Do You Promise Not to Tell? (16 page)

“I do have my own personal protection.”

“Farrell isn’t in the office right now. May I take a message for her?”

“I’m returning her call.”

“Is this in reference to a piece she’s working on?”

“Yes.”

“The art forgery story?”

“With whom am I speaking?” asked Special Agent McCord.

“This is B. J. D’Elia. I’m working with Farrell on the story.”

“Okay. Would you please tell her that Jack McCord at the FBI returned her call?”

“I’ll see that she gets the message.” Dean Cohen lied again as he put the receiver back in its cradle.

Thursday

Farrell figured that shooting some video at the Metropolitan Museum’s Romanov exhibit was a good idea. If and when she could piece together enough information to go with the Moon Egg story, elements from the Russian exhibit would really add to the texture of the package she would produce.

While B. J. fiddled with his camera gear, Farrell strode through the airy, high-ceilinged gallery rooms, scanning their contents for the items she wanted shot. She stared at a large portrait of the children of Nicholas and Alexandra: the four lovely Romanov daughters and their younger brother, Alexei, the hemophiliac heir to the doomed throne. Their expressions were innocent, trusting, mercifully unaware of the violent fate that awaited them.

Another painting, one of the czar and his beloved czarina, haunted Farrell. Here was the man who had commissioned the Moon Egg as his wife’s Easter gift all those years ago. On the other side of the world, the action of the Russian emperor decades before was now impacting on Farrell’s life. And the lives of others.

A large, white ostrich-feather fan, part of a costume worn to a Winter Palace ball. Satin gowns covered with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. Mother-of-pearl
opera glasses, bronze swords encrusted with rubies. Religious objects, icons and altar crosses and golden chalices. And jewelry: pendants and brooches and tiaras and bracelets that had adorned the Romanovs as they ruled Russia for three centuries, wearing pounds of yellow and blue and white diamonds, Ceylon sapphires, and blood-red rubies—while eighty percent of their country’s people were living in poverty. The peasant farmers toiled in the impoverished countryside, and the factory workers slaved away in miserable city slums. Russia was ripe for revolution.

As Farrell and B. J. made their way around the exhibit, museumgoers watched them, interested in observing what the television people were doing. A tall, well-coifed woman approached Farrell.

“Excuse me. Didn’t I see you recently in the Consignment Depot in New Jersey?”

Startled, Farrell studied the woman’s vaguely familiar face, trying to place it. It was the woman who had come into the shop that day with Victor Paradise.

“Stacey Spinner,” the woman prompted. “Small world, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. I remember you now. Nice to see you again—although Pat didn’t really get the chance to introduce us. Are you a Romanov fan?” Farrell asked politely.

“Well, yes, I am interested in Russian history,” Stacey nodded, “but I especially came to see the Fabergé eggs. This is the largest collection of the Imperial Easter Eggs ever assembled, you know.”

“So I hear. Which one do you think is the most
interesting?” Might as well get some input from the woman on the street.

“My favorite is the Pansy Egg. I think the surprise inside, the tiny, heart-shaped frames with the miniatures of the Imperial children along with their parents, aunts, and uncles, is quite remarkable.”

“We’ll make sure to get over there and get a shot of it, then,” said Farrell.

“I didn’t get
your
name that day in the Consignment Depot.”

“Farrell Slater.”

“And what exactly do you do, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Would this woman ever go away? “I’m a producer for KEY News.”

“Wow! That must be interesting.” Stacey was truly impressed. “And you’re doing a story on this exhibit?”

“Actually,” snapped Farrell, losing patience, “we’re doing a piece on art forgeries.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Farrell wished she had not blurted out her assignment to a woman she did not even know.

Long after Eliza Blake had signed off, removed her anchor’s mike and gone home, and all of the stage crew had cleared from the
Evening Headlines
studio, Range Bullock sat alone at his desk in the Fishbowl and stared at the latest ratings printout. KEY News was down.

In Range’s mind, there was one main reason for the ratings slip. Money. Or rather, the absence of it.

At every one of an endless series of budget meetings, news division president Yelena Gregory pounded home the message. Keep down the spending. That meant sending fewer correspondents, producers, and camera crews on the road to cover stories, which meant using videotape obtained from affiliates when you could get it, and it meant having little quality control. It meant not going for that extra element if it meant springing for a news crew staying an extra night in a hotel in a faraway city or town. It meant thinking about what a story would cost to cover and measuring it against the story’s importance. Good stories were being left uncovered because they were too expensive to produce.

His mind turned to the Fabergé story that Farrell was working on. If she could prove what she suspected was true, it would be a powerful
Evening Headlines
exclusive news piece. The fact that it would
all be done in New York, and therefore cost relatively little to produce, made it that much sweeter.

Suddenly Range wanted to see that video of the Fabergé egg again, and he didn’t want to wait until tomorrow morning to do it. He’d just go up to Farrell’s office, check if it was open, look around and see if he could find the videotape.

But when he got there, Farrell’s second-floor office wasn’t empty. Dean Cohen was inside, sitting at Farrell’s desk. When Dean looked up and saw Range standing in the doorway watching him, the younger producer’s face reddened.

“I just took a call for Farrell and I was leaving her a message,” Dean explained.

Range nodded. He walked to the desk and looked over the tape boxes on the top. Then he checked the tapes that were stacked on the shelves on the wall.

“Can I help with something?” Dean volunteered.

“No . . . I’m just trying to find a videotape Farrell screened for me the other day. . ..” His voice trailed off as he continued his search.

“On what?” Dean tried to sound casual.

“Some art forgery story she’s been working on.”

Friday of the Second Week of Lent

Dean Cohen paid for his coffee and bagel at the Station Break checkout. The KEY cafeteria was ridiculed endlessly by the news staffers, yet they ate there frequently. It was convenient, fast, and relatively cheap.

As Dean paused at the condiment counter to grab some paper napkins, he noticed Farrell and B. J. occupying one of the cafeteria booths. Their heads huddled together, Farrell and the cameraman were in the midst of an intense conversation. Dean wondered if Farrell had figured out yet that he had intercepted her message from the FBI agent. He didn’t think so.

Dean hurried from the cafeteria and walked quickly to the elevator that would carry him up to the second-floor
Evening Headlines
offices. He wanted to have a few minutes in the office before Farrell returned. When the elevator doors opened, Range Bullock was waiting in the hallway.

“Hiya, Dean. What’s happening?”

“Not much yet, boss, but the day is young.”

“Isn’t that the truth? God knows what today will bring. Another terrorist bombing or another campaign scandal.” Range shook his head. “I’m starting to think I’m getting too old for all this.”

Dean laughed. “I wouldn’t go around mentioning
that to other people here, Range. But your secret is safe with me.”

The two men chuckled as Range got into the elevator Dean had vacated. “By the way, buddy, it’s about time for you to be coming up with another ‘KEYhole,’ piece, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry, Range. I’m working on something now. I’ll let you know when it comes together more.”

Range gave a thumbs-up sign as the elevator doors closed. Dean smiled but groaned inwardly. He didn’t really have anything he was working on for “KEYhole to America,” the lengthy, investigative endpieces that closed
Evening Headlines
each night. With the exception of the lead story, “KEYholes” were the most coveted assignments on the broadcast. All the producers kept a running mental tally of who had come up with the most “KEYhole” pieces. Dean had been on a streak for a while, but lately his mental well had been running dry.

You’re only as good as your last story.

Back in his office, Dean headed straight for Farrell’s desk. Again he read her doodle.

Olga. Egg. Video. Fire.

Dean reached for the black metal hide-a-key case that he knew she kept magnetized to the bottom of the desk. His hands trembled as he slid open the case and pulled the small, shiny aluminum key from its bed.

By the time Farrell arrived, minutes later, the videotape of Olga’s Moon Egg was snug inside Dean’s briefcase.

Saturday

It was not unusual for Meryl to work on Saturdays when special auctions were coming up. It was unusual for her to get phone calls from the FBI on the weekend.

“Ms. Quan, the list you provided me of Fabergé consignors and customers has a glaring omission,” Special Agent McCord said sternly.

Meryl was intimidated by McCord’s menacing tone. “How can I help you, Mr. McCord?”

“You can help me by getting me the name of the person who consigned the Moon Egg for sale to Churchill’s.”

“That wasn’t on the list?”

“Ms. Quan, please don’t play innocent with me and don’t insult me. No. The name wasn’t on the list. And if Churchill’s doesn’t hand it over, I’m going to get paper and force you to.”

Meryl’s mind raced. A subpoena would be easy enough for McCord to get. Why hadn’t Clifford included the name on the list he had her turn over to the FBI? It just looked like he was hiding something. Was Clifford trying to buy time?

“I’ll speak to Mr. Montgomery and see what I can find out, Mr. McCord.”

“I’d appreciate it if you do it sooner than later, Ms. Quan. I’ll expect a call from you.”

The phone line went dead, leaving Meryl worried. The FBI usually ended up getting what it wanted. She didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Jack McCord.

Meryl knocked on Clifford’s door. The catalogue for the auction of the Nadine Paradise Collection was on Montgomery’s desk and her boss was flipping through the thick, glossy pages. Leaf after leaf featured the mementos collected over the years of the ballerina’s colorful life. The items for sale had been carefully photographed to show them off to the best advantage. Colorful antique posters from the Ballet Russe, programs from the famous Paradise performances, satin ballet shoes in palest pinks and flaming magentas, hand-engraved sheet music and set-design sketches, costumes Paradise wore as Aurora in
Sleeping Beauty
and Odele in
Swan Lake
. . ..

It was a coup to acquire the Paradise collection for auction. It would be worth a small fortune to Churchill’s in commissions and publicity.

“We have some beautiful things to be sold for her next week, Meryl. I’m so pleased that we are hosting the Paradise auction of her wonderful ballet memorabilia. It ties in so perfectly with our Russian month. And the publicity department tells me that we are getting lots of calls from the media about covering our celebrity auction. That’s great exposure.”

Clifford looked satisfied and a lot less worried than Meryl had seen him in recent days. She hated to ruin the mood.

“The FBI just called.”

“And?”

“The name of the consignor of the Moon Egg wasn’t on the Fabergé list we turned over.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Not according to Agent McCord. He wants it as soon as possible or he’s going to go for a subpoena to get it.”

Clifford continued to look unruffled. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Meryl remained standing in front of Montgomery’s desk.

“Is there something else, Meryl?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Meryl began uncertainly. “This Moon Egg thing is really bothering me. First KEY News comes in with suspicions about it. Now, the FBI is clearly looking into this, and I’m being called about it. I’m worried that if there is some sort of problem or impropriety that occurred here, it might look like I’m involved.”

Clifford studied Meryl, but didn’t say anything.

Meryl summoned up the courage to continue. “What I’m trying to say, Clifford, is that I think . . . well, I don’t think we can continue to ignore the media and the FBI. Agent McCord is waiting for a return phone call and I seem to be caught in the middle of all this.”

Only a tiny vein throbbing at his temple betrayed Clifford’s annoyance.