The Crasher (33 page)

Ashamed she’d broken her promise to her sister-in-law and not in the least mollified by Alex’s reply, Virginia made a snap
decision. She wouldn’t get anywhere unless she told Alex straight out what she knew, what Graham and she both knew, and what
she had told Ginny about her precious idol.

“Alex, Graham and I both know you’ve been in trouble with the law in Britain. You’re on the run, aren’t you?” Now she’d started,
she couldn’t stop. “We saw your picture in a British paper. Even though you used another name, and had a mustache, we easily
saw it was you. Don’t worry, we wouldn’t dream of worrying your mother, but I told Ginny, because I don’t want her getting
into any trouble because of you. As far as we’re concerned you’ve always stood for trouble. What are you doing here anyway
after all this time? How could you arrive here from Asia?”

Even as she asked the question, she knew she was being
stupid. What could she know about international air travel, moving as she did the cheapest way possible?

“You told Ginny what exactly?” There was a note in Alex’s voice Virginia had never heard before, a note she’d never heard
in anyone’s voice. She pulled the housecoat around her and backed toward the kitchen counter. She had to be wrong, but Alex
sounded menacing.

There was the hot coffeepot on the counter. She would pick it up as if she was going to pour some more coffee. She would hold
it in front of her as a weapon—in case.

She was surprised how calm she sounded. “I told Ginny what we’d read, that you’d been charged in London in connection with
a theft and got off; that there were other charges pending, but you’d skipped the country.” She was unable to resist adding
sarcastically, “Obviously, as I see with my own eyes.”

“You don’t see anything; you don’t know anything; you never did,” Alex sneered. “How could you arrive here from Asia?” he
mimicked. “You’ve lived here for over a year and you still don’t know Miami’s one of the major international airports in the
world.” He looked around, not bothering to conceal his distaste for the shabby surroundings. “How much do you know about your
precious little daughter? How d’you think she lives? Has she sent you any of her clippings, the ones where she’s wearing some
pretty fancy jewelry? Do you know anything”—Alex brought his face close to hers—“anything about the way your little princess
lives now, the one you brought up so carefully to be Miss Prim and Proper Perfect?”

When she didn’t reply, showing him with her sudden pallor and strained expression how his words hit home, he laughed, extracting
the coffeepot from her in one easy move. “We don’t want any accidents, do we Aunt V. You might burn yourself if you’re not
careful.” He tilted the pot a fraction as he spoke, as if to pour a drop onto her housecoat, then, moving it quickly upright
again, put it carefully down on the table.

She didn’t know Alex anymore. Perhaps she had never known him. Both Graham and she had dismissed him as a
lightweight, a ne’er-do-well, but harmless except for influencing Ginny too much with his racy way of life. Now she knew he
wasn’t harmless at all; he was a common criminal, whose winks and smiles no longer fooled her.

Thank God, he appeared to be leaving. He was at the back door, bathed in the brilliant morning light. Once more he said mockingly,
“No, you don’t know anything, Aunt V., and you shouldn’t pass judgment until you know who and what you’re dealing with.” As
suddenly as he’d arrived, he was gone.

Like a robot, Virginia washed up the cups and threw out the freshly brewed coffee. She put her hands to her ears, trying to
blot out the sound of Alex’s voice.

Was Ginny working with him? Virginia began to weep. She knew why. She was too frightened now to pick up the phone to call
her daughter; too frightened she might learn that the fears she’d had for a long long time about Alex’s power over Ginny were
all about to be confirmed.

The jewels were still where she’d found them. She’d only unhooked the black pearl necklace from the ball cock to let it slide
to join the other gems on the floor of the tank, so the toilet had stopped trickling.

Where else in the loft could the jewels be hidden? But for her migraine that made the sound of the trickling water intolerable,
she would never have found them herself, for who would ever think of looking there? No one, except a member of “a highly skilled
professional gang”—that was how the New York detective had described the robbers. Was Alex the ringleader or was someone leading
her cousin around by the nose?

Svank. It had to be something to do with Svank, for what had Alex told her at the Rainbow Room? “I am under the big man’s
command.” Svank had to be behind everything.

For the first twenty-four hours Ginny had been too ill, too terrified to move, locking her door, refusing to see anyone. She
hadn’t needed to act to convince Lee that she couldn’t come to the studio to help style the shoot after all, that she had
the mother and father of all migraines. She’d sounded at death’s door, she’d thought she might well be. The only effort had
come from convincing Lee not to visit, because she wouldn’t let her in however long and hard she rang the bell.

Lee probably thought she was suffering from another unrequited love affair. So let her think it. Ginny hadn’t cared what Lee
or anyone else thought; she hadn’t cared about anything except solving the biggest problem of her life, a problem she couldn’t
share with anyone.

Not even Johnny. Especially not Johnny. It had been gratifying to hear how concerned he’d sounded when she’d called in sick.
He had also sounded relieved, when she’d assured him she felt too poorly to receive any visitors.

Every time the phone rang Ginny rushed to answer it, certain it had to be Alex. How could he do this to her? How had he gotten
himself into such a mess? She couldn’t, just couldn’t accept the logical conclusion—that Alex, her beloved cousin, counsel,
best friend in all the world was a crook, and not just a petty crook either, for now she remembered with horror his “gifts.”

The necklace he’d “borrowed” from Harry Winston, the one he’d fastened around her neck the night of the downtown DIFFA ball,
the one she’d assumed was made of rhinestones, although they looked like diamonds. Where had the necklace come from? Whose
diamonds had she been wearing so innocently? Then there was the mysterious “entailed” bracelet dropped off by his Scottish
friend Angus—a name she would now never forget; the bracelet Alex told her not to wear to the Fifth Avenue party, the bracelet
she’d given back. Why? Was it because it was too recognizable? Would Luisa have recognized it as belonging to someone she
knew?

Why had he wanted it back? She hadn’t given it much thought, so used was she to Alex giving and taking back, coming and going.

Exactly when had he told her he’d left the “Wall Street trenches for good” and was now “dedicated to buying and selling art,
jewelry and objets”? It was soon after he’d gotten
to know Svank. She was sure of it. Svank had to be responsible for Alex’s and now her terrible predicament.

She talked herself into believing this at the end of one day, only to wake up at the beginning of the next with her mind churning
with new hows, whys and wherefores. That Svank was involved seemed obvious, and yet, if so, with such valuable loot stashed
in her loft why hadn’t she heard from the monster himself or any of his henchmen? She shivered thinking of the biggest of
them all, Hugo Humphrey.

Because Svank didn’t know she had the jewels. Nobody would think of her loft as a hiding place for such valuables, let alone
her toilet. And the reason Alex hadn’t called? Because he was acting as he normally did, floating in and out of her life,
in order to avoid attracting any attention to her. Obviously he never dreamed she’d find what he’d planted on her so soon,
and he didn’t know that by a curious twist of fate she also knew of his problems in England.

When the time was right Alex would turn up and explain everything. Please God, she prayed, let it be soon, for how long could
she live with such a secret?

A murder on the West Side had knocked the East Side robbery off the local TV news, but rehashed and reexamined, it was still
in the papers, although not on the front page. Perhaps Johnny would know something the papers weren’t printing?

“Johnny?”

“Yep.” He sounded preoccupied.

“Ginny.”

His voice warmed up. “Ginny! I was going to call you today. You sound better. Ready to go to work?”

“Of course.” She wasn’t, but just hearing his voice made her long to see him, whether he knew anything or not.

“You don’t sound too eager.”

“Oh, I am. I am.”

“Tomorrow’s the opening night of the Cocteau revival with a splashy party afterwards at Tavern on the Green.”

Ginny felt physically sick. How far removed from real life all that was. She heard Johnny shuffle through papers. She
thought of the way his hair thinned at the back, although it curled up around the nape of his neck. In her weakened, low condition,
it made her feel weaker.

“I’ve missed you, Ginny,” he was saying. She didn’t believe it but please, say it again, she prayed. He didn’t hear her prayer.
“How about coming over this afternoon, late, say about five-thirty. We’ll go over the drill for tomorrow night. I’ll explain
to you a theater press-agent’s nightmare.”

She dressed carefully in what she’d come to regard as her “First Lady” tweeds, remembering her close encounter with the Secret
Service at the Plaza Hotel. Esme had already given her a generous advance on all the dresses she was going to make for the
wedding, so she took a cab over to Johnny on the Upper West Side.

Someone had left a copy of
Quest
on the seat, the glossy real estate magazine given away in tony apartment houses, which often carried coverage of parties.

On one of the pages was a picture of Johnny with his arm loosely around the waist of a very pretty, petite blonde. “Duane
Dickens, the actress,” said the caption. “A new squeeze of John Q. Peet, the columnist, at Mortimer’s, celebrating the publication
of
Green Ice: An Exposé of the Drug Business,
by his illustrious father, Quentin Peet.”

Ginny felt like turning back. Why hadn’t Johnny asked her to crash the Mortimer’s book party? Why hadn’t he even mentioned
it? Was he ashamed of her meeting his father? Was this a new squeeze or an old squeeze? Was Duane Dickens the woman he was
“tied up with”? For the first time since the robbery, her mind was focused on something other than the jewels and Alex.

When Johnny opened the door she couldn’t hide her depression, although he didn’t seem to notice it at first. Holding her away
at arm’s length he exclaimed, “Well you look better than ever.”

She smiled stiffly. “Thank you.”

“Oops! Have I done something wrong? I know. I didn’t send you any grapes for the sick room. Okay. I’ll make it up
to you, partner. How about a glass of grapes, champagne style? This just arrived from”—he picked up a card—“from Elizabeth
Taylor.”

She shrugged her shoulders to show how unimpressed she was. She hated being addressed as partner, too. “No thank you, I don’t
like champagne.”

“Perhaps you’d like this bottle better?” Laughing at the look on her face, Johnny tossed a small bottle of perfume onto her
lap. Black Pearls by Elizabeth Taylor. “I have to confess, Ginny, I am not being pursued by the great star, but by the public
relations department of the company putting out her new smell.” When she didn’t respond, he joined her on the sofa, his closeness
as disturbing as ever. “Is something bothering you? You look upset.”

She could feel tears pricking the back of her eyes. This was terrible. Once she started crying, she’d find it hard to stop.
“No, nothing. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a glass. Why not?”

Why not indeed?

There was an awkward silence. She tried to think of something to say before she asked the question burning in her mind. “I
liked your piece on Rosemary,” she said haltingly.

He looked startled, even shocked. “Rosemary?”

“Yes, the homeless woman whose story you’ve been following, once a college graduate. Isn’t that her name? From Sacks to Saks…
the one you first mentioned curled up beneath the Valentino window at Saks, the one wrapped up in a sack.”

His face brightened. “Thank you, Ms. Ginny. I’ve been getting quite a reaction to those pieces. Her name
is
Rosemary, although I only mentioned it once. I usually call her Madame Saks. You’re very observant… but I know that.”

He got up and expertly opened the champagne with no more than a soft pop.

“Have you heard anything… anything more about Luisa’s jewels… the Villeneva robbery? Did you see Luisa?” She
hoped she didn’t sound anxious. She didn’t think so, although a small nerve throbbed in her throat.

“Luisa is devastated, although there’s plenty more where they came from,” Johnny said casually. “There doesn’t seem to be
anything new…”

There was, but Johnny wasn’t about to tell Ms. Walker. He smiled, then said, “Didn’t you tell me that cousin of yours introduced
you to Luisa? What’s his name, Alec?”

Was she blushing? She didn’t know. More likely the blood had drained out of her face. “Alex,” she corrected him.

“Alex what?”

“Alex Rossiter.” Why was he mentioning Alex? The nerve throbbed again.

“Did you tell him what happened? I thought, since you say he’s so smart, he might have some angles.”

He suspects something, she thought, trying to smile as Johnny handed her a glass of champagne. “No, I haven’t told him.” She
tried to sound indifferent. “He’s traveling right now.”

“Travels a lot, doesn’t he? One of these days when he’s in town, I’d like to meet him.”

When Ginny didn’t answer, Johnny ran his hand through his already unruly hair and to her consternation continued, “Something’s
not quite kosher about this robbery, Ginny.”

Alarm bells went off. Johnny’s attitude made her think he was holding out on her, or was she being paranoid? It wouldn’t be
surprising.