Chapter 4 - The Mistress Called Me First|
Sloane called again before I reached the elevator.
I considered ignoring her, but curiosity won.
"What now?" I asked.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot."
"We haven't had a foot to stand on since you put my mother's necklace around your neck."
A pause.
Then a brittle laugh.
"You're very dramatic."
"And you're wearing stolen jewelry in public."
"I didn't steal anything. Preston gave it to me."
"He didn't own it."
"That's between you and him."
"Then why are you calling me?"
Silence.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button.
"Because you need something," I said.
Her voice lost some of its polish.
"I need you to understand that Preston is under a tremendous amount of pressure."
"That sounds like his problem."
"He has investors. Commitments. People who expect results."
"Still his problem."
"Caroline, this could get ugly."
I smiled at my reflection in the mirrored elevator wall.
"It already is."
She exhaled sharply.
"Fine. You want honesty? Preston told me the collection belonged to him."
"That was a lie."
"I know that now."
"How?"
Another silence.
"Because a jeweler refused to accept the emerald choker."
My pulse quickened.
"What jeweler?"
"I don't know the name. Preston arranged the appointment."
"What did they say?"
"They said the choker was subject to a restriction and couldn't be transferred without authorization. Preston became furious. He said the records were outdated."
"And you believed him?"
"I believed what he told me."
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
"Why are you wearing the necklace in your photographs?"
"Because he wanted the photographs."
"Why?"
"He said he needed to prove he still had access to valuable assets."
The elevator stopped.
I stepped out into the lobby, suddenly cold.
"Access to assets for whom?"
"I don't know."
"Did he ask you to sign anything?"
She hesitated.
"Just a document for the photographer."
"What kind of document?"
"Something about ownership and insurance. He said it was standard."
I stopped walking.
"Did you sign a statement claiming the jewelry was yours?"
"I—"
"Sloane."
"He told me it was temporary."
"Did you sign it?"
Her silence answered.
I felt anger rise, but beneath it was something more useful.
Information.
"Send me a copy," I said.
"Why?"
"Because if you signed a false statement, you need to understand what you signed."
"I'm not sending you anything."
"Then hire your own attorney. Immediately."
She gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
"You think you can frighten me?"
"No. I think Preston has already lied to you, and you're calling me because you've started to realize it."
I ended the call.
Outside, the October wind swept along Fifth Avenue. I hailed a cab and called Margaret Shaw.
She answered in a brisk voice.
"Margaret Shaw."
"My name is Caroline Hart. My grandmother was Evelyn Vale."
The silence was immediate.
"I wondered when you'd call."
That surprised me.
"You knew about the letter?"
"I knew Evelyn had left instructions. I did not know whether you'd ever need them."
"I need to see my father's records."
"Then we should meet privately. Not at my office."
"Why?"
"Because someone has already asked me about those records."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"Preston Hart."
I looked through the cab window at the passing buildings.
"When did he contact you?"
"Three weeks ago."
Three weeks.
Before the jewelry disappeared.
Before Sloane's photographs.
Before Preston's note.
"Why would he want my father's records?"
"He asked whether they contained account information connected to a company called Northstar Meridian."
The name meant nothing to me.
"What's Northstar Meridian?"
"I believe it's an investment vehicle. I also believe your father suspected it was being used to move money through multiple accounts."
"Did he have proof?"
"Not enough to make a public accusation. But enough to make certain people nervous."
"Who?"
Margaret lowered her voice.
"That is what we need to establish."
I asked where we could meet.
"Tomorrow morning, at ten. Bring the original letter. And Caroline?"
"Yes?"
"If Preston knows about the records, he may already be trying to destroy the trail."
I looked down at the photograph of my mother's necklace on my phone.
Then another message appeared.
It was from an unknown number.
A photograph of my father's old office.
May you like
The caption contained five words.
Stop digging. Your father didn't.
