it.”

Saying nothing, Ash took his phone out of his pocket, brought up the pictures he'd taken.

“God. My God. It's beyond exquisite. You have, as far as I know, the only clear photograph of this work of art. A museum, the Metropolitan. It must not be shut away again.”

“When it's done, it won't be shut away. The people who want this killed two members of my family. It's not only a work of art, a piece of history, but it's my leverage. And now, there's another. I want to find it before they do. To do that, we need to find Antonio Bastone, or more likely his heirs. If he's still alive, he'd be easily in his nineties, so odds are slim on that.”

“Odds aren't that slim he sold it again, or lost it in another poker game, or gave it to some woman.” Lila lifted her hands. “But I don't think, even for rich men's sons—if he was one like Hard Luck Jonnie—winning a really shiny trinket in a poker game was an everyday thing. So maybe the story got passed down, and with that, what happened to the prize. It's a good springboard anyway.”

“Harvard Law, 1946. They might've gone to school together. And maybe Miranda Swanson knows something about the story. I can push those buttons,” Ash decided.

“I'll do more research. I have some work, but I can pass it on. I'll focus on this. I'm grateful to be a part of this, a part of history.” After another long look, Kerinov handed Ash back his phone.

“Give me a minute.” Lila rose, moved off.

“This has to be kept confidential,” Ash began.

“Understood. You have my word.”

“Even from your family.”

“Even from them,” Kerinov agreed. “I know some collectors, know of others who'd know more. With my contacts, I can find out who might have a particular interest in Fabergé, or in Russian antiquities.”

“Ask carefully. They've killed three times. They won't hesitate to kill again.”

“It's my business to ask questions, to gather information on collectors and collections. I won't ask anything that would arouse suspicion.”

Lila came back with three shot glasses and a frosty bottle of Ketel One on a tray.

Kerinov looked at her with soft eyes. “You're very kind.”

“I think the moment calls for it.” She poured three shots of ice cold vodka, lifted her own. “To Vinnie.”

“To Vinnie,” Kerinov murmured, and tossed back the shot.

“And one more.” Lila poured again. “To the endurance of art. What's Russian for ‘Cheers,' Alexi?”

“If I drink to your health, I say
Za vashe zdorovye.
”

“Okay.
Za vashe zdorovye.
”

“You have a good ear. To the endurance of art, to our health and to success.”

They touched glasses, three bright notes blending to one.

And that, Lila thought as she knocked back the vodka, signaled the next step.

L
ila put her work aside for the rest of the day and considered the advantages of technology. While Ash made his calls to Harvard contacts, she tried the social media.

Maybe a man—if he still lived—who'd nearly hit the century mark wouldn't have a Facebook page, but she figured the odds were good some of his descendants would.

A grandson maybe, named for his grandfather. A granddaughter—Antonia? She thought it worth a shot to dig into Google and Facebook, using the little they knew.

Add Jonas Martin, she considered, dig down further to see if she could find a connection of mutual friends linking each name.

She signaled Ash to come ahead when he hesitated at the wide archway of the dining room.

“I'm not writing. I'm doing my version of research. Did you have any luck?”

“A friend asking a friend for a favor, and a link to the Harvard Law yearbook. None published in 1943 to 1945, but there's one for 1946, no pictures. I'm going to get access to it, and given Martin's age, to the couple years after.”

She sat back. “That's a good one.”

“I could hire an investigator to do all this.”

“And take away our fun and satisfaction? I'm trolling Facebook.”

“Facebook?”

“You have a Facebook page,” she pointed out. “I just put in a friend request, by the way. In fact it appears you have two, one personal, one professional. You haven't updated your professional page in over two months.”

“You sound like my agent,” he muttered. “I put new art up when I think about it. Why are you trolling Facebook?”

“Why do you have a personal page?”

“It helps, when I think of it again, to see what the family's up to.”

“Exactly. I bet some in the Bastone and Martin families do the same. Bastone—Italian name. I bet you didn't know Italy is ninth in Facebook users worldwide.”

“I can't say I did.”

“There are also sixty-three Antonio Bastones on Facebook, and three Antonias. I'm playing with Tony and Toni with an
i
now. Then there's Anthony, if they went there. I'm going to go through them, see if I can access their friends list. If I find a Martin on it, or a Swanson, as that's the Martin heir's name, it could be pay dirt.”

“Facebook,” he said again, and made her laugh.

“You didn't think of it because you can't even keep your page up-to-date.”

He sat across from her. “Lila.”

She nudged her laptop aside, folded her hands on the table. “Ashton.”

“What are you going to do with these sixty-six Facebook names?”

“I think we'll have more with the Tony/Toni deal. The friends list, as I said. With or without that connection, I'll start contacting, via Facebook, asking if they're a descendant of the Antonio Bastone who attended Harvard in the 1940s. We're not positive he did—hell, they
could've met in a strip club for all we know, but it's using the springboard for a considered leap. I could get lucky, especially cross-referencing with Google.”

“That's pretty creative.”

“Creative is my god. Technology my cherished lover.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“I know. Part of me says I shouldn't be because if I did get lucky there's someone out there who'd kill me for it, given the chance. But I can't help it. It's all just fascinating.”

He reached over for her hand. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you. And don't tell me you can take care of yourself. I'm telling you. You're with me now.”

“Ash—”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “You're with me. We both may need time to get used to it, but that's the way it is. I talked to Bob.”

Her mind tried to spin in the new direction. “Who?”

“My brother Bob.”

Among the Giselles and Rylees and Estebans, there was a Bob? “I need a copy of your spreadsheet.”

“He's at Angie's today. He and Frankie—that's Angie's and Vinnie's oldest son—are pretty tight. I asked him to talk to Frankie about getting me the information Vinnie had on the Swanson estate, and the acquisitions Oliver brokered.”

“So you can see if there's anything pertaining to the Nécessaire or to Bastone.”

“Long shot, but why not bet? I've got another call in to the Swansons. Which led me to call my mother. She knows everyone, and is indeed mildly acquainted with Miranda Swanson, whom she describes as a fashionable dimwit. My mother's agreed to make some calls and find out where Miranda Swanson and her husband, Biff, are vacationing.”

“He's not really Biff. No one's really a Biff.”

“According to my mother, he is.” He glanced at the phone he'd
set on the table as it signaled. “Obviously, I should've thought of my mother before. Mom,” he said when he answered. “You work fast.”

She left him to his call, went upstairs for shoes, a ball cap and her sunglasses. She tucked her little zip wallet—keys, some money, ID, in her pocket. She started downstairs, meeting Ash on the way up.

“Where did you go?” he began. “Or rather, where are you going?”

“I went up for what I need to take Earl Grey for a . . . promenade. Or rather what I need for us to take him. You can use a walk in the park, too—and then you can tell me what your mother said.”

“Fine.” He studied her hat—and his eyes narrowed. “You're a Mets fan.”

She merely put up her dukes. “Go on, start something.”

He only shook his head. “This is a severe test of our relationship. I'll get the leash.”

“And baggies,” she called out.

Armed, and led by a thrilled Earl Grey, they went down, then took the staircase connecting Tudor City with the park.

“Is it a sign?” Lila wondered. “Walking down the Sharansky Steps—named for a Russian dissident.”

“I think I'll have had my fill of all things Russian for a while once this is done. But you're right about the walk in the park. I can use it.”

He let the air wash over him, and the hum of traffic from First Avenue as they strolled behind the tiny, prancing dog along the wide walkway, in and out of shade from locust trees.

From there they walked around one of the greens, into the quiet and calm of a shady urban oasis. Others walked there—pushing babies or toddlers in strollers, walking dogs, strutting along with Bluetooths at their ear or, in the case of the guy with skinny white legs clamped into black compression shorts, bopping to whatever played through his earbuds.

“So, your mother?” Lila asked while Earl Grey sniffed the grass with a full-body wag.

“Looked in her book—if you think my spreadsheet's something, you should see my mother's social book. You could plot a war. She contacted another acquaintance who's friendly with Miranda Swanson. They're in the Hamptons until after Labor Day, though they both make the occasional trip back to the city to meet friends or, in his case, tend to some business. She got an address, and Miranda Swanson's cell phone number.”

“Call her.” Lila grabbed his hand, led him toward a bench. “Call her now.”

“Actually, I don't have to. My mother already did.”

“She does work fast.”

“Like lightning. My mother, who's also in the Hamptons, netted herself an invite for cocktails at the Swansons' tonight. The invitation includes me and my date. Want to have cocktails on the beach?”

“Tonight? I don't have cocktails-on-the-beach—at the Hamptons—wear.”

“It's the beach. It'll be casual enough.”

“Men,” she muttered. “I need an outfit.” Dating would break her bank yet, she thought. “Take Earl Grey back, okay?” She dug out her key, passed it to him, then the leash. “I have to shop.”

She raced off, leaving him in her dust. “It's just the beach,” he repeated.

S
he performed miracles by her standard. Cool, beachy pink with a low, low back crisscrossed by thin straps. Heeled gladiator sandals in turquoise, and a straw bag, striped with both colors and big enough to hold her main accessory.

A charming teacup poodle.

Her cell phone rang as she added one more coat of mascara.

“Ready?” Ash asked.

“Two minutes.” She clicked off, annoyed he'd managed to go back to his loft, change and come back in less time than it had taken her to dress. She tucked the dog's provisions into her new bag, then tucked him in with them. She folded the scarf the clerk talked her into—turquoise with hot-pink waves—beside the dog, then dashed out to keep to the two minutes.

Outside, she found Ash leaning against what even she recognized as a vintage Corvette, and chatting with the doorman.

“Let me get that for you, Ms. Emerson.” The doorman opened the car door. “You have a nice evening.”

“Thanks.” She sat a moment, studied the dash as Ash skirted the hood to slip into the driver's seat.

“You have a car.”

“I do. I don't get it out much.”

“You have a really hot car.”

“If you're going to drive a hot woman to the beach, it should be in a hot car.”

“Well played. I got nervous.”

“About what?” He negotiated traffic as if he commuted daily—with ruthless determination.

“About everything. I imagined this Miranda saying, ‘Oh, Antonio! Of course, what an old dear. We've got him propped up in the corner over there. Do go say hello.'”

“I don't see that happening.”

“Of course not, but I started thinking it. Then we'd go over, and he'd say—or shout because I see him as stone deaf—‘Poker? Hard Luck Jonnie! Those were the days.' Then he'd tell us he gave the egg to the girl he was sleeping with at the time. What was her name? He'd cackle out a laugh, then drop over dead.”

“At least he died on a happy memory.”

“In another version Hot Asian Girl bursts in—she's wearing
Alexander McQueen, I'm pretty sure—holding everyone at gunpoint while the boss comes in behind her. He looks like Marlon Brando. Not hot-and-sexy Brando in the old black-and-white movies, the really fat Brando. He's wearing a white suit and a panama hat.”

“It is summer at the beach.”

“Because this is my fantasy, I know kung fu, and HAG and I square off. I completely kick her ass, and you restrain the boss man.”

Ash spared her a glance before he bulleted between two taxies. “You get the hot woman, I get fat Brando? It doesn't seem right.”

“It's just the way it was. But when we thought everything was okay, the terrible happened. I couldn't find Earl Grey. I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find him. I'm still a little sick about it.”

“Then it's a good thing it never happened—and it won't.”

“I still wish I knew kung fu.” She peeked into her bag, where Earl Grey curled and slept.

“What's in there? You didn't put the dog in there? You brought the dog?”

“I couldn't leave him. He's my responsibility. Besides, women have tiny dogs like this so they can carry them around in their fashionable bags.” She gave him a smiling glance. “They'll just think I'm eccentric.”

“Where would they get that idea?”

S
he loved new spaces, and though she wouldn't have chosen the Swansons' Hamptons house for herself, she could appreciate the theme. All white, acres of glass, slick and ultramodern, it offered white terraces adorned with white pots filled with red flowers.

Casual, she thought, it wasn't, but stood as a testament to money and determined contemporary style.

People already were mixing on the terraces—women in floaty
dresses, men in soft-colored suits and sport coats. The light held bright, and the whoosh of the waves mingled with music streaming from the open windows.

She saw waitstaff passing trays of what she thought were Bellinis, of champagne, of pilsner glasses and finger food.

Inside, the sky and sea dominated through the walls of glass. But all the white hurt the eyes, chilled the skin.