The Florentine Deception (9 page)

“Hi, Regina. What did the seller say?”

“Who's Regina?”

“Oh. Hey, Tom. Sorry about that. Regina's a real estate broker. I thought you were her.”

“A broker? Are you buying a new place?”

“Something like that. I'll fill you in next time we hang. Anyway, what's up?”

“Dude—I just wanted to call and thank you for the tickets. That's unbelievable. How the hell did you score second-row Lakers season tickets?”

“I know a friend who knows a friend. I'm glad you like them.”

“One sec, it's going to be a bit noisy. I just got home.” I heard a garage door lowering in the background and a bunch of keys jangling.

“One minute,” he continued, “let me unlock …” I heard the door open, then a pause. “Oh shit. What the fuck?”

“What happened?”

“Holy shit—our place has been totally ransacked.” A pause. “Gennady?” he yelled. “Gennady?”

“Jesus. Are you okay?”

“I'm not sure. They might still be here. Alex, I'll call you back.”

The call cut out.

“Was that Tom Chien from your startup?” Steven waited a few seconds, then tapped me on the shoulder. “Alex—who was that?”

“Sorry.” I focused back on Steven. “Yeah, it was Tom. Somebody broke into his house.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. He lives a few miles from here. I'm going to head over. Do me a favor and pick up the tab for my food. I'll call you later.”

I arrived at Tom and Gennady's place ten minutes later.

The house was in shambles. Every last cushion, pillow, and mattress had been slashed, their batting removed and strewn in cloud-like tufts. All the closets had been tossed as well. Everything—literally everything: clothes, suitcases, shoeboxes—had been removed, scoured, and tossed. Even the vacuum cleaner bag had been slashed and was hemorrhaging dust.

“You okay?” I asked Tom.

“Yeah, whoever broke in is long gone.” He gazed down at his watch and sneered. “I'm just waiting for LA's finest to arrive.”

“Did they take anything?”

“I don't know.… Not that I can tell.”

“So then why—”

“I've got no idea. It's not like we have any expensive hardware here. No cash. No drugs.” He shook his head, then said, “Gennady's going to blow a gasket.”

“Sorry, man.”

“It's okay. Nothing to do about it now.” He sat down on the curb.

“Yeah. Well, hopefully they can lift some prints or something.”

“I'm not holding my breath. Speaking of that, I need a smoke.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one, and shoved it into his mouth.

“Those are going to kill you.”

“That's what Sheila always used to say.” He lit the cigarette and took a puff. “Speaking of Sheila. What did she have to say?”

“Sheila?”

“The letter I gave you the other day—Sheila's letter from India.”

I'd completely forgotten her letter given the exploits of the other night; in fact, I had no idea where I'd left it. It was probably still in my jeans.

“No idea. I haven't read it yet. Sorry.”

“No problem. I was just curious.” Tom took another drag, then stood up. “Here they are.”

Chapter 15

Four hours later, I jumped in the shower, closed my eyes, and relaxed under a near scalding stream of water. I did some of my best thinking in the shower, and the events of the last few days had given me plenty to reflect upon. Somehow, deep inside, I knew the diamond was in Lister's house. And the challenge of finding it made me feel alive. More alive than I'd felt in years. I'd forgotten what it was like. The rush of the challenge. I craved the challenge. I decided then that no matter what happened, I'd see this through.

Toweling off, I noticed the LED on my smartphone blinking. I pulled up my voicemail app, tapped the top item on the list, and wedged the phone against my ear with my shoulder.

“Hi Alex. It's Regina Flowers. I've talked to the estate trustee and he's willing to let you move in early if you're willing to pay rent until escrow closes. The rent will be ten thousand per month, prorated of course, for the twenty-three days you have left in escrow.” A pause. “Give me a ring and tell me what you want to do.”

That was one problem solved. I tossed the phone onto my bed, and, after failing to find any clean pants in my closet, grabbed the comfy jeans I'd worn the other night from the top of the hamper. Which reminded me—I still hadn't read the letter from Sheila.

I fished around in my back-right pocket and came up empty; the left pocket wasn't much better, producing nothing but dried leaves. Overwhelmed by momentary obsession, I dug through my laundry pile and then bounded downstairs to excavate the strata of receipts, wrappers, loose change, and paper napkins in the crevice next to my car seat.

No letter.

I knew I'd had it when I'd left Tom's place the other night; I'd stuffed it in my pocket, and the pants had been sitting in the hamper ever since our trek to Lister's house. In fact, they still prickled with thorns from the chaparral.

I plucked out a burr and stared at it. The moment of reflection fundamentally disturbed me. I'd lost the letter in Richard Lister's backyard, and that man had found it.

He'd come after me—he thought I had the Florentine.

Fuck.

I picked up my phone and dialed. Steven answered on the first ring.

“Dude, I know who broke into Tom and Gennady's place.”

“What? How?”

“The night we went out to Richard Lister's house, I lost a letter in his yard.”

“I'm not following—you lost a letter in his backyard?”

“Yeah. With Tom and Gennady's address on it.”

“Why did you have a letter addressed to Tom and Gennady?”

“It was addressed to me, but had their street address on it.”

“What? Why?”

“It doesn't matter. The point is, I stuffed that letter in my pants when I left their place, and I can't find it anymore, and the only place I could have lost it was in Richard Lister's yard. And a few days later, their house is sacked.”

He hesitated. “You really think that guy found your letter and came after you?”

“If he thought I had the diamond. Or knew where it was. He might.” I gritted my teeth. “Fuck!”

“And you're
sure
you lost it in the yard?”

“There's no other possibility.” I looked up at the ceiling and considered. “Unless …”

“What?”

“I took a pretty big fall into the chaparral when I jumped the wall to escape. I could have lost it there, or in the gully behind the house.”

“For both our sakes, let's hope that's what happened.” He paused a few seconds. “Alex?”

“I'm thinking,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I could have lost it there.”

“Maybe we should just call the whole thing off.”

“What good would that do?” I growled. “If the guy did find the letter, then he's after me whether or not I decide to stop the purchase. Fuck.”

“You don't know that,” he said. “The guy obviously didn't find anything in Tom and Gennady's place, so maybe he'll lay off, think it was a false lead.”

“I hope you're right. Either way, I understand if you want out, but at this point it's too late for me. If the guy found the letter, I'm fucked whether or not we stop.” I shook my head. “I'm seeing this through.”

Steven was quiet for a good five seconds.

“What the hell.” He sighed. “You're my best friend, and hell if I'm going to let you get yourself killed.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But that never stopped me before.”

“Thanks man.”

“Just don't say a word to Hillary,” he said. “If she had any idea there was any danger at all, she'd kill us both. This guy would be the least of our worries.”

“Oh lord. Here we go again,” I said.

“Buckle up.”

Chapter 16

I spent the next two days holed up in my house, a borrowed pistol from Gennady in hand, peering through my master-bedroom shutters for any sign of a stalker. Both nights, Steven arrived at about eleven—how he managed to con Hillary into this I still don't know—and we took shifts sleeping and keeping watch. Thankfully, my paranoia was misplaced, and our only visitor was the mailman.

I'd arranged to meet Regina at ten a.m. that Sunday to do a walkthrough and hand her the rent check. She arrived right on time, and by eleven, I had the keys. An hour later, Steven, Hillary, and I were fed, geared up, and ready for our campaign, Hillary none the wiser about our earlier madness.

Things were somehow looking up.

Steven donned his leather utility belt and a pair of heavy leather gardening gloves. His implements included two flashlights strapped to either side of his belt, a heavy-duty Leatherman knife, a twenty-foot coiled nylon string, a Craftsman hammer, a roll of duct tape, and a flathead screwdriver. Vintage Steven.

I had a crowbar, my climbing headlamp and, concealed within my pocket, Gennady's loaded Ruger pistol. Better safe than sorry.

“Let's search the basement first,” I said, motioning to the inconspicuous door. Hillary, determined to document our hunt, began filming with her iPhone's video camera while I popped up the brass ring-pull and unlatched the basement door.

“Be careful as you go down,” I said, pulling the chain to the light. “Dammit. The bulb's busted.”

“Pretty spooky,” commented Hillary.

“Easy, Velma,” said Steven.

“Flashlights?” I prompted. I depressed the small button on my headlamp, and instantly, a narrow beam burst from its trio of LED bulbs. A squall of fine dust particles danced through the light as I descended the stairs to the basement level.

“To the left,” I said, once we'd reached the bottom. “And against the back wall.” Steven panned his light over. “Now down. There's our first dig site.”

The limestone slab was exactly as we'd left it, with the imprint of Steven's knuckles still discernable in the thin layer of dust surrounding the stone.

“Holmes, stick your knife right here.” I motioned to the edge of the dusty, two-by-two-foot gray tile. Steven handed his flashlight to Hillary and inserted his blade in the gap next to the tile. I followed suit with my crowbar, and with a coordinated heave, the edge of the stone rose a few centimeters above the other slabs. Steven insinuated his glove-clad fingers into the gap, raised the stone several inches, and then grabbed it squarely. As he lifted, bits of damp earth and mold filaments tumbled from the underside of the stone and onto a yellowing plastic bag the size of a legal notebook.

“Eureka!” I said.

“Any bets?” inquired Hillary while zooming in on our treasure.

“Five bucks it's full of savings bonds,” replied Steven.

“You're on.” I brushed a few clumps of dirt from the package and removed it from its plot. It was sealed with a curling strip of duct tape.

“Heavy. I'd say there're at least fifty pages in it.” I carefully removed the tape, unfolded the flap, and extracted a paper-clipped wad of sheets.

“And the verdict is?” asked Hillary.

“It looks like a will,” Steven offered, grabbing the pile from me and flipping through a few more pages. “Dated June of last year.”

“Worth anything?” asked Hillary.

“Not unless you're named in it,” said Steven. “So much for the bearer bonds.”

“All right,” I responded, slightly dejected. “We've still got plenty of exploring to do.” Steven inserted the stack back into the bag and started for the stairwell.

“You brought the ladder, right?” I asked, once we'd reached the main level.

“
Yah vol, mein herr.
”

“You mules go do the heavy lifting,” said Hillary. “By the time you're back, I'll have found the latch to the secret door.” She pointed toward the library. “You said the door was up there, right?”

“That's our best guess.”

The two of us took off for the ladder outside. A few minutes later, we rested it up against the wall by the attic trapdoor and rejoined Hillary in the library.

“Any luck, Hill?” asked Steven.

“I'm pretty sure there's no secret door here. I've pushed and tilted everything, but nothing gives.”

I scanned the cabinetry. The built-in shelves were separated into four vertical sections, in total about fifteen feet wide and ten feet high, and made of an antique mahogany inlaid with teak vines. A newer, sliding mahogany ladder was set into a sunken guiderail along the floor.

“Have you tried looking on the top shelves, or on top of the bookcase?”

“That's where I started.”

I climbed the ladder and, gripping the bookcase, slid myself back and forth along the rail, scanning the top of the cabinetry.

“Just dust and spider webs, right?”

“Yeah … wait.” I slid the ladder to the leftmost bookshelf. “There's a footprint on this one. Did you walk up here?”

“Does it look like I could walk up there?” responded Hillary. Not likely, given that the top of the case was less than four feet from the ceiling.

“Well that's a bit of a mystery,” I said. “Hmmm. Maybe I'm thinking too much like a tall person.”

I crouched down to inspect the woodwork on the underside of each of the lower shelves, running my hands along each surface in search of buttons or other mechanical switches. Steven, similarly inspired, initiated an assault on the sconces flanking the shelves, twisting, pushing, and pulling each fixture.

“Wait a second!” he said.

I popped to my feet.

“I think,” he grimaced as he twisted the leftmost fixture, “this might be it!”

The right sconce resisted a beat longer, then cracked and came off into his hand.