The Cherbourg Jewels (6 page)

“I’ve been in these clothes all day.  I could sure use a quick shower and a change.  What if we stop by my apartment?  It would only take ten minutes, I promise.”

Nothing.

She pressed her lips together, feeling her anger rising.  Apparently there was no “virtual” about it—she was a fully fledged prisoner, only without the handcuffs.  “Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” she said.  “I want to find the thief as much as you do, but what right do you have to keep me prisoner?”

“Prisoner?” he scoffed.  “I’m keeping you safe is what I’m doing.”

To prove her point, she pulled the door handle—but he’d already locked her in.  Nothing happened.  “I beg to differ,” she said.

“You know, there is such a thing as keeping you safe from yourself.”

“But that’s not what you’re doing.”

“Apparently not,” he said, sounding frustrated.  “Why don’t you just tell me what I’m doing and be quiet?”

“The great Sébastien Cherbourg wants me to tell him what he’s doing?”

“The great Sébastien Cherbourg wants you to shut up and let me think.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Holy hell, woman, are you ever quiet?”

Ella shrugged.  “I was quiet when I was a girl.  I guess I’m making up for lost time.”

He flicked an interested glance her way, as if she’d finally said something that didn’t anger him. 

“Watch the road,” she said, pointing at the intersection in front of them.

But he wouldn’t let it go.  “Why were you quiet?”

Suddenly, she realized she didn’t want to tell him.  It was no one’s business but her own.  Even though it was a simple statement of fact—I was an orphan at the age of eight—she was afraid he’d make some snide comment like,
Oh, that explains a lot
.  Besides, she’d built her whole life around the search for her father’s killers.  If she told him any tiny detail about it, he could deconstruct her life into all its parts
.  H
e’d know everything about her, instantly. 

She thought about something the museum talked about:  diversification.  Maybe she should have diversified her life a bit more, developing friends and interests that had nothing to do with gems and jewelry and murderers.  But she hadn’t.  She’d been a lost, lonely little girl and now she was a lost, lonely grown-up girl.  She didn’t even know what she would do if she weren’t searching for her father’s missing stones.  What was it that normal people did…go to the movies?  Walk on the beach?  Learn to knit? 

I
’ll do those things when the man who pulled the trigger is behind bars
, she thought.

“Did I bring up a touchy subject?” he asked.

“No,” she answered quickly.  “I was just trying to think of a polite way to tell you it’s none of your damn business.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw him smirk.  “Ms. Wilcox,” he said, “one of these days you’ll learn that
is
the polite way.”

She turned her head quickly to hide her smile
.

Sébastien sped from Russian Hill to the Tenderloin, a few shady blocks that held more than their share of homeless people, drug addicts
,
and thieves.  The Cherbourg Foundation owned and operated three halfway houses in the area,
where he sometimes recruited
for jobs as part of a charitable welfare-to-work program. 

He rarely ventured into the neighborhood himself, but like anything else that affected his family, he knew everything about the properties he owned, from the current residents’ names to the crimes they’d been convicted for.  He remembered that one of the Turk Street buildings had rented a room to a man named Eddie DiMarco, recently released after a
ten
-year stint in Folsom Prison for
grand larceny
. 

DiMarco had been in the building for three months, long enough to have a feel for the area—and for who a more experienced thief might turn to fence his stolen goods.

As he drove, he tried to avoid making eye contact with Ella.  He’d come close to losing his temper with her in the kitchen.  Too close.  Usually, it was easy for him to keep his feelings behind a wall of disdain or disinterest, but something about her was getting under his skin. 

He couldn’t tell whether it was the way she pelted him with questions, the way she stood up to him or the silent fear that never left her eyes. 

She didn’t seem to be afraid of him the way most people were, yet something obviously had her spooked.  What was it?  And where had she learned to stand her ground like that?  Half of the board members of his foundation were too afraid to challenge him or ask him to explain his reasoning.  She’d already done more than they ever had, and for what?  To defend her favorite coat? 

It made no sense. 
She
made no sense.  If she had that much instinct and initiative, why wasn’t she a high-powered executive?  Why was she wasting her time looking at old pieces of jewelry?  Everything with her only led to more questions.

He pulled up in front of the halfway house, a two-story ochre brick building with a white porch and cornice.  “This is it,” he said.

“What are we doing here?” Ella asked.  “This place is kind of creepy.”

“We’re going to talk to someone.  Come on.”  He got out of the car and hurried around to open Ella’s door for her.  Nuisance or not, she was still a woman and Cherbourg men opened doors for women. 

He grasped her arm as she exited the vehicle, both to make sure she stayed safe and to make sure she didn’t run away.  He hadn’t forgotten that she might be the thief, after all.       

“Are you sure you’re comfortable leaving your expensive car here?” she asked, glancing from side to side.  “This is a rough street.”

“They wouldn’t dare to take anything that belongs to me.”

She flashed him a doubtful look but kept her mouth shut. 

Sébastien pulled her up to the front door and pounded on it.  It swung open under the pressure, revealing a dark lobby with threadbare chairs and a fraying chenille sofa.  He tightened his grip on Ella and stepped inside.  She closed the front door behind them. 

The lobby smelled of cobwebs and cheap beer.  He glanced around, looking for someone to speak with, but every door was closed and every light switched off.  “Who are we looking for?” Ella asked, pointing at a mailbox bay with resident names printed in black capital letters.

“DiMarco,” he said.

Ella ran her finger down the list until she spotted him.  “2A,” she said.  “I don’t like the look of this.  Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

No
, he wanted to say. 
But it’s too late to turn back now.
  “Of course I know what I’m doing,” he snapped.  “Just stay quiet and listen carefully.” 

They marched up the staircase, covered with frayed floral carpeting.  The wood creaked under their every footstep.  He made a mental note to question the property manager about the decaying furnishings.  What did he pay the man for if not to keep this place in top shape?  Letting it fall to pieces destroyed the property value as well as the credibility of the halfway house’s message. 

With a tight grip on Ella’s arm, he stepped into the hallway and proceeded to door 2A.  “Mr. DiMarco,” he said, pounding on the door.  “This is Sébastien Cherbourg.” 

Instantly, he heard shuffling inside at least three nearby rooms.  He continued pounding and calling for DiMarco until a pair of feet scuffed their way to the door and opened it slightly.  Sébastien glimpsed a tanned face, full cheeks and sleepy brown eyes.  “Mr. DiMarco, I’m—
”

“I
know who you are,” the man said.  “What do you want?”

“I have a few questions to ask you regarding your
. . .
what shall we call it?
. . .
prior
field of employment
.  I’ll stand here in the hall and ask them as loudly as I can or you can open the door and—”

DiMarco quickly opened the door and Sébastien hustled Ella inside.  DiMarco rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shut the door behind them.  “What do you want with me?”

“I need a name,” he said. 

“But I don’t know—
”

Sébastien waved away the man’s protests.  “Listen,” he said.  “If someone wanted to sell a few million dollars worth of stolen jewelry, which fence would he use?”

DiMarco’s eyes fell to the floor and shifted nervously from corner to corner.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

They always lie the first time out
, he thought.  Sébastien grabbed the man’s t-shirt and gripped it tightly.  “You do know,” he growled.  “And you’re going to tell me right now.”

DiMarco’s brown eyes widened, pupils dilated with fear.  “Mr. Cherbourg, I swear I don’t do stuff like that anymore!  I don’t know anything about it!”

“I beg to differ, Mr. DiMarco.  Now you can give me a name….the right name…or I can evict you for being behind on your rent.  It’s your choice.”

The thief’s eyes widened with surprise.  “How did you know I was—”

“Answer me!”  Sébastien shook the man lightly, just to demonstrate how serious he was. 

DiMarco gulped and glanced at Ella.  Instantly, a raw wave of anger washed over him.  How dare he look at her? 

Sébastien shook DiMarco harder, forcing the man to look back at him.  “Don’t look at her,” he growled.  “She can’t help you.  I can.  Tell me who I need to find.” 

A thin sheen of perspiration had broken out over the man’s forehead.  He licked his lips and then spoke nervously, a quaver in his voice.  “Louie Pasternak.  He’s the best jewelry fence in the city.  I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I just said I can’t tell you anything else!”

Ella cleared her throat.  “He’s not a good listener, is he?”

Sébastien swung his head to glare at her.  “Stay out of this!  I thought I told you to be quiet.”  God, did she understand nothing about how dangerous this might be?  How could she treat it so lightly? 

Ella’s face was pale and tight, but her eyes sparkled with excitement and her voice held none of the shaky fear so evident in DiMarco’s.  Despite himself, Sébastien began to feel an unwilling admiration for her.  The only reason he’d taken her with him was to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t have any further access to his family’s vault without direct supervision.  He hadn’t expected her to assume the role of good cop to his bad cop.  As twisted as it was, it seemed like both of them might almost be having fun.

Stop it
, he ordered. 
You have to focus.  Stop thinking and her and think about the convicted criminal you’re questioning.
  “I believe I asked you a question, Mr. DiMarco.”

DiMarco’s wide eyes bulged with fear.  Sébastien could see thin red veins trace their way across the whites of his eyes.  “But Louie hates rats, Mr. Cherbourg!  I’ll be in big trouble if I tell you where he is.”

“You’ll be in big trouble if you don’t tell
me
where he is,” Sébastien said.  “You’re living under my roof, Mr. DiMarco.  Remember that.”

DiMarco licked his lips again and nodded.  “He’s in Hunter’s Point.  He has a store on the water, a bait shop.  It’s where they dock the cruise ships being repaired.”

“There.”  Sébastien released the man and smiled brightly.  “Was that so hard?”

DiMarco breathed a sigh of relief.  “You won’t tell him anything, will you?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up two fingers in the pledge he remembered from childhood scouting meetings.  Then he reached for Ella.  “Come on, let’s go.”

*

From the passenger seat, Ella stared straight ahead, unwilling to look at Sébastien.  She couldn’t believe the way he had acted—like a spoiled brat, demanding attention.  She felt sorry for Mr. DiMarco and everyone else who’d been woken up by Sébastien’s yelling and pounding on doors.  Just because he owned the building didn’t mean he owned the people inside it, too. 

On the other hand, she’d gotten a thrill by seeing how fearless he was in going after what he wanted.  She’d never believed DiMarco would harm either of them—but even if he’d tried, somehow she trusted Sébastien to keep both of them safe.  It wasn’t that he seemed overtly dangerous
. A
fter all, he wasn’t a professional boxer or CIA agent with combat training.  It was
just something in the way he carried himself.  So sure, so competent, so capable.  She was beginning to understand why Sébastien was in charge of the Cherbourg family enterprises. 

Ella tilted her head to look at him.  “Would you really have evicted Mr. DiMarco?” she asked.  “If he didn’t tell you what you wanted?”

Sébastien zoomed through a yellow light, aiming for a street that would take him across Market and down into gritty Hunter’s Point.  “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she said softly.  “It always matters.”

“Then no, I suppose I wouldn’t have.”