Do You Promise Not to Tell? (13 page)

No wonder she hadn’t had a date in over a year.

Farrell cleared her throat. “I’m working on a story about art forgery—Fabergé forgery, to be exact. And I want to find out what you can tell me about what the FBI is doing about it.”

“Can you be more specific?” Agent Behrends asked.

“Well, it’s come to our attention that a recently auctioned Fabergé Imperial Easter Egg may be a fake.”

Neither agent’s facial expression changed.
Nice job
, thought Farrell.

“Are you talking about the Moon Egg just auctioned at Churchill’s?” asked McCord.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“And what makes you think that it wasn’t the real thing?”

“Information that I have from a source who is sure of the real Moon Egg’s location.”

“Have you seen the alleged real egg?”

Hey, I’m supposed to be asking the questions here
, thought Farrell. She did not like feeling grilled by McCord.

“Yes, I have,” admitted Farrell.

“Well, Ms. Slater, the FBI would be very interested in seeing this other egg. How do you think we can make that happen?”

“Not through me, you can’t, Agent McCord.”

“Of course, you realize that, as a United States citizen, you have a responsibility to not withhold information that could lead to the solving of a crime.”

“Certainly I do, but my information isn’t about a crime,” Farrell answered primly. “If what I’ve been told is true, the real Moon Egg is out there, but that is not a criminal offense. The law that’s been broken is that a fake egg was auctioned off as the real thing. That’s where you guys come in. What, if anything, is the FBI doing to investigate?”

Farrell could tell she had hit a nerve with McCord, as she noticed his jaw clench. Behrends jumped in before the other agent could say anything in anger.

“We don’t comment on ongoing investigations, Miss Slater. But you can be sure, the Bureau is using its considerable resources to track down anyone or any group who is breaking the law.”

“Legal called. The FBI wants a list of our recurring Fabergé sellers and buyers.” Meryl ticked off the next item on her list.

Churchill’s legal department had a good working relationship with the FBI—all major auction houses did. Both sides routinely swapped bits of information.

But it was the specific type of clients the Bureau wanted to know about that raised the red flag to Montgomery.

He thought quickly. If he didn’t turn the list over voluntarily, it would look bad, arousing suspicion that something was wrong. And if he refused, the FBI could just go ahead and subpoena the information anyway.

It was smarter just to hand it over. The name of the egg consignor wasn’t on the list anyway. “Okay, fine. Give it to them. We want to cooperate with them whenever possible.” Montgomery’s voice didn’t betray how worried he was.

What the hell was the FBI going to do with that list?

It was never easy. Never simple. That was just the way of the world. You took care of one problem, and there was always another to take its place.

Misha was out of the way. Now this.

It would be simple to get to her. A defenseless, frail, ancient woman, living alone in a tiny garden apartment. No big deal.

Don’t be too cocky, big shot
. This
was
a big deal. A very big deal. A six-million-dollars-or-go-to-prison deal. And that wasn’t the way this was going to end up. Be sure of it. Not after all the years of hard work that it took to get to this point. Not after all the exacting study and planning.

Maybe Olga wouldn’t have to die. After the Misha mess, the thought of another murder was distasteful. Perhaps it could be avoided.

Yes. Actually, it was necessary only to obtain the real egg. That would be enough. No need for killing. Without the egg, she’d be no threat. The timid old soul wasn’t about to go to the police.

But if it did end up that she had to be killed, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be like the last time. Getting Misha out of the way had been gross, and too much work, to boot. If it came to it, this time it would be much easier. At least for the one doing the killing.

Cossack-costumed Tony held the door open for Meryl as she hurried from Churchill’s. She was late for her date with B. J.

“How long are they going to make you wear that getup, Tony?” Meryl asked him. As he hailed her a cab, he waited with her at the curb.

“A few more weeks, Miss Quan. But I don’t mind. It’s good for business and, hey, it keeps me warm, too.”

Meryl slid into the open taxi and listened to Eartha Kitt growl at her to make sure to buckle up her seat belt. The smell of curry permeated the air inside the cab and, despite the chill, she cracked the window to let in some of the fresh, evening breeze.

The car cut through Central Park to the Upper West Side, dropping her at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. B. J. was waiting just inside the theater door. He kissed her hello.

“Come on. I’ve got the tickets already. We’re going to be late.”

They climbed the steps of the escalator, not waiting for the automated stairs to take them to the second-floor theaters.

“Popcorn?” B. J. offered as they passed the neon refreshment stand.

“No thanks. I’ll wait.”

They found two seats together in the already darkened theater and settled in just as the previews were finishing. The opening credits rolled. Starring Tom Cruise, her favorite.

But Meryl found, try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate on what was happening on the big screen. The Fabergé thing was bothering her. First the KEY News producer, then the FBI. Something was wrong, she knew it. And she didn’t want to be caught up in it. If something illegal was going on, Meryl didn’t want to be associated with it. She’d spent her life so far achieving, always living above-board and trying to improve herself. Her young career was going well. She didn’t want to be part of any scandal.

“What did you think?” B. J. asked as the lights came up.

“Good.”

“You’re kidding, right? It sucked.”

Meryl wriggled into her coat. “I don’t know, B. J. I just couldn’t concentrate.”

“C’mon. Let’s go get some dinner and we can talk.”

They walked a few blocks uptown in the frigid February air, and ducked into a small Italian restaurant in the bottom of a brownstone just off Central Park. Some faux frescoes, all in pastels, were painted on the dining-room walls. Votive candles flickered on the white-tableclothed tables.

The ponytailed maître d’ led them to a small table near the back.

“
La signorina è bellissima stassera
.” As he pulled out her chair, he complimented Meryl in what she suspected was a phony Italian accent. Probably none of the people who worked here was Italian. The waiters were likely out-of-work actors.

Lately Meryl felt that she lived in a world where things were not as they seemed. She didn’t know what to be sure of anymore. Was Clifford a crook? Had he knowingly authenticated a fake Fabergé egg?

B. J. ordered a bottle of chianti. Meryl downed the first glass quickly and set right to drinking another glass of the red wine.

“Hey, slow down,” laughed B. J. “If you don’t watch out, you’ll get plastered and I’ll definitely take advantage of you.”

Meryl smiled weakly and pulled a piece of Italian bread from the loaf in the basket in the middle of the table. She wanted to talk to B. J. about what was going on, but she was afraid. She didn’t want to be disloyal to Clifford in disclosing what was happening in the office. On the other hand, if Clifford had done nothing wrong, there really was no harm in telling B.J.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. . ..” She tried to sound offhanded. “Do you know someone at KEY named Farrell Slater?”

“Sure I do. Farrell and I work together all the time. She was the producer I was shooting for the day you
and I met at the auction, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

“Well, she was in to see my boss recently, and when she left, he was pretty upset.”

“Upset about the Fabergé Moon Egg?” he offered.

Meryl’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”

“After what I saw today, your boss better be upset.”

Now that the television people were gone, the closet didn’t feel safe anymore. Her treasure needed to be somewhere else, somewhere safer, somewhere nobody would ever find it.

Olga knew where she would hide it. No one would think to look there.

She lifted the jeweled egg from its golden nesting box. Her withered hands trembling, Olga carefully wrapped the Moon Egg in three CVS plastic bags, the kind that Americans used once and tossed away, but Olga saved.

Round and round she swaddled the egg until she was satisfied that no dampness could permeate the plastic. Then, her arthritic knees throbbing, Olga shuffled across her small apartment and thrust the small package into the cool, dark ooze.

Friday of the First Week of Lent

Russian Peasant Folk Belief

“Whoever fasts on this Friday will
not die a sudden death.”

A knock on the door always unsettled Olga.

She thought back to her childhood. When the knock came, she was afraid that the vicious Russian police were coming to drag away her father as they had stolen the fathers of her friends. Leningrad—as St. Petersburg became after the czar was overthrown and the Communists took control—was a treacherous place, a deadly place, full of whispers and the sounds of heavy footsteps in the night. Young Olga knew the terror of the banging on apartment doors, the loud, deep voices that demanded entry. The wailing and weeping that followed the screams.

But her friends had two parents. They had mothers who stayed behind to take care of the young ones when the fathers went to meet their fate. Surely the new government would not take her father.

Her mother was dead, killed by the cruel conditions of their new life. The bitter Russian winter, not enough to eat, and no medicine had seen to that. To
Olga, the Communists had already killed her mother. They would not take her father, too.

But eventually the insistent knock in the night came.

Decades had passed, but she still heard the pounding on the wooden door. At night she dreamed of it—fitful, tossing dreams that left her heart pounding and her skin cold and clammy. By day, she dreaded even the lightest tapping on the doors of the other apartments on her hall. And when there was a knock on her own door, she trembled.

But, thankfully, knocks on her door were rare. Pat, Peter, once in a while the landlord. Charlie occasionally dropping off something from the deli. She kept to herself. She didn’t want any trouble.

The candle flickered beneath the icon of the Blessed Virgin and her infant Son.
Holy Mother, protect us
, she prayed as she crept to answer the third knock.

“Who is there?”

Olga’s visitor painstakingly searched and examined every nook and cranny of the small apartment, taking extreme care to put things back as they were. It must appear that nothing was amiss.

For a moment, the promise of a satisfying search. The distinctive yellow velvet Fabergé case discovered beneath the blankets at the bottom of the bedroom closet. But as it was lifted, it was too light.

Empty!

Where was the Moon Egg?

Think. Don’t panic. Never panic
.

The visitor looked some more. The seconds ticked away to minutes. The search turned up nothing. Nothing. Where was it?

It was time to get out. It was too dangerous to stay any longer.

If the Moon Egg couldn’t be gotten, at least its owner—the person who could produce it, could attest to its existence—had to be put out of the way. That made sense.

The visitor carefully positioned the old lady on the single bed. It would look like she was asleep when the fire started.

The holy candle was lifted to ignite the white linen stole that draped the gilt icon of Christ and his Mother.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through Farrell’s exhausted sleep. The bedside clock read two
A.M.

In the instant it took her to reach for the receiver, apprehension coursed through her body. Most people thought a call in the middle of the night signaled a family emergency, but for someone in the news business, the nocturnal ring could mean anything. A plane crash, a war, an assassination.

“Farrell . . . it’s Peter. Peter Devereaux.”

Farrell could hear fear in the young man’s voice.

“Peter, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Olga. A fire. Oh my God.”

Farrell struggled into a sitting position and snapped on the bedside lamp, her eyes burning as they adjusted to the sudden light.

“Peter, just take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened. First of all, where are you?”