Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

The secretary took a piece of blank paper from his suit jacket, wrote some lines. Collopy, Grainger, and McGuigan signed it, then Lord notarized it with his signature.

"Let's go," said the CEO.

"I'm calling a security escort," said Beck darkly. At the same time, Smithback watched as the security chief slid a gun out of his waistband, checked it, flicked off the safety, and slid it back.

Kaplan picked up the stone with the four-prong.

"I'll do that, Mr. Kaplan," said Beck quietly. He took the handle of the four-prong and gently laid the stone in its velvet box. Then he shut the lid and locked it, pocketing the key and placing the box under his arm.

They waited while Kaplan packed up his supplies; then they shut the inner door and waited for the outer one to open. They proceeded back through the succession of massive doors, where they were met by a brace of security guards. The guards escorted them to a waiting elevator bank, and within five minutes Smithback found himself being ushered into a small but extremely elegant boardroom, done up in exotic wood. Light flooded in through a dozen broad windows.

Beck stationed the two extra security guards outside the doors, then shut and locked them.

"Everyone please stand back," he said. "Mr. Kaplan, will this do?"

"Splendid," said Kaplan with a broad smile, his whole mood seeming to change.

"Where do you want to sit?"

Kaplan pointed to a seat in a corner, between two windows. "That would be perfect."

"Set yourself up."

The jeweler busied himself laying out all his tools again, spreading the velvet. Then he looked up. "The stone, please?"

Beck laid the box next to him, unlocked it with the key, and raised the lid. The gemstone lay inside, nestled in its velvet.

Kaplan reached in, plucked it out with the four-prong, and called for a Grobet double lens. Using this device, he peered at the diamond, first looking at it through one lens, then the other, then both at once. As he held it, light struck the gemstone, and the walls of the room were suddenly freckled with dots of intense cinnamon color.

Several minutes passed in absolute silence. Smithback realized he was holding his breath. At length, Kaplan slowly laid the diamond down on the velvet, swiveled the Grobet lenses from his eyes, and bestowed a beaming smile on the waiting audience.

"Ah, yes," he said, "how wonderful it is. Natural light makes all the difference in the world. This is it, gentlemen. Without the slightest doubt, this is Lucifer's Heart." He placed it back down on the velvet pad.

There was a relieved exhalation, as if everybody else in the room had been holding their breaths along with Smithback.

Kaplan waved his hand. "Mr. Beck? You may put it away. With the four-prong, if you please."

"Thank the Lord," said the CEO, turning to Collopy and grasping his hand.

"Thank the Lord is right," Collopy replied, shaking the hand while dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. "I had a bad moment back there."

Meanwhile, Beck, his face unreadable but still dark, had reached over with the four-prong to pick up the gem. At the same time, Kaplan rose from his chair and bumped into him. "I beg your pardon!"

It happened so fast that Smithback realized what he'd seen only after the fact. Suddenly, Kaplan had the gem in one hand and Beck's gun in the other, pointed at Beck. He fired it almost in Beck's face, just turning the barrel enough so the bullets went past and buried themselves in the wall. He fired three times in rapid succession, the incredibly loud reports plunging the room into terror and confusion as everyone dropped to the floor, Beck included.

And then he was gone, out the supposedly locked door.

Beck was up in a flash. "Get him! Stop him!"

As he picked himself up from the floor, ears ringing, Smithback could see through the double doors the two security guards sprawled on the floor scrambling back to their feet and taking off down the hall, fumbling with their guns.

"He's got the gem!" Collopy cried, struggling to his feet. "He's got Lucifer's Heart! My God, get him! Dosomething!"

Beck had his radio out. "Security Command? This is Samuel Beck. Lock down the building! Lock it down! I don't want anyone going out-anything going out-no garbage, no mail, no people, nothing!You hear me? Shut off the elevators, lock the stairwells. I want a full security alert and all security personnel to search for a George Kaplan. Get an image of his face from the security checkpoint video cam. Nobody leaves the building until we've got a security cordon in place. No, to hell with fire regulations! That's a direct order! And I want an X-ray machine suitable for detecting a swallowed or concealed gemstone, along with a fully staffed technical team to man it, at the Sixth Avenue entrance, on the double."

He turned to the rest of them. "And none of you, noneof you, are to leave this room without my permission."

Two exhausting and trying hours later, Smithback found himself in a line with what seemed like a thousand employees of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The line snaked interminably around the interior lobby of the building, coiling three times about the elevator banks. On the far side of the lobby, he could see employees trundling carts piled with mail and packages, running them all through X-ray machines of the kind found in airports. Kaplan had not been found-and, privately, Smithback knew he wouldn't be.

As Smithback approached the head of the line, he could hear a hubbub of voices raised in argument, from a large group of people shunted to one side who had refused to allow themselves to be X-rayed. Outside were fire trucks, their lights flashing; police cars; and the inevitable gaggle of press. As each person in line was thoroughly searched and then put through the X-ray machine, finally emerging into the gray January afternoon, there would be scattered applause and a burst of camera flashes.

Smithback tried to control his sweating. As the minutes crawled by, his nervousness had only grown worse. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for agreeing to this. He had already been searched twice, including a revolting body-cavity search. At least the others in the executive boardroom had been subjected to the same kind of search, Collopy insisting on it for himself and the rest, including the officers of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance and even Beck. Meanwhile, Collopy-almost beside himself with agitation-had been doing all he could to convince Smithback to keep mum, not to publish anything. Oh, God, if they only knew…

Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to this?

Only ten more people in line ahead of him now. They were putting the people, one at a time, into what looked like a narrow telephone booth, with no fewer than four technicians examining various CRT screens affixed to it. Someone in front of him was listening to a transistor radio with everyone else crowding around-amazing how news got out-and it appeared the real Kaplan had been released unharmed in front of his brownstone a half hour ago and was now being questioned by the police. Nobody yet knew who the fake Kaplan was.

Just two more people to go.Smithback tried to swallow but found that he couldn't. His stomach churned with fear. This was the worst part. The very worst of all.

And now it was his turn. Two technicians stood him on a mat with the usual yellow footprints and searched him yet again, just a little too thoroughly for comfort. They examined his temporary building pass and his press credentials. They had him open his mouth and searched it with a tongue depressor. Then they opened the door of the booth and put him inside.

"Don't move. Keep your arms at your side. Look at the target on the wall…" The directions rolled out with rapid efficiency.

There was a short hum. Through the safety glass, Smithback could see the technicians poring over the results. Finally, one nodded.

A technician on the other side opened the door, placed a firm hand on Smithback's arm, and drew him out. "You're free to go," he said, pointing to the building exit.

As he gestured, the technician brushed briefly against Smithback's side.

Smithback turned and walked the ten feet to the revolving door– the longest ten feet of his life.

Outside, he zipped up his coat, ran the gauntlet of flashbulbs, ignored the shouted questions, pushed through the crowd, and walked stiffly up Avenue of the Americas. At 56th Street, he hailed a cab, slid into the back. He gave the driver the address of his apartment, waited until the cab had moved out into traffic, turned and glanced searchingly out the rear window for a full five minutes.

Only then did he dare settle into his seat, reach into his coat pocket. There, nestled safely in the bottom, he could feel the hard, cold outline of Lucifer's Heart.

SIXTY-FOUR

D'Agosta and Pendergast sat, without speaking, inside the Mark VII on a bleak stretch of Vermilyea Avenue in the Inwood section of Upper Manhattan. The sun was dropping slowly through layers of gray, setting with a final slash of blood-red light, which cast a momentary glow over the dusky tenements and bleak warehouses before it was extinguished in bitter night.

They were listening to 1010 WINS, New York's all-news radio station. The station repeated its top stories on a twenty-two-minute cycle, and it had been continuously broadcasting news of the museum diamond heist, the announcer's excited voice in contrast to the somber mood inside the vehicle. Just ten minutes earlier, a new story had broken, a related but even more spectacular item: the theft of the real Lucifer's Heart from Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters. D'Agosta had no doubt the police had tried desperately to keep a lid on that one, but there was no way something that explosive could be kept under wraps.

"… the most brazen diamond theft in history, taking place right under the noses of museum and insurance company executives, and following hard on the heels of the diamond heist at the museum. Sources close to the investigation say the same thief is suspected of both crimes…"

Pendergast was listening intently, his face as hard and pale as marble, his body motionless. His cell phone sat on the seat between them.

"Police are questioning George Kaplan, a well-known gemologist, who was on his way to identify Lucifer's Heart for Affiliated Transglobal Insurance when he was abducted near his Manhattan town house. Sources close to the investigation say that the thief then assumed his identity in order to gain access to the diamond. Police believe he may still be hiding in the Affiliated Transglobal building, where a massive manhunt is still under way…"

Pendergast leaned over and shut off the radio.

"How do you know Diogenes will hear the news?" D'Agosta asked.

"He'll hear it. For once, he's at a loss. He didn't get the diamond. He'll be in agony, on edge-listening, waiting, thinking. And once he learns what's happened, there will be only one course of action available to him."

"You mean, he'll know it was you who stole it."

"Absolutely. What other conclusion could he come to?" Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. "He'll know. And with no other way to send me a message, he'll call."

Sodium lights had come up, burning pale yellow along the length of the empty avenue. The temperature had dropped into single digits and a brutal wind swept up from the Hudson, blowing before it a few glittering flakes of snow.

The cell phone rang.

Pendergast hesitated just a second. Then he turned it over, punching the tiny speaker on the back into life. He said nothing.

"Ave, frater"came the voice from the speaker.

A silence. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. In the reflected glow of the streetlights, his face was the color of alabaster. His lips moved, but no sound came.

"Is that any way to greet a long-lost brother? With disapproving silence?"

"I am here," Pendergast said in a strained voice.

"You're there!And how honored I am to be graced with your presence. It almost makes up for the vile experience of being forced to call you. But leave us not bandy civilities. I have but one question: did you steal Lucifer's Heart?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You know why."

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then a slow exhalation of breath. "Brother, brother, brother…"

"I am no brother of yours."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. We arebrothers, whether we like it or not. And that relationship defines who we are. You know that, don't you, Aloysius?"

"I know that you're a sick man desperately in need of help."

"True: I am sick. No one recovers from the disease of being born. There is no cure to thatsickness, short of death. But when you get down to it, we're all sick, youmore than most. Yes, we arebrothers– in sickness as well as in evil."

Again, Pendergast had no response.

"But here we are, bandying civilities again! Shall we get down to business?"

No answer.

"Then I will lead the discussion. First, a big, fat bravo for pulling off in one afternoon what I took years to plan-and, ultimately, failed to accomplish." D'Agosta could hear a slow patting of hands over the phone. "I assume this is all about making a little trade. A certain personage in exchange for the gemstone. Why else would you have gone to what was undoubtedly a bit of trouble?"

"You assume correctly. But first…" Pendergast's voice faltered.

"You want to know if she's still alive!"

This time it was Diogenes who let the silence draw out. D'Agosta stole a glance at Pendergast. He was motionless, save for the twitch of a small muscle below the right eye.

"Yes, she's still alive-at present."

"You hurt her in any way and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."

"Tut-tut. But while we're on the subject of women, let's talk a little bit about this young thing you've kept cloistered in the mansion of our late lamented ancestor. If indeed she is 'young,' which I'm beginning to doubt. I find myself most curious about her. Her in particular,in fact. I sense that what one sees on the surface is what one sees of an iceberg: the merest fraction. There are hidden facets to her, mirrors within mirrors. And at a fundamental level, I sense that something in her is broken."

During this speech, Pendergast had stiffened visibly. "Listen to me, Diogenes. Keep away from her. You come close to her again, approach her in any way, and I'll-"

"Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands– more than it already is-as well as that of your four dear friends. Because you, frater,are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am."

"I made you nothing."

"Well said! Well said!"A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, D'Agosta felt a chill of repulsion.

"Let's get to it," Pendergast managed to say.

"Get to it? Just when the conversation was becoming interesting? Don't you want to talk about how utterlyand completelyresponsible you are for all this? Ask any family shrink: they'll tell you how important it is that we talk it out. Frater."

Suddenly, D'Agosta could take it no longer. "Diogenes! Listen to me, you sick fuck: you want the diamond? Then you cut with the bullshit."

"No diamond, no Viola."

"If you hurt Viola, I'll take a sledgehammer to the diamond and mail you the dust. If you think I'm kidding, keep talking."

"Empty threats."

D'Agosta brought his fist down on the dashboard, making a resounding crash.

"Careful! Easy!" The voice was suddenly high and panicked.

"So shut the hell up."

"Stupidity is an elemental force, and I respect it."

"You're still talking."

"We'll do this on my terms," said Diogenes briskly. "Do you hear me? My terms!"

"With two conditions," Pendergast said quietly. "One: the exchange must take place on the island of Manhattan, and within six hours. Two: it must be set up in such a way that you can't renege. You tell me your plan and I'll be the judge. You have one chance to get it right."

"That sounds like five conditions, not two. But of course, brother-of course! I have to say, though, this is a knotty little problem. I'll call you back in ten minutes."

"Make it five."

"More conditions?" And the phone went dead.

There was a long silence. A sheen of moisture had appeared on Pendergast's brow. He plucked a silk handkerchief from his suit jacket, dabbed his forehead, replaced it.

"Can we trust him?" D'Agosta asked.

"No. Never. But I don't think he'll have enough time to arrange an effective double cross within six hours. And he wants Lucifer's Heart-wants it with a passion you and I cannot comprehend. I think we can trust that passion, if we can trust nothing else."

The phone rang again, and Pendergast pressed the speaker button.

"Yes?"

"Okay, frater.Time for a pop quiz in urban geography. You know of a place called the Iron Clock?"

"The railroad turntable?"

"Excellent! And you know its location?"

"Yes."

"Good. We'll do it there. You'll no doubt want to bring your trusty sidekick, Vinnie."

"I intend to."

"Listen to me carefully. I'll meet you there at… six minutes to midnight. Enter through tunnel VI and step slowly out into the light. Vinnie can hang back in the dark and cover you, if you wish. Have him bring his weapon of choice. That will keep me honest. Feel free to bring your own Les Baer or whatever fashion accessory you're carrying these days. There'll be no gunplay unless something goes wrong. And nothing's going to go wrong. I want my diamond, and you want your Viola da Gamba. If you know the layout of the Iron Clock, you'll realize it is the perfect venue for our, shall we say, transaction."

"I understand."

"So. Do I have your approval, brother? Satisfied that I can't cheat you?"

Pendergast was silent for a moment. "Yes."

"Then a presto."

And the phone went dead.

"That bastard gives me the creeps," said D'Agosta.

Pendergast sat in silence for a long time. Then he removed the handkerchief again, wiped his forehead, refolded the handkerchief.

D'Agosta noticed Pendergast's hands were trembling slightly.

"You all right?" he asked.

Pendergast shook his head. "Let's get this over with." But rather than move, he remained still, as if in deep thought. Abruptly, he seemed to come to some decision. And then he turned and-to D'Agosta's surprise-took his hand.

"There's something I'm going to ask you to do," Pendergast said. "I warn you in advance: it will go against all your instincts as a partner and as a friend. But you must believe me when I say it is the onlyway. There is no other solution. Will you do it?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Unacceptable. I want your promise first."

D'Agosta hesitated.

A look of concern settled over Pendergast's face. "Vincent, please. It's absolutely critical that I can rely on you in this moment of extremity."

D'Agosta sighed. "Okay. I promise."

Pendergast's tired frame relaxed in obvious relief. "Good. Now, please listen carefully."

SIXTY-FIVE

Diogenes Pendergast stared at the cell phone, lying on the pine table, for a long time. The only indication of the strong emotion running through him was a faint twitching of his left little finger. A mottled patch of gray had appeared on his left cheek, and-were he to look in a mirror, which he did only when applying a disguise-he knew he'd find his ojo sarcolooking deader than usual.

Finally, his gaze strayed from the telephone to a small bottle topped by a rubber membrane and, lying next to it, a glass-and-steel hypodermic needle. He picked up the bottle, held it upside down while inserting the needle, drew out a small quantity, thought a moment, drew out more, then capped the needle with a plastic protector and placed it in his suit pocket.

His gaze then went to a deck of tarot cards, sitting on the edge of the table. It was the Albano-Waite deck-the one he preferred. Picking it up, he gave the deck an overhand shuffle, then laid three cards facedown before him in the spread known as the gypsy draw.

Putting the rest of the deck to one side, he turned over the first card: the High Priestess. Interesting.

He moved his hand to the second card, turned it over. It showed a tall, thin man in a black cloak, turned away, head bowed. At his feet were overturned golden goblets, spilling red liquid. In the background was a river, and beyond that, a forbidding-looking castle. The Five of Cups.

At this, Diogenes drew in his breath sharply.

More slowly now, his hand moved to the third and final card. He hesitated a moment, then turned it over.

This card was upside down. It portrayed a hand above a barren landscape, thrusting out of a dark cloud of smoke. It held a massive sword with a jeweled hilt. A golden crown was impaled on the end of its blade.

The Ace of Swords. Reversed.

Diogenes stared at the card for a moment, then slowly exhaled. He raised it in a shaking hand, then with one violent motion tore it in half, then in half again, and scattered the pieces.

Now his restless gaze moved to the black velvet cloth, laid out and rolled up at the edges, on which lay 488 diamonds, almost all of them deeply colored, scintillating underneath the bright gem light clamped to the table's edge.

As he stared at the diamonds, his agitation began to ease.

Restraining an exquisite eagerness, his hand roved over the ocean of glittering trapped light before plucking one of the largest diamonds, a vivid blue stone of thirty-three carats, called the Queen of Narnia. He held it in his palm, observing the light catch and refract within its saturated deeps, and then with infinite care raised it to his good eye.

He stared at the world through the fractured depths of the stone. It was like kicking open a door just a crack and catching a glimpse of a magic world beyond, a world of color and life, a realworld-so different from this false, flat world of gray mundanity.

His breathing became deeper and more even, and the trembling in his hand subsided as his mind loosened in its prison and began to ramble down long-forgotten alleys of memory.

Diamonds. It always started with diamonds. He was in his mother's arms, diamonds glittering at her throat, dangling from her ears, winking from her fingers. Her voice was like a diamond, pure and cool, and she was singing a song to him in French. He was no more than two years old but nevertheless was crying, not from sorrow, but from the aching beauty of his mother's voice. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song / betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong…

The scene faded.

Now he was wandering through the great house on Dauphine Street, down long corridors and past mysterious rooms, many of them, even then, having been shut up for ages. But when you opened a door, you would always find something exciting, something wondrous and strange: a huge draped bed, dark paintings of women in white and men with dead eyes; you would see exotic objects brought from faraway places-panpipes made of bone, a monkey's paw edged in silver, a brass Spanish stirrup, a snarling jaguar head, the wrapped foot of an Egyptian mummy.

There was always his mother to flee to, with her warmth and her soft voice and her diamonds that glittered as she moved, catching the light in sudden bursts of rainbow. The diamonds were here, they were alive, they never changed, never faded, never died. They would remain, beautiful and immutable, for all time.

How different from the fickle vicissitudes of the flesh.

Diogenes understood the image of Nero watching Rome burn while gazing at the conflagration through a gemstone. Nero understood the transformative power of gems. He understood that to gaze at the world through such a stone was to transform both the world and oneself. Light was vibration; and there were special vibrations from a diamond that reached the deepest levels of his spirit. Most people couldn't hear them; perhaps nobody else on earth could hear them. But hecould. The gemstones spoke to him, they whispered to him, they gave him strength and wisdom.

Today the diamonds, not the cards, would provide divination.

Diogenes continued to gaze deeply into the blue diamond. Each gemstone had a different voice, and he had picked this stone for its particular wisdom. He waited, murmuring to the gemstone, beseeching it to speak.

And after a moment, it did. In response to his murmured question, a whispery answer came back like an echo of an echo, half heard in a waking dream.

It was a good answer.

Viola Maskelene listened to the strange murmuring, almost like a prayer or a chant, that came from below. The sound was so low she could make out nothing. This was followed by an unnerving half-hour silence. Then, at last, came the sound she'd been dreading: the scrape of a chair, the slow, careful footfall of the man climbing the staircase. All her senses went on high alert, her muscles trembling, ready to act.

A polite rap on the door.

She waited.

"Viola? I should like to come in. Please step round the bed to the far side of the room."

She hesitated, then did as he requested.

He had said he was going to kill her at dawn. But he hadn't. The sun had set already, night was coming on. Something had happened. His plans had changed. Or, more likely, had beenchanged, against his will.

The door opened and she saw Diogenes standing in it. He looked different-slightly disheveled. His face was mottled, his cravat askew, his ginger hair a little ruffled.

"What do you want?" she asked huskily.

Still, he gazed at her. "I'm beginning to see what my brother found so fascinating in you. You are, of course, beautiful and intelligent, as well as spirited. But there is one quality you possess that truly astonishes me. You have no fear."

She did not dignify this with an answer.

"You shouldbe afraid."

"You're mad."

"Then I am like God, because if there is a God, He is Himself mad. I wonder why it is that you have no fear. Are you brave or stupid-or do you merely lack the imagination to picture your own death? You see, I can imagine it, haveimagined it, so very clearly.

When I look at you, I see a bag filled with blood, bones, viscera, and meat, held in by the most fragile and vulnerable covering, so easily punctured, so facilely ripped or torn. I have to admit, I was looking forward to it."

He peered at her closely. "Ah! Do I finally detect a note of fear?"

"What do you want?" she repeated.

He raised his hand, opening it with a twist and displaying a dazzling gemstone between thumb and forefinger. The ceiling light struck it, casting glittering shards about the room.

"Ultima Thule."

"Excuse me?"

"This is a diamond known as the Ultima Thule, named after a line in one of Virgil's Georgics.That's Latin for the 'Uttermost Thule,' the land of perpetual ice."

"I read Latin in school, too," said Viola sarcastically.

"Then you'll understand why this diamond reminded me of you."

With another flick of the wrist, he tossed it to her. Instinctively, she caught it.

"A little going-awaygift."

Something about the way he said "going away" gave her an ugly feeling. "I don't want any gift from you."

"Oh, but it's so apt. Twenty-two carats, princess-cut, rated IF Flawless, with a color grading of D. Are you familiar with the grading of diamonds?"

"What rot you talk!"

"D is given to a diamond utterly without color. It is also called white. It is considered by those with no imagination to be a desirable trait. I look at you, Viola, and what do I see? A wealthy, titled, beautiful, brilliant, and successful woman. You have a splendid career as an Egyptologist, you have a charming house on the island of Capraia, you have a grand old family estate in England. No doubt you consider you are living life to the fullest. Not only that, but you've had relationships with a variety of interesting men, from an Oxford professor to a Hollywood actor to a famous pianist-even an Italian soccer player. How others must envy you!"

Shock burned through Viola at this invasion of her privacy. "You bloody-"

"And yet, not all is what it seems. None of your relationships have worked out. No doubt you're telling yourself the fault lies with the men. When will it occur to you, Viola, that the fault lies in yourself? You are just like that diamond-flawless, brilliant, perfect, and utterly without color. All your sad attempts to appear exciting, unconventional, are just that-sad attempts." He laughed harshly. "As if digging up mummies, rooting in your little plot of dirt by the Mediterranean, could confer character! That diamond, which all the world considers so perfect, is in reality dead common. Like you. You're thirty-five years old and you're unloved and unloving. Why, you're so desperate for love that you fly halfway around the world in response to a letter from a man you met only once! Ultima Thule is yours, Viola. You've earned it."

Viola staggered. His words felt like one physical blow after another, each one finding its mark. This time she had no answer.

"That's right. No matter where you go, you'll live in Ultima Thule, the land of perpetual ice. As someone once said: Wherever you go, there you are. There's no love within you, and there'll be no love for you. Barrenness is your fate."

"You and your bit of glass can get knotted!" she cried, violently throwing the stone back at him.

He deftly caught it. "Glass, you say? Do you know what I did yesterday while you were here all alone?"

"My interest in your life would be undetectable even to the most powerful microscope."

Diogenes removed a square of newsprint from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing the front page of that day's New York Times.

She stared at it from across the room, squinting to make out the headlines.

"I robbed the Astor Hall of Diamonds at the Museum of Natural History. It is a crime I've been planning for many years. I created a new identity to pull it off. And you helped me do it. That's why I wanted to give you that stone. But if you don't want it…" He shrugged, slipped it into his pocket.

"My God." Viola stared at him. And now, for the first time, she was truly afraid.

"You played an important role. The pivotal role. You see, your disappearance kept my brother racing all over Long Island, searching frantically for you, desperately worried about your safety, while I robbed the museum and transported the gems out here."