“What?”
“According to our records, the stone is in a high-security box in a Swiss bank.”
“I know that,” Kelly snapped, and pushed the elevator call button. “The point is that no one has seen it. I have never even seen it. It’s the greatest asset this company has, and all it’s done in thirty years is collect dust and wait for some mythical mate to turn up so that some ridiculous curse can be broken.”
“Of course, of course,” Hale said.
Kelly looked at him as if to say, I was talking to your boss.
That was when Hale slid closer. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Jones, Mr. Kelly,” he confided softly as Marcus stood three steps behind them, stoic, silent as the grave. “He can see the smallest crack in a company’s defenses, the slightest fault. I’m here to make sure Mr. Jones isn’t distracted. The man’s a genius, you see. And when Mr. Jones says that it might be best to wait—”
There was a ding, and the elevator doors were sliding open.
“My grandfather was a genius,” Kelly snapped. “A visionary.”
Hale stepped inside the elevator, secretly wishing the man would have the nerve to add “a thief.”
“That stone is the Kelly Corporation’s signature piece,” Kelly continued, “and it’s not going to stay in a hole in the ground. Not on my watch.”
The doors slid closed, and Hale couldn’t help but study the reflection of Oliver Kelly the Third—the handmade suit and full-Windsor knot. Antique cuff links and Italian calfskin shoes, all of which had one purpose: to make sure no one ever mistook him for ordinary. All at the age of twenty-nine. Hale might not have hated him so much had it not been like looking in a fun-house mirror—at who he might have become if he hadn’t been home two years before on the night when Kat came to steal his Monet.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly,” Hale said slowly, still taking the image in. “I understand completely.”
“Good.” When the elevator doors opened, Kelly turned and extended a hand toward Marcus. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. I appreciate your time. But as you can see, our paperwork is in order, and our security”—he gestured at the showroom on the main level of the building, its gleaming cases and cameras and guards—“it is the best it can possibly be, so I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
“Indeed.” Hale reached to take the hand that was offered, held it a little longer than Kelly was perhaps expecting, squeezed it a little tighter. “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”
Marcus let his gaze sweep around the room. His voice was stoic and cold when he said, “I think the last time I heard that was at the Henley.”
Hale watched Oliver Kelly the Third shudder at the words. The color faded in his cheeks, and his mouth drew into a thin hard line. “The Henley?”
“Oh yes,” Hale said. “They assured us that no one could ever steal Angel Returning to Heaven from their walls, and we believed them. But we were all wrong on that account, weren’t we, Mr. Kelly?”
Honesty was a rare thing in Oliver Kelly’s business. People negotiated. Dealers lied. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do when faced with someone so willing to admit a mistake, so he didn’t do anything—he just stood, waiting.
“And, of course, they thought their paperwork was in order too, and now…” Hale trailed off, then risked a glance at Oliver Kelly the Third. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment, but let’s just say they’re still waiting for a check. And with a piece like the Cleopatra Emerald—with its cultural and monetary significance—”
“It’s not cursed,” Kelly said automatically.
“Of course not. But if you don’t mind”—Hale placed his hands behind his back, smiled warmly—“Mr. Jones would like to start with the basement.”
“And the cameras on this level?” Hale asked twenty minutes later.
“The same as the level before,” the director of security said from his place at Mr. Kelly’s right side.
Kelly watched as Hale took copious notes. He snapped hundreds of pictures.
“And these windows?” Hale asked. “They’re monitored by…?”
“Glass break detectors at fifteen yard intervals.”
“Bulletproof?”
“Of course.” The security director sounded almost offended.
“Excellent.” Hale took yet another picture, then consulted his clipboard one more time. “Then I believe all that remains is the vault. The model number on that again is…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Kelly said, “but I distinctly remember providing that information in our quarterly report.”