21

THE NECKLACE

It takes several casual phone calls and a chance meeting at my grandmother’s, but I manage to convince Jane to meet me at the Conrad Museum for a private tour.

The museum isn’t very tall, but it takes up half a block, signaling its importance to the city’s cultural backdrop. The people passing by—mostly dog walkers and au pairs—also indicate the wealth of the area, as does the valet parking out front. If those signs weren’t enough to indicate that this bland, unassuming building holds a necklace worth ten million dollars, then the security features I immediately pick out would do the job.

Take that small doorway at the front, for example. There’s nothing about the single frosted glass door that inspires awe, but it’s a good deterrent for the theft of large-scale items—specifically, framed art and sculpture installations. If the item won’t fit, it’s not coming out that way. Similarly, the lack of windows across the front means outdoor surveillance is impossible. You have to get inside to survey the building, which comes with a higher risk of detection. And one of the large skyscrapers next door houses a bank on the bottom floor—complete with an ATM outside—which means there’s an external video surveillance feed to worry about.

I might not know as much about museum architecture as Grant’s friend Mariah, but I can tell you this much—breaking into the Conrad isn’t for the faint of heart. These people are good at security. There’s a reason my friends and I avoided places like this for most of our career.

Jane pulls back from the airy kiss she lands on my cheek and gestures at the museum, seeing none of the same details. She’s here as a favor to an old friend, her errand pure and simple, and I can’t help but envy her for it.

“I’m so glad you asked me to show you the collection,” she says warmly. “I’ve been dying for an excuse to see it again.”

“No, thank you for making it so easy to get in.”

She looks stunning in flowing black pants and a black blouse that billows all the way down her arms. Repeating Tara’s cream-colored skirt risked exposing myself as the fashionless hack I am, so I stopped at the bioluminescent store on the way here. The wood pulp tunic the sales clerk suggested is a lot less weird than it sounds.

“I was under the impression it was almost impossible to see,” I say.

“Ah, that’s because you don’t have my connections. Welcome to a whole new world of inside access.” Jane winks and leads the way into the museum with a sure-footed speed even Tara would be forced to admire.

At first glance, I don’t see any major security features other than the traditional electronic system at the front door and individual triggers on each of the displays. Unfortunately, I don’t have a chance to look deeper before a dapper, mustachioed museum curator greets us with outstretched hands.

“Pierre, so lovely of you to squeeze us in.” Jane leans in to Pierre to plant another of her airy kisses. “This is the girl I was telling you about, Penelope Blue. She’s Lily’s daughter.”

He turns to me with alarm. “What? Impossible! This is no girl. She’s too old.”

I guess maybe the wood pulp isn’t as flattering as I’d hoped.

“I expected a baby, a child. If Liliana’s daughter is this old, then we’re…”

“Ancient,” Jane says wryly.

Pierre laughs and extends his hand. It’s surprisingly soft. “I refuse to accept it. You’re not her daughter; you’re her spirit reincarnated.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. I liked Liliana. A wild thing, but always good for a laugh. I was sorry to hear of her passing.”

My chest gives a painful squeeze. He’s not the only one. “How did you know her? Were you two friends?”

Pierre shakes his head, his mustache twitching. “Oh, no. She was quite above my touch.”

Jane interprets for me. “Nonsense. When we first met, Pierre was an art tutor, and we were his wayward pupils—I never could get the hang of watercolors, even at his exorbitant rates. It didn’t take long for him to surpass me in this world. As you can see, he now holds the keys to some of the most beautiful art collections in the world.”

I perk up at the picture thus conjured. “My mom was an artist?”

“Not at all. She was worse at watercolors than me.” Jane speaks in a friendly way that robs her words of any offense. “She mostly came along to keep me company.”

“You mean cause mischief,” Pierre suggests. “She once switched the lids on my oil paints when I wasn’t looking. My next pupil gave his Mona Lisa purple skin.”

That picture causes me to perk up even more. The idea of a serene mother figure painting watercolors is fine and all, but I can identify much more strongly with this delinquent version of her.

But Jane quickly corrects that assumption. “That was my idea, I’m afraid, Pierre.” She turns to me with a warm smile. “Don’t believe a word either he or your grandmother says about your mother—she was an angel.”

Although I’m dying to hear more, Pierre shows himself ready to move on. He nods once and ushers us through the rest of museum, showing it off with a proud, almost paternal air.

Poor man. If only he knew what kinds of plots are underway.

As expected—and as the blueprints indicated—the museum’s main area is cavernous, lofty and wide with a few displays artfully arranged to make it appear even larger. Residing as I do in Grant’s living museum, every nook and cranny filled with memories and treasures, this waste of space alarms me.

Equally alarming is the blasé way Pierre leads us into an elevator at the back of the museum. The metal doors open to reveal a space so small, it sets my heart racing to look at it. I know, on a cognitive level, that it’s another security feature to limit access to the second floor, but that knowledge doesn’t make me feel better about stepping inside.

In an attempt to distract myself from the familiar signs of claustrophobia—heart pounding and breath coming faster—I decide to get to work.

“I was just thanking Jane for bringing me to see this collection before it’s gone,” I say. “I understand it’s pretty exclusive.”

Pierre’s mustache twitches, but I can’t make out the full expression of his lips underneath. “A financial necessity, unfortunately. The display was open to the public when we first opened, but our insurance company decided they didn’t care for that. We had to move the collection upstairs to a more secure location, and access is by appointment only. To be honest, I’ll be glad when it’s no longer my responsibility.”

The elevator shudders. Almost by impulse, my hand shoots out and grasps Jane by the arm. She feels tense, and I wonder if she, too, gets nervous in spaces like this.

“Sorry about that,” Pierre says as we finally reach the upper floor. “We have someone coming out to look at it tomorrow.”

My step wavers as I get off the elevator—and not only because I’m grateful to be in the open air again. Elevator repairs are one of Oz’s specialties. He looks incredibly convincing in coveralls and can also install an override chip to control the movements from afar.

In other words, things are looking very good for my friends…and very bad for me.

In the twenty seconds it takes to get to the collection door and wait for Pierre to swipe his key card and enter the access code—it starts with a two, but I don’t see anything beyond that—I make a quick survey of the scene. In addition to elevator access, there’s an emergency stairwell exit on one side. It’s protected by an alarm system, but those can be bypassed, so it’s a possible way in. The vents are small, though—almost as small as the ones at the FBI—so those are probably out.

Which is no real surprise, to be honest. If my friends don’t have me to fold up like a pretzel, they’ll need to get in a different way.

“And here it is!” Pierre opens the door to the display room, but I notice that before the overhead lamps turn on, he issues a voice command to disengage a blinking red light off to one side.

I know what that blinking red light is. It might not look like much, but should one of us light up a cigarette and start puffing, the answer would be clear.

Lasers.

Oh, God. They’re going to try and get past lasers. Riker must be in his element—he’s been preparing for lasers his whole life. I know him well enough to assume he’ll try using mirrors—something that only works in the movies, and even then only with perfect timing and expert intervention. If he wants an actual chance of getting through, the system will have to be electronically disabled, which isn’t nearly as much fun but just as risky.

“Oh, and I’ll need you both to sign in.” Pierre hands Jane a clipboard and apologizes as he asks to check our IDs. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have a problem with his request—there are no fewer than three fake driver’s licenses in my wallet at all times—but with Jane watching and the introductions already made, I’m forced to pull out the real deal.

Jane smiles as she passes me the clipboard. “This is so they know who to blame if anything goes missing. Better keep your hands in your pockets.”

I finish signing my name with mixed emotions, my presence here sealed and delivered. Whether I like it or not, there’s no way I can take the necklace for myself now, and I’m equally committed to stopping my friends—and/or the Peep-Toe Prowler—from making the attempt. Grant will never forgive me if he shows up to investigate a burglary only to find his wife listed smack in the middle of the suspect list.

I guess this is what I get for letting my interest in this case get the better of me. Curiosity killed the cat burglar.

“I’ll do that,” I manage, and I sneak a quick glance at the other names before Pierre takes the clipboard back. Nothing pops out as an alias my friends have used in the past, and I don’t see any mention of Christopher Leon or Tara Lewis, but that doesn’t mean much. “So do we just walk around?”

“Take all the time you want. I’m merely the gatekeeper.” Pierre takes a post near the door. It’s the only way in or out of the room, but that doesn’t mean a crafty thief couldn’t cut in through the walls from the outside, assuming they disabled that ATM camera next door. “And let me know if you have any questions.”

I do have questions—hundreds of them—but I keep my thoughts to myself as Jane and I work our way clockwise through the room, admiring the fifties- and sixties-era jewelry displays secured behind thick glass cases. Ornate flower brooches inlaid with mother-of-pearl, square-cut emeralds and jade layered into chunky necklaces, diamond cuff bracelets… It’s quite a collection, and I can understand why the Peep-Toe Prowler—or Prowlers, as the case may be—are looking here next.

“And here it is,” Jane says, pulling my attention to the piece in the center of the room. A large pedestal case draws the eye, but not nearly as much as the promised diamond spikes contained within. “What do you think?”

Oh, man. What do I think?

It’s hideous. Starbrite is an accurate description for the starburst pattern with its round center and radiating spikes, but I don’t know anyone—short of a medieval torture mistress—who would want protruding shards of the world’s hardest gem that close to her jugular. Not to mention the yellow gold so typical of this era is off-putting in a setting that size.

But.

Diamonds.

Really big diamonds.

“I love it,” I say.

She laughs. “It’s beastly, isn’t it? There are all of five women in this world who could pull it off, and not a single one of them is under the age of seventy.”

My grandmother, for example, could totally make it work. But I’m determined to be polite and uninterested, so I say, “That’s not true. You could probably wear anything and look great.”

“You think?” she asks and indicates her barren neck with a raised brow. Like her slender, ringless fingers, the lack of jewelry suits her, gives her a hard edge I find appealing and intimidating at the same time. “You’re sweet, but I don’t wear much in the way of jewelry. The things I like are soft and feminine—two things I can’t pull off, no matter how hard I try, so I gave up years ago. A small, delicate thing like you, however…”

She makes a sweeping perusal of my own minimal adornment, but I don’t, as I expect, feel uncomfortable about it. “Hmm,” she continues. “I see you’re like me. You aren’t wearing anything other than your wedding band and that single chain.”

Both were gifts from my husband, and I love them because of their simplicity. The infinity knot around my neck might not be worth much from a financial standpoint, but it is, without question, the most valuable piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned.

Fingering the delicate chain, I think of the man who gave it to me—along with his promises of fidelity and affection. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve either, especially since a part of me is standing here contemplating major theft, preparing to stab one of those diamond spikes in his back.

“Yeah,” I say and sigh. “I’m a minimalist.”

“That’s an area where you and your mother don’t align. She loved jewelry of all varieties, diamonds especially.”

I latch on to the change of topic like it’s oxygen. “Tell me your favorite memory of her,” I beg, turning my back on the Starbrite Necklace with a pivot of my heel.

Jane’s brows raise a fraction. She seems surprised by how easily I’m able to dismiss ten million dollars on display, but there’s no way to explain without giving myself away. Diamonds are easy. Relationships are hard.

“There are so many to choose from,” she says carefully. “What do you want to know?”

Everything. All of it. What she was like as a child, what her hopes and dreams for the future held, why she gave up her whole life to marry a man who was her exact opposite.

How she gave up her whole life to marry a man who was her exact opposite.

I settle for, “Were you there when she met my dad?”

“No, I wasn’t. I’m sorry. I wish I had been—when we were teenagers, all we could talk about was our future careers, husbands, children…” As she trails off, her eyes turn mistily to mine. “The career I managed, but the family side of things has always eluded me. She did a lot better at that than me.”

I don’t yet trust myself to speak, so it’s just as well that Jane keeps going.

“Lily and I had a falling out a few months before she met your father, and we never got a chance to reconcile before she became pregnant with you and… Well, you know the rest.”

Yes. I’m familiar with the details. That’s when I was born, when she died—when I stole the one thing my dad cared about most in this world. It will forever be my greatest take.

“We had a fight about something stupid, a dress I borrowed and didn’t return, and that was the last I ever saw of her. I tried to stay in contact—several times, I tried—but she didn’t need me anymore. Not when she had your father.”

I don’t like the way this conversation is going, the idea that friends and husbands are mutually exclusive, so I attempt to turn her thoughts. “What about the thing you and Pierre were talking about before?” I ask. “The switching paint lids and stuff? Did you guys pull a lot of pranks like that?”

Jane turns her head as if to avert my gaze, the sharp line of her hair cutting across her cheek. “Not really, no. Don’t get me wrong—we could have gotten away with that and much more. We were young and wealthy and, in your mother’s case at least, breathtakingly gorgeous.”

I nod, unwilling to say anything aloud for fear Jane might remember where we are and stop.

“It would have been so easy for your mom to become spoiled by it all, but she didn’t.” An almost perplexed line folds her brow. “I don’t know how she managed it, to be honest. Everything in the world was hers for the taking, but she still managed to be kind to everyone—it didn’t matter who they were or where they came from. I’ve never known anyone with such a good heart.”

I nod again, except this time it’s to keep myself from bursting into tears. Jane’s description of my mother is everything I’d hoped and feared it would be. Her beauty, her virtue, her nobility—and me, standing in a museum with her oldest friend, casing ten-million-dollar jewels and scanning for exits.

“What else can you tell me about her?” I ask, afraid to learn more but unable to stop now. “Did she have any fears, any bad habits? What sorts of things made her cry? What did her laugh sound like?”

Instead of answering, Jane shakes her sleek black bob. “So many questions. She was never very patient, either. Don’t be angry if I don’t give you all my stories at once, okay? I like having an excuse to keep seeing you. Let’s go look at the hammered gold bracelet again, shall we?”

I agree, pleased with the distraction this suggestion affords. I’m also grateful to return to my survey of the second floor, since I still have a job to do, little though I like it. I make one last circle of the room, committing its dimensions and layout to memory. I’d also like to nail down details about the event while I have Jane on hand, but she takes a few furtive glances at her watch, and I realize I’m probably keeping her from more important places.

“Thank you, Pierre, for letting us see this,” I say as we make our way out. He doesn’t frisk us or anything, but he does make us sign the paper again. “The collection is stunning—it really is. I assume this will be closed on the night of the ball?”

“Without a doubt,” he replies and commands the lasers to go back up again. He also locks up behind us, the lights plunging as he once again enters the key code. “We’ve even hired an outside security company to add to our numbers. It never hurts to be careful.”

I don’t disagree. Extra security is exactly what this facility needs. Except that Oz is on the payroll of half the security companies in the area. And the other half?

Well, they’ve never stopped us before.

As we leave the Conrad behind us, I detain Jane long enough to ask her one more question. “You know, with all the extra security needed, did you guys ever think it would be easier to hold the ball somewhere else?”

She casts me a curious, searching look. Crap. I glance away and focus on a nearby pigeon’s attempt to steal a sandwich. Did I push too hard? Make my interest in the collection too obvious? Riker and Oz are so much better at reconnaissance than me—they both have a subtlety I lack.

“Moving the event was discussed,” Jane replies, still watching me. “But in the end, we decided it was worth the risk. The best things in life usually are, don’t you think?”

I swallow and nod, feeling the full weight of those words. She might be talking about high-end charity events and diamond collections, but I know better.

The best things in life are the riskiest of all.

* * *

I stop by Jordan’s apartment on the way home. The set of blueprints, which are beginning to show serious signs of wear and tear, are tucked under my arm.

“You might want to look into your home security system,” I say as she pulls open the door to reveal the beckoning scent of vanilla and ammonia—a clear sign she’s either cleaning or working on a new chemical formula. “You’ve been burgled.”

She blinks at me. “But I don’t have a home security system. I have an Oz.”

I give the papers a shake. “Then you might want to look into Oz, because he’s slipping. Is he here?”

“Uh, no. He’s at work.”

Work. Right. Ten million bucks says he’s wearing a security guard’s uniform and training up on museum protocol. Either that or he’s setting appointments for elevator repair. We’re not a hold-a-real-job sort of people. I did a lengthy stint as a volunteer dance instructor last year, but that ended along with my deception of Grant.

I shake the blueprints again. Jordan takes them this time, her brow furrowed as she unrolls them and registers the familiar sight. “Where did you get these?”

“Riker had them. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He somehow managed to extract them from your high-security chest without your knowing about it. I think he was using them to woo Tara.”

“Oh. Um. About that.”

“About him wooing Tara? I know—it’s gross, right? Do you think she chains him up? Do you think he likes it?”

“Actually, Pen…”

“I know, I know,” I say. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who asked him to keep an eye on her. But of all the people in the world who could withstand her lures, I thought for sure he’d be one of them. He knows what that woman is to me. He knows how much it would hurt me to see them working together.”

I’d intended to play this light and breezy, leaping over the emotional hurdles with sure-footed grace, but I’m unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone at that last part. Jordan notices, and her voice goes flat. “You found out.”

“That these blueprints aren’t for a jewelry store?” I nod, not waiting for her confirmation. I don’t trust what will happen if I hear her say the words out loud.

Yes, Penelope, we lied. Yes, Penelope, we’re moving on without you. It’s been fun. See you in the next life.

Jordan bites her lower lip. “Does that mean you know—”

“That they’re for the Conrad Museum? Yeah. That too.”

She pushes open the door, inviting me in with one wordless gesture. I almost take her up on the offer, falling into the vanilla chemical lab that feels so much like home.

But it’s not my home. Not anymore.

“No, thanks,” I say. My voice is harsher than I intend it to be, but I blame it on the emotion I’m struggling to keep at bay. “I only came by to let you know that I jeopardized your take today. Not on purpose—I stopped by to see the collection with a friend of my grandmother’s, so I had to sign the visitor’s list with my real name. I’ll be the first one they haul in for questioning if anything goes missing.”

“You did what?” Jordan asks. “Pen, how could you? What were you thinking?”

That’s it. No apologies. No excuses. Just a reminder that by standing alone in the middle, I’m in everybody’s way.

My eyes sting. “I don’t care what else you guys do. Just don’t steal the Starbrite, okay? It’s too hot.”

“But—”

I fling up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of your way from here on out, and I won’t turn you in for this or any other crimes.” Despite everything Grant and I promised each other, despite the fact that Simon all but begged for me to solve the Peep-Toe case, my FBI investigating career is over before it began. And so is everything else. “You might think I’m not much of a friend anymore, but I promise I’m good for that much.”

I turn to leave, unwilling and unable to face that silent, fixed look on Jordan’s face any longer. I might not be as good as Oz at nonverbal communication, but I know what that look says: I’m not part of the team anymore, and telling me anything while I’m so close to Grant is dangerous.

Which is fine. Really. I would never put my friends in a position where they feel like they have to choose between me and the job.

Mostly because I know all too well how that feels. It’s an awful lot like getting ripped in half.