Читать книгу Hearts in Vegas - Colleen Collins - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
CLOSE TO THREE, Frances cruised her rented Mercedes sports car past the Passage-of-Love drive-through wedding chapel, its tunnel bright with gaudy lights and gold-painted cherubs. In the lot next to it was a run-down duplex, where a scrawny girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sat hunched on the porch steps, solemnly watching a couple ride a motorcycle into the chapel. To Frances, those two buildings summed up downtown Las Vegas—glitz, business and tough times.
At the end of the block, she pulled into Fortier’s lot and parked. After patting the inside pocket of her jacket to confirm the presence of the replica brooch, she exited the car.
The winds were picking up, but brooding clouds still hovered, as though unsure whether to take action or not. February forecasts were like crapshoots in Sin City—if the weather report called for fair skies, it might snow.
Heading toward the silver-tinted jewelry-store windows, she spied Enzo Fortier’s Bentley, one of the inheritances from his late father, Alain Fortier. Enzo’s siblings were angry their father had given the bulk of his estate, including the Bentley and jewelry store, to his youngest son, Enzo. The ongoing family drama, with its litigation, accusations of extortion, fraud and theft, had left Enzo distracted and vulnerable to criminals.
That was what she and Charlie believed, anyway. The person who stole the Lady Melbourne brooch had taken advantage of Enzo’s distraction to fence the pin. Not that Enzo was innocent—he had to know he was receiving stolen goods, but was probably too frightened to say no.
Whatever the situation, Charlie had tapped her for this case because she knew about Georgian jewelry. Being a woman didn’t hurt, either, he’d said, because Enzo had a roving eye.
So one reason Charlie had picked her for this case was because she was pretty enough to attract Enzo’s attention.
Not much of a compliment, really, as it was her artifice, not her, that would attract him. Not to say she wasn’t proud of her skill applying silicone gel and concealer. Sometimes she even wondered if she could market this talent, help other people struggling with facial scars.
And then sometimes, usually late at night when she’d run out of distractions, she wondered if any man could ever accept...touch...kiss the imperfection that lay beneath.
Stepping inside the jewelry store, she smiled pleasantly at the middle-aged security guard stuffed into a blue uniform accessorized with a shiny gold A-1 Security badge and gun holster.
She noted the surveillance camera in the ceiling to her right, which recorded her five-nine height—five-seven without the heels—as she strolled past the height ruler tacked on the inside of the entrance door.
A skinny middle-aged man in an Armani suit approached her. Despite his dazzlingly white smile, apprehension clung to him like a fog.
“Welcome. May I help you? I am the owner, Enzo Fortier,” he said in a thick French accent, bowing slightly.
“Elise Crayton.” On undercover cases, she always offered a name that couldn’t easily be spelled. She absently adjusted one of her earrings, drawing his gaze to it.
“Exquisite,” he said approvingly. “Antique, yes?”
“Georgian,” she said casually, dropping her hand. “My favorite style.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “I just happen to have several Georgian pieces available.” With a flourish, he gestured toward the back of the room. “This way, madame.” He paused. “Or is it mademoiselle?”
“Mademoiselle,” she murmured, letting her gaze lock with his for the briefest of moments, giving the illusion she just might be interested in him, too.
Nothing was more powerful, or more real, in life than the illusions people put forth. She guessed people didn’t have the time, or inclination, to dig deeper, so they accepted whatever was presented on the surface.
Maybe because she was a magician’s daughter, she understood that the best illusions were the result of weeks, often months, of practice, so she tried never to be overconfident in her own first impressions of others.
Moments later, she sat on a cushioned bench, eyeing a sparkling earring set and the Lady Melbourne brooch in the glass display case. As far as she knew, only the brooch had been taken from the museum. Later, she’d describe the earrings to Charlie, see if they could dredge up information about whether those had been stolen, too.
“What a lovely pin,” she said. “May I see it?”
“Absolument.”
As he retrieved the brooch from the case, she pretended to fix her hair while scanning the layout of the surveillance cameras. The closest one, in the ceiling almost directly overhead, captured a tight view of the two of them and this case. Another camera, positioned farther back in the ceiling to her left, recorded a long-range view of the back area of the store.
Fortier gingerly laid the piece of jewelry on a black velvet tray.
“Fourteen-karat yellow-gold pin stem,” he said. “The center diamond is two carats, and the petals are covered with...one hundred and twenty diamonds.”
Actually, there were one hundred and fifty diamonds, which was probably why he hesitated. He either hadn’t done his homework or he’d forgotten whatever information the thief had provided.
He also hadn’t mentioned that each stone had been mine-cut, one of the last hand-cut diamonds before the age of machinery took over. Although sometimes lumpy in shape, mine-cut diamonds reflected their natural shape, making each truly unique. A significant point to collectors.
“May I see the backing of the brooch?” She slid off an earring. “I’d like to compare it to the backing on this....”
As she handed him the earring, it dropped with a soft fomp onto the black velvet.
“Oh, pardon!”
He stood, his features pinched with worry. As he carefully lifted the earring, she leaned forward, angling her right shoulder toward the nearest camera. Her right hand slid into her left jacket pocket as the left plucked the Lady Melbourne brooch. The switch was complete within a few seconds.
Enzo, still examining the earring, murmured, “I do not see any damage.”
She had purposefully let it fall on the velvet tray so it would land safely. Nevertheless, she frowned with concern.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured. “So clumsy of me.”
“No, mademoiselle,” he said, returning it to her, “it is I who should have been more watchful. If you see a problem, you must bring it back and we shall repair it, at no cost, of course.”
“Thank you.” She slipped it back onto her ear.
“Even if you don’t find a problem,” he said, lowering his voice, “bring it back on your beautiful ear, and we shall take it out to a late lunch.”
She smiled coyly. “How late?”
The look in his eyes darkened. “As late as you’d like.”
She glanced at the brooch, back at him. “Maybe we can take the brooch to this late lunch, too.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t take my jewelry out to lunch or anywhere else.”
“You think I’d steal it?”
He stared at her for a moment. “No, of course not. But someone else might.”
“I was joking about taking it out,” she said offhandedly, “but I am curious....” She inched her hand across the glass counter, her fingers almost touching his. “Where did you find this exquisite pin?”
He glanced at her hand. “A collector.”
“Did he give you those Georgian earrings, too?”
“Yes.”
So the “collector” was a man. Since the brooch had been stolen in Amsterdam, she asked, “A European collector, perhaps? Because I know a gentleman in Brussels who has an impressive Georgian collection.... Maybe we know the same person.”
“No. Not Brussels.”
One look at his wary expression and she knew he wouldn’t say more. Switching gears, she returned to a safer topic.
“So, is the backing on my earring the same as—”
Releasing a pent-up breath, Enzo picked up the flower brooch and turned it over. “This foil backing is similar to your earring, yes.”
“How much for the pin?”
“Thirty-seven thousand.”
Ten years ago, it had been valued at fifty. Which made it easily worth seventy or more today. He also hadn’t referred to it as the Lady Melbourne brooch or mentioned its history. According to legend, it had been a gift from Queen Charlotte to Lady Melbourne, one of her ladies-in-waiting.
He obviously wanted to sell it, fast. Maybe he had been promised a cut.
“Let me think it over,” she said pleasantly.
He gave her his card, and she left the store, smiling at the security guard on her way out.
As she drove out of the lot, she lightly touched the Lady Melbourne brooch, safely tucked into her inside jacket pocket. The replica now lay in its place at Fortier’s, and unless his “collector” acquaintance checked it closely, no one would know about the switch. That was, until she, or maybe Charlie, returned to interview Enzo about his role in fencing the brooch. Depending on when, or if, she found the master thief, which could take days or weeks. Maybe months. Investigations always had their own timeline, based as much on the investigator’s skill as patience.
Driving down the street, she saw the duplex ahead to her right. The young girl still sat on the porch steps, her eyes glued to the wedding chapel next door.
Frances pulled over and parked. Opening her clutch, she retrieved a bill that she’d tucked away a week or so earlier. Years ago, someone had given her such a gift. Now that she made a good income, she liked to give back in the same quiet way.
The girl’s dark eyes widened with curiosity as Frances walked briskly up the cracked concrete walkway. The youngster scanned her linen pantsuit, all the way down to her Dolce & Gabbana heels, then raised her eyes to the glittering earrings.
Frances paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the pile of old car parts stacked in a corner of the worn wooden porch, the bent metal frame of the screen door. They reminded her of a similar building she had lived in nearly twenty ago, and how for a few weeks she and her parents had spent their evenings in the dark because of an unpaid electric bill.
Not total darkness, though, because her dad lightened their moods, literally, with magic tricks. He’d light candles with a wave of his hand, make lightbulbs glow with a touch of his finger. She and her mom had seen the tricks dozens of times, knew the secrets behind the maneuvers, but they had laughed and clapped as though experiencing them for the first time.
Their responses had been real, not contrived. Although there was always trickery behind a magic act, something mystical bonded an audience to a magician. They shared a belief, as far-fetched as it might seem, that everything would be all right. That the rabbit would reappear, the magician would escape the water tank, the lady sawn in half would be whole again.
Frances met the girl’s gaze. “What’s your name, hon?”
“Whitney.”
She handed the girl a bill. “Whitney, do something nice for yourself and your family.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the fifty-dollar bill, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I don’t do nuthin’ for money.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Why fo’?”
“For you to pay it forward someday.” She saw the confusion on the girl’s face. “Which means...when you’re all grown up, give a gift to another young girl and her family.”
As Frances headed back to her car, she heard the girl’s barely suppressed squeal, followed by the thumpity-thump of feet running across the porch and the slam of a screen door.
* * *
WHILE DRIVING PAST the Clark County courthouse a few minutes later, Frances punched in the speed-dial number for her dad’s cell, hit the speaker button and set the phone on the console. It was against Nevada law to make handheld cell-phone calls. In her opinion, that meant as long as she wasn’t holding her phone, she stayed legal.
After all she’d been through, Frances was definitely keeping her life on the right side of the law. In five years, she would no longer be under court supervision, her payments would be completed for the necklace she stole and her felony conviction would be discharged. When that day came, she would have a second chance to live her life right.
“Hey, baby girl,” her dad said over the speaker, “how’d it go?”
“Slick as glass.”
“Get the brooch?”
“Of course.”
“That’s my girl!”
As she idled at a stoplight, a black cat dashed across the street in front of the Benz. She muttered, “That’s not good.”
“Something wrong?”
“I just saw a black cat.”
“You and your superstitions,” her dad said with a chuckle. “On your way to meet Charlie now?”
“He’s in meetings until five. Figured while I’m downtown, I’ll pull some files at the clerk and recorder’s office to see if Enzo has recently used his jewelry inventory as collateral for a loan.”
“This has something to do with the brooch?”
“Enzo’s up to his teeth in litigation, probably having trouble borrowing money from banks right now. People in tight spots sometimes turn to questionable money sources, especially in Vegas. If Enzo took out a loan within the past week or so, which of course coincides with the brooch mysteriously surfacing, the identified lender might be the thief, too.”
“My daughter, Sherlock—or should I say Shirley—Holmes.”
In her rearview mirror, she saw swirling red lights from a white Crown Victoria hugging the bumper of her Benz.
Anxiety rippled through her. “Looks like I got company. Unmarked cop car’s pulling me over.”
“That’s odd. Why an unmarked?”
Seemed odd to her, too, but she didn’t have time to analyze the situation. “Charlie’s office and cell numbers are written on the bottom of the whiteboard in the kitchen. Leave messages on both that I’ve been pulled over on Third, across from the courthouse. Gotta go.”
After stopping the car, she eased the brooch from her pocket and set it carefully between the leather seat and the console, then rolled down her window and killed the engine. Slowly, she placed her hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.
Exhaust fumes and the scents of hot dogs from a nearby street vendor wafted into the car as she watched the man in her rearview mirror unfold himself from the vehicle and swagger to her car. He wore jeans, white T-shirt, windbreaker—universal undercover-cop attire.
His steps crunched to a stop next to her window. Leaning over slightly, his blue eyes fastened on hers like steel shards to a magnet.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked politely.
“Howdy,” he said, all friendly like, “mind handing over your phone and car keys, ma’am?”
Not asking for her license and registration? “Uh...isn’t this out of the ordinary?”
Looking around, he puffed out his chest while stealthily opening his jacket just enough for her to see his shoulder holster. Was this for real? The guy was acting like some kind of yahoo, showing off his big bad gun. If she wasn’t so unnerved by being pulled over like this, she might laugh.
But even yahoos could be law enforcers, and she wasn’t about to argue with a loaded gun, so she handed over her phone and key fob.
He powered off her phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Step out of the car, please, ma’am.”
Once she did so, he swiftly tied her hands behind her with a plastic handcuff, then leaned in close and whispered, “Where’s the brooch?”
Maybe Enzo had been sharper than Frances had given him credit for, realized she’d lifted the real pin and left behind a look-alike. At least her dad was calling Charlie, alerting him to this snafu. He’d call the police department, get this ironed out. What a hassle.
Meanwhile, it’d be stupid to play dumb.
“Between the front seat and console,” she said, more irritated than nervous at this point because she’d just blown the case.
Sure, Charlie would make nice with the police, and Vanderbilt would be pleased about the return of the Lady Melbourne, but she’d screwed up any possibility of tracking what Vanderbilt had wanted most—the fifth-century-BC coins. Although jewelry was her forte, she’d felt a connection to those coins after learning they were the last currency to be individually hammered, not minted. It reminded her of Georgian jewelry, the last to be made with hand-cut diamonds.
After the cop retrieved the brooch and her clutch bag, he thumbed the key fob to lock the car doors.
As he escorted her to his vehicle, she memorized the numbers on his license plate, mostly out of habit. Later she’d suggest to Charlie that the next time he wanted her to steal back Vanderbilt’s property, at least give somebody in the police department the heads-up that she was working undercover and prevent a foul-up like this.
Of course, Charlie had his reasons for not alerting the police. He worried that details about her undercover work, as well as her true identity, would get disseminated too widely throughout the police department, compromising her ability to work.
He said it had happened before to other investigators.
“Watch your head, ma’am.” The officer planted his hand on her skull as if it were a basketball and guided her into the backseat of the unmarked car.
Looking through the passenger window, she eyed the dozen or so people on the sidewalk who’d stopped to watch the arrest-in-progress. A middle-aged woman in a blue sweatshirt with the word Lucky in glittery letters licked her double-dip ice-cream cone, her wide eyes glued to the event as if it were a reality TV show.
After getting into the front seat, the cop held up her clutch bag. “I want you to know that I have not opened your purse. It will remain on the front seat of my car until I return it to you.”
He was letting her know that its contents were safe, which protected him from any later accusations of theft. Definite police protocol. Yet he hadn’t followed other standard procedures.
She shifted, trying to get comfortable, an impossibility with her hands bound behind her back. “So,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, “weren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”
“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning the ignition. “Guess I just plumb forgot. Lemme see...just like that Bud Buckley song about keeping secrets, you have the right to remain silent...anything you got any inkling to say can and will be used against you in a court of law....”
He drove, reciting her rights as if they were country-song lyrics, missing the turn to the detention center. Clearly, this wasn’t a standard arrest, and the joker behind the steering wheel wasn’t like any cop she’d ever known. A lot could go wrong while carrying jewelry worth seventy thousand dollars.
“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to sound calmer, stronger than she felt.
“I forget,” he said, “did I mention the part about if you can’t afford a lawyer? Hey, that reminds me of that ol’ Willie Nelson song ‘Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.’ Has that line about lettin’ kids grow up to be doctors and lawyers. And such.”
As he started singing the song, she looked out the window, feeling more annoyed than scared. As insane as this ride-along was, she didn’t have the sense she was in any danger. Her instincts told her something else, too.
She was on her way to meet the person who’d stolen the Lady Melbourne brooch.
* * *
TEN MINUTES, TWO country songs and one headache later, the unmarked car pulled into the parking lot behind the Downtown 3rd Farmers Market.
The building sat at the apex of Stewart Avenue and North Casino Center Boulevard, two streets that always bustled with traffic. Since the market only opened on Fridays, the lot was empty except for a sleek black limousine with darkened windows. In a corner of the lot, some teenage boys practiced their skateboarding moves, the wheels clattering and grinding along the asphalt. Across the street sat a bright red coffee hut.
The officer, flashing her a big ol’ welcoming grin, opened the back door and helped her out. She closed her eyes against a gust of chilly wind as he undid the plastic binding. The scent of French-roast coffee drifted past. Opening her eyes again, she rubbed her wrists while watching the limo.
“After the meeting, I’ll drive you back to your vehicle, ma’am.”
So this had been planned. “Fine,” she muttered, “just no more singing, okay?”
“Does humming count?”
She exhaled heavily. No wonder he didn’t need to recite Miranda warnings—hanging out with him for a few minutes made anyone want to remain silent.
As they walked to the limo, her nerves kicked back in.
No one is going to kill me in a luxury limo. Especially one parked in broad daylight, blocks from the Las Vegas Metro Police station. Plus those skateboarding kids were close enough to easily describe her, the officer, his vehicle and the limo.
But even after mentally rattling off logical reasons that she was safe, she still wanted to throw up.
The cop opened a back door, and she leaned inside the limo, sliding onto a curved leather couch that faced a wet bar, leather chairs and small desk. Two men sat farther down the couch.
With the daylight spilling inside, she had a good view of the occupants. The man closest to her was in his early forties, with pronounced Slavic features, startlingly blue eyes and light, short-cropped hair. He wore leather loafers, slacks and a tailored blue shirt that revealed a muscled physique. On his far side sat a thirtyish man with a tight-lipped expression and wavy dark hair. His clothes weren’t as nice—green-checkered gingham shirt, jeans, scuffed sneakers—and he wore an earbud, its wire connected to a smartphone.
The officer, quiet for once, handed the Lady Melbourne brooch to the older man, then shut the door without coming in.
“Hello, Frances,” said a man with a Russian accent.
A ceiling lamp flicked on, lighting their seating area.
She wondered how he knew her real name. “And you’re...?”
“An admirer...and a potential friend.”
Considering how matter-of-factly he accepted the brooch, as though it were his, this had to be the criminal working with Enzo. The mastermind Charlie and Vanderbilt Insurance wanted her to find. And to think she’d been convinced she’d blown this case.
Great. She’d found him. But who was he? Apparently a Russian who had an undercover Vegas cop on his payroll.
The man picked a box off the couch. As he leaned forward, holding it toward her, she caught a whiff of his cologne, a potent mix of burned cherries and leather.
“Please help yourself,” he said. “Chocolates from the Krupshaya confectionery factory of Saint Petersburg.”
“Are you from Saint Petersburg?”
He made a clucking sound. “Don’t be impolite, my dear. We’ve barely met and you’re already asking personal questions.” He gestured to the box. “I suggest the dark chocolates. They’re creamy and sweet, unlike the dry, bitter variety one finds in America.”
“No, thank you,” she said. She vaguely remembered someone telling her that refusing a Russian’s offer of food or drink was considered rude. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”
“Allergic to vodka, too?” He helped himself to a piece of candy.
“Uh, no.”
“Good. Would hate for you to miss out on all of life’s pleasures.” He settled back on the couch and, after popping the confection into his mouth, nodded to the other man, who moved forward, turning his smartphone so Frances could see the screen.
A video began playing of her and Enzo at the jewelry store, talking across the display case. It had been taken from the camera on her left, a good twenty feet away, yet it looked as though it had been shot from much closer.
Thoughts ricocheted through her mind. Enzo was either a terrific actor, emoting cluelessness as she lifted the brooch, or he had no idea she’d done it. Considering his current legal problems, she doubted he could pretend to be anything other than what he was—a troubled, weary man.
Which meant this Russian had somehow gotten hold of the surveillance film, but since he had the brooch again, why show this to her?
He said something in Russian to the younger man, who tapped the screen. The image froze just as she swapped the replica with the Lady Melbourne brooch.
“Nice work, Frances,” the older man said. “You’ve obviously done this before.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your government has a marvelous facial-recognition database that contains every U.S. driver’s license photo. My associate Oleg hijacked the signal from the surveillance camera to his smartphone, selected a clear image of you and ran it through that database. It linked to your license photo and gave us your name.”
Hacking into a government database with such ease was mind-blowing. Either they had somebody on the inside or this younger guy was a computer genius. Good thing her driver’s license had a bogus street address, courtesy of Vanderbilt and the state of Nevada.
“Oleg has been monitoring that surveillance camera for several days,” he continued, looking pleased. “You see, I planted the Lady Melbourne brooch at Fortier’s because I hoped to attract a thief—make that a talented thief—who is knowledgeable about Georgian jewelry.”
This was a twist she wasn’t expecting, although she had a good idea where it was leading. “You want me to steal something for you.”
“Yes.”
“I would have thought you already had such contacts....”
“Ah, I did have an experienced jewel thief lined up. An accomplished gentleman, but he’s getting older and having health issues. Because I’ve been absent from your country for a while, I’ve unfortunately lost touch with other contacts.” He shrugged. “My excellent team has been working hard for several months.... Silly to kill a project because one person drops out. You see, we are like a pirate ship, staying on course despite turbulent seas, determined to find the buried treasure marked with an X on our map.”
“Seems risky to continue, though, if the person who dropped out is key to the plan.”
“But a key can be forged. I found you, didn’t I? As to risk...what beats in the heart of every thief is the thrill of uncertainty and peril. Without those, we lose our edge, our—” he rubbed his fingers together, as though touching a silky fabric “—finesse.”
His words resonated with her. She could still remember the rush after a successful pickpocket, a giddy high she had never gotten anywhere else in life. As an investigator, she sometimes felt that way after lifting an item, but it wasn’t the same. The risk was there, but it was nothing like the thrill of the illicit hunt.
She shifted slightly. “What do you want stolen?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Helena Diamond necklace....”
“Of course,” she murmured.
The Helena Diamond was a heart-cut diamond necklace secretly commissioned by Napoleon with the help of friends during his exile on the island of Saint Helena in memory of his long-lost love, Josephine. Legend claimed that within the Helena Diamond was the pattern of two perfectly symmetrical hearts, only visible to the eyes of destined lovers.
The necklace disappeared after Napoleon’s death, supposedly confiscated by his enemy, Prince Metternich, whose family hid the diamond after the fall of the Austrian Empire. Decades later, it resurfaced in the hands of a London diamond merchant who sold it for fifteen million dollars to an unnamed American businessman.
“That necklace is worth millions,” she said.
“Twenty to be exact. It will be on display next month at the Legendary Gems exhibit at the Palazzo. We have the electronic know-how, locksmiths and muscle to grant you safe passage in and out. Your knowledge of Georgian jewelry—essential, as you will be mingling with antique-jewelry collectors and dealers—and your sleight-of-hand skills will do the rest.”
Her stomach fell to somewhere around her feet. What he was describing confirmed to her that he’d also been behind the theft of the ancient coins that she was so eager to find. And more than that, he was reeling her into his next major heist.
For most of her five years as an insurance investigator at Vanderbilt, she’d worked garden-variety thefts. Mid-range jewelry and antiquities stolen from homes and small businesses.
This past year, though, Charlie had been pushing her to tackle tougher, big-ticket-item cases. A theft of jewels worth half a million from a Las Vegas entertainer’s home safe. A briefcase of valuable coins stolen from a taxi. She’d solved both after weeks of investigative work, but tracking this mysterious Russian’s shenanigans with the Lady Melbourne brooch and the ancient Greek coins was starting to feel as arduous as Napoleon’s invasion of Russia.
This case was darker, more complex and frankly scarier than any she had handled before.
Part of her wanted to tell Charlie this job was out of her league and to get her out of it. But if Vanderbilt took issue with her backing out of this case and reported her insubordination to the court, the court could withdraw the suspension of her sentence, and she’d serve the remainder in jail.
“What do I get out of this?” she asked.
“Upon my receipt of the necklace, two hundred thousand dollars cash. And because of your fondness for the Lady Melbourne brooch, that, as well.”
No jewel thief would work for such a measly percentage, but of course that wasn’t what this was about for Frances. She had what most investigators worked weeks, months, for—she had an in. An invitation to the inner sanctum of her subject’s world.
Charlie would be thrilled. Nailing a master thief would be a career coup. Vanderbilt would promote him and likely invite her to stay on after her probation ended. Or she could go into business for herself as a specialized antiquities investigator.
Which meant this case, if she succeeded, could skyrocket her career. But if she failed, cripple it. Maybe permanently.
Whatever the outcome, her life would be forever changed.
“I accept your offer,” she said quietly.
