Kat rolled her eyes (and noted the positions of the surveillance cameras on the north wall). “Then what’s it doing in a store if it’s not for sale?”
“We are an auction house, young lady, and this is an exhibition piece that will be displayed until—Please don’t do that,” the man said, grabbing Kat’s hand just as she reached beneath the case’s edge, fingering the pressure-sensitive lip of the pedestal.
“Excuse me,” Kat said when she bumped into a man who was browsing among the cases (and felt the telltale shoulder holster of a plainclothes guard).
“Miss,” the salesman went on, “perhaps you would be more interested in our collection of—”
“So you’re just going to show it off?” Kat scanned the gleaming showroom floor (and noticed the state-of-the-art motion sensors at the pedestal’s base).
“Yes, we are—”
“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Kat huffed. She took one last look around the room, at the guards and the cameras, the exits and the case, and then turned to leave.
“Miss,” the salesman called, “I am sure there are many other things that will work with your price range.” He swept his arm around the showroom floor.
“That’s okay.” In the corner of the room, an antique clock began to chime. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”
“You’re late.”
Kat felt her cousin fall into step beside her, but didn’t turn to look. She was probably the only person on the street that day not staring at the slender girl in the short trench coat and tall black boots, but that didn’t really matter.
Gabrielle pointed to the Kelly catalog in Kat’s hands. “So can we do it?”
Kat took a deep breath and shoved the thin book into her pocket. “Right now, I’m more worried about whether or not we should do it.” She eyed her cousin. “You got the key?”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes and flashed a small magnetic card from a hotel near Times Square. “Of course I got the key.”
They could have picked the lock, rappelled down from the roof—maybe swiped a couple of maid uniforms and a housekeeping cart for good measure—but Kat and Gabrielle were smart enough to know that the shortest distance between two points was always a straight line. Or a picked pocket, as the case may be.
So they made their way into the hotel lobby and elevator without any fanfare or unnecessary risk. They were just two girls on their own in the big city—all the way to the small, modest room on the alley side of the seventh floor.
“So how was your day, Gabrielle?” Kat asked.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to tail an eightyyear-old woman? It’s hard. Really hard. Really…slow.” Then Gabrielle raised a fist and knocked. “Housekeeping?” she called while Kat stood just out of view. “Housekeeping!” she tried again. After a long quiet beat, she used the key, and together the cousins stepped inside.
For all the hotel rooms that Kat had seen in her short life, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in one like that. It consisted of nothing more than two full beds, a clean small bath, a bureau, and one closet with hangers permanently attached to the rod.
“Well, they travel like they’re almost out of money,” Gabrielle said, moving through the room so quickly and softly that Kat doubted her feet even made an impression in the carpet.
“How much time do we have?” Kat asked.
“They just went in with their lawyer, so let’s call it forty minutes.”
“Let’s call it thirty,” Kat countered, and Gabrielle shrugged—the universal signal for Have it your way.
It didn’t really matter. They could have done what they needed to do in ten. There was only the bedroom and bathroom, after all. The closet held two suitcases that had probably been quite expensive fifty years before but were now faded and beaten; three pairs of shoes and an assortment clothes that were worn but neatly mended—all with London labels.
“Found the safe,” Gabrielle called from the cabinet that held the minibar. Inside was a small box that was standard issue for hotel chains around the world, so it only took a minute for Kat to crack it. A moment later, she was pulling out two passports in the names of Marshall and Constance Miller. Two hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. A family locket. And a beaten, weathered file about a very famous emerald and an almost-as-notorious court case.
Kat watched her cousin flip through page after page—black-and-white images of a family in the desert; photocopies of ancient ledgers written in a woman’s elegant hand. And countless letters from Oliver Kelly the Third, urging Constance Miller to “move on,” “give up,” and finally, “get a real hobby.”
“Oh,” Gabrielle said slowly, “I really don’t like this guy.”
But it was the last page that made them stop—because it was the last page where someone had taped a plain white business card with simple black letters that spelled the name Visily Romani.
CHAPTER 8
An hour later, Kat was alone in the middle of Madison Square Park, watching the fat white flakes that floated between the gray sky and the Kelly building—a nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that something was about to go terribly wrong.