“MAIL CALL.” The kid from the mailroom dropped the morning’s correspondence into Cass’s box, and then disappeared down the hall.
Feeling decidedly lackluster after taking the early train in from Connecticut, Cass drained her triple latte. Her head throbbed dully and her eyes were dry. After their second helping of chicken Marsala, Adam had called again telling Morgan that he was going to miss the last train, so he was just going to get a room at the Hilton for the night.
Following that news flash, she and Morgan had proceeded to polish off a second bottle of wine. They’d had a grand time getting plastered and trash-talking the male species in general and Adam and Sam in particular. They’d bonded like they hadn’t bonded in a long time.
But this morning they’d both paid for it.
Cass swallowed back three aspirins and massaged her temples. Okay. She was officially over Sam Mason. Time to tackle the day.
She reached for the stack of mail and leafed through it. Promo ops, follow-ups to previous correspondence, requests for information. Nothing interesting enough to snap her from her gloomy mood.
Then she found the package.
It was a white, padded, five-by-seven envelope addressed to her personally, not the PR department. But no return address.
Hmm.
She picked up the letter opener, slit the package and dumped the contents onto her desktop.
Out fell a royal-blue velvet pouch and a note printed in block script on high-quality paper.
You like to play games? Remember button, button, who’s got the button? This is a new version called White Star, White Star, who’s got the White Star? Is it you? Game on.
A shiver gripped her. What the hell was this? Could the White Star actually be in that bag?
With nervous fingers she dropped the note, yanked open the gathered tie of the pouch and dumped the contents into her palm.
But the White Star wasn’t there.
Rather, it was an odd assortment of expensive jewelry. A four-carat diamond engagement ring. Sapphire earrings. An onyx brooch. A ruby ankle bracelet. Pearl necklace.
She picked up the pearls and rubbed them against her teeth. Natural, not cultured.
What was this all about?
She picked up the note and read it all the way through again, but it made no more sense the second time than it had the first. Where had these jewels come from? And who’d sent them to her?
Checking the envelope’s postmark, she discovered it had been mailed in Manhattan at 8:30 a.m. on the day she’d bumped into Sam at Precinct 39.
“Wow,” said waifish Mystique, who’d drifted in through the open door. “Whose stones?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Mystique picked up a diamond-and-sapphire necklace. “This looks like the one Zoey Zander used to wear.”
“You knew Zoey Zander?”
“Sure. She used to come to all the fashion shows. Had a thing for models.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Too bad she’s dead,” Mystique said.
“Yeah, too bad.”
The minute Mystique wandered out of the office, Cass picked up the jewelry and held each piece to the light. They winked and sparkled and shone brightly.
Was she actually looking at jewels stolen from the Stanhope auction house?
She knew only one way to find out for sure.
Call Sam.
THE MINUTE SAM ENTERED the Isaac Vincent building, he tensed. Partially in memory of his last momentous visit here, but mostly over the fact that he was about to come face to face with Cass again after giving her the brush-off two days earlier.
He wasn’t prepared.
You’re here for the job. He told himself. Just do your job.
It sounded so damned reasonable in theory.
But in reality the minute Sam laid eyes on her, his heart started beating in a crazy, hapless rhythm.
The door to her office stood open. Cass was seated behind her desk, her hair anchored on top of her head with a pencil. She turned and leaned over to pull out the drawer of the file cabinet behind her.
Light from the window—that infamous window he’d crawled out of to rescue her off the ledge—fell across her cheek, casting her face in soft shadows. Today she was wearing her Hermès scarf as a belt, accentuating her narrow waist. The nape of her neck was exposed and the shoulder of her powder-blue dress had slipped down just enough for him to see the strap of a powder-blue bra. But even in spite of that irregular display of lingerie, she looked regal, studious and perfectly contained, as if no one or nothing could touch her inner tranquility.
He caught his breath, stunned by her beauty. Bewildered by the way she made him feel inside.
When he’d first met her he’d thought her shallow and spoiled and far too sophisticated for a guy like him. He’d grossly underestimated her. She was as sharp as they came and beneath that sophisticated exterior lurked a girl-next-door wholesomeness that had gotten lost under the expensive shoes and fancy scarves and the crush of socialite parties.
Question was, how lost had she become? In order to support her lavish lifestyle had she turned to thievery? Had her values become that twisted? He didn’t want to believe it, but he was a cop.
And she was his prime suspect.
He gulped and lightly rapped his knuckles against her door. “Knock, knock,” he said.
Cass raised her head and the wary expression on her face sent an arrow through his heart.
“Sam.” Her voice was cool as spring water. “Please, come in.”
He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, wishing he could scoop her into his arms and kiss her. All the while knowing it would solve nothing.
The emotion, the tension, their undeniable chemistry electrified the air. He could see the finest tremor of her upraised chin. His own jaw was clenched so it wouldn’t quiver and give him away.
His shoes trod heavily against the floor. His breath was reedy. Her gaze was fixed on his and he noticed her pupils widened as he neared.
Was it from guilt?
Or attraction?
When he reached her desk, he saw the royal blue velvet pouch sitting in the center. His eyes went to the bag, then back to her face.
“These the jewels?”
She nodded.
He pulled a pair of white latex gloves from his pocket, put them on and then gingerly picked up the pouch. He took out the jewels one by one and studied them closely.
“These are the pieces taken from the Stanhope robbery.” He nodded. “Except for the White Star amulet. This was all you found in the package?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the packaging it came in?”
She handed him the padded envelope. Her expression never changed, but her gaze kept going to his face, searching for some sign of emotion, some giveaway as to what he was feeling.
He could see the longing in her eyes and his heart slashed in two. He wanted to tell her that he cared about her. That the past weekend they’d shared together had meant a lot to him. That he wished things were different.
But they weren’t different and he could not say those things. He could not make promises he could not keep. Sam studied the envelope as if his life depended on it and when he’d finished with it, he slipped the package in an evidence bag along with the jewels.
“Let me see the note.”
She handed him the piece of notepaper and their fingers brushed slightly. Even through his latex glove, even that brief, fleeting touch, undid him. He inhaled. He had to keep himself closed off, show no emotion. If she had any inkling into how he really felt about her, he was screwed.
“‘You like to play games?’” he read. “What do you suppose he means by that?”
“Or she,” Cass said. “The letter writer could be a woman.”
He knew that all too well. “Block print, dark lines suggests a masculine hand, but we’ll have a handwriting expert go over it.”
“Why would the thief send me the jewels? It makes no sense.”
Unless, in your remorse, you sent them to yourself.
“Maybe the thief is an admirer.”
“Possibly.”
They watched each other warily, playing a dangerous game of their own. Both dancing around what was really on their minds, what they really wanted to say but could not.
“But he or she, whatever the case may be, still has the White Star.”
“Or so we’re to assume.”
“Okay, let’s look at this rationally,” Sam said, deciding that he was going to pretend for the moment that he was one hundred percent certain Cass was not involved in either the Stanhope robbery or the Blueblood Burglaries.
“I’m listening.” She leaned back in her chair.
Sam paced. “He sends you jewelry that’s worth somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. That’s not chump change.”
“Agreed.” Her eyes stayed on him as he walked back and forth, back and forth across her small space.
“From what we can glean from the description of the White Star found in the auction house catalog, the amulet itself has no intrinsic value. The ivory, gold and carnelian that make up the White Star have a market value of about a hundred dollars. But the book you brought me indicates there’s more to the amulet than meets the eye. I’m sending the book out to be translated, but I have a suspicion that to the right collector, the White Star would be priceless.”
“Maybe,” Cass said, “the White Star was the real target all along. Maybe the other items were just taken to throw the NYPD off the scent.”
“Could be.” He arched an eyebrow. He was toeing a tightrope here, not knowing how much to tell her, how much to hold back. He took a deep breath and asked the question that begged to be asked. “Thing is, Cass, why did the thief send Zoey Zander’s jewelry to you?”
“You got me.” She looked so completely guileless. How he wanted to believe that it was not an act.
“‘White Star, White Star, who’s got the White Star? Is it you?’” he read. “‘Game on.’”
“That makes it sound as if he believes I have the White Star and maybe he’s wanting to exchange the other jewelry for the amulet.”
“Then why not just say that? Why the riddle?”
“I don’t know.”
Something nagged at Sam. He was missing something here. Something important. But he couldn’t think what it was. Not with Cass sitting there, watching him, breathing so sweetly, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm that matched his fevered heartbeat.
His gaze fell to her lips.
She caught the shift and smiled, just barely but enough for him to know their private game was up. He had to get out of here. Now. Before he threw caution to the wind, destroyed all the evidence and begged her to run away with him to some distant tropical isle.
CASS HAD BEEN MISERABLE all day and it wasn’t just from the hangover.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the cold, methodical way Sam had come into her office, taken her statement, confiscated the jewels, grilled her as if she’d stolen the White Star and then turned around and walked back out again as if nothing had ever happened between them.
Any lingering hopes she’d been clinging to that he would change his mind about pursuing a relationship with her vanished.
He was finished. The unforgiving look in his eyes spoke the truth.
He wasn’t interested.
Fine. Okay. She got it.
So why couldn’t she let go?
It wasn’t like her to cling. She prided herself on her spontaneous, fun-loving nature and her live-for-today outlook.
And as she stood in the subway, waiting for her stop, a stunning realization hit her. All her life she’d taken the hit-and-run approach to relationships. Perhaps that was even why she had such a fixation on shoes.
Shoes represented walking and walking meant freedom and freedom meant escape. She stayed in motion in order to suppress her guilt and regret over her actions.
She thought of all the men she’d dated. The men she’d wounded. She’d never meant to hurt any of them. She’d never even really been aware that she was causing them pain. She’d just been going merrily about her life, never recognizing that she’d actually been motivated by fear and anxiety.
Hiding beneath the cover of the next good time. While all along she’d been blindly, impulsively pursuing fun, without once considering the cost of her impulses.
Now Sam had turned the tables on her.
And it really hurt on the other side.
For the first time ever her “eat, drink and be merry” philosophy felt more like “play now pay later.” She’d had her fun, the piper wanted his due.
She got off at her subway stop and trudged up Canal Street. Sadly, she thought of her Manolo Blahniks lost somewhere in the Catskills. First her shoes, now her man. It was turning out to be a crappy week for holding on to things. She should have checked her horoscope.
“Evenin’ Cass,” said the cheerful woman who mopped the floors in her building.
Cass forced a smile. “How are you, Sue?”
The older woman’s eyes twinkled. Sue was a single mom, who took community college classes in the morning and cleaned in the evenings to make ends meet. “Good, very good actually. I finished my last computer class and I’ve got a job interview next Monday.”
“That’s wonderful news.” Cass brightened.
“I can’t thank you enough for encouraging me to go back to school.” Sue looked directly at her. “Your support has meant a lot to me and while it’s been tough at times, the effort has been worth it.”
Cass blushed, embarrassed. “It was all you, Sue. I don’t deserve any credit.”
“There were days when your belief in me was the only thing keeping me in school. And thanks for telling me about Suited for You. I would never have been able to afford nice interview clothes on my own.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad they could help.”
Sue leaned on her mop and peered at her. “Are you okay? You don’t seem your usual self.”
“Rough day at work,” she mumbled.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to cheer you up?”
“Just hearing about your job interview has already lifted my spirits. I know you’re going to ace it.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
She gave Sue a quick hug, and then trudged upstairs to her apartment, trying her best to think happy thoughts but failing miserably. While she was happy for Sue, she couldn’t forget what she’d almost had with Sam.
Key in the lock. Almost inside her sanctuary. Home. Where she could collapse on her bed and let herself cry if that’s what she wanted.
Except when she pushed open the door, she found chaos instead of comfort.
Cass gasped and looked around.
Her cozy little home had been trashed. Kitchen chairs overturned. Glass broken in the sink. Refrigerator left hanging open, condiments spilling out onto the laminate flooring.
Wearily, she kicked the door closed with her foot, dropped her purse and sank to the ground.
Well, hell. This just iced it.
SAM SAT ON A STOOL in the evidence lab. His shift was finished but he couldn’t let go. The only fingerprints the lab tech had found on either the jewels or the inside of the envelope belonged to Cass. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she were walking around with a giant red downward-pointing arrow above her head.
Therein lay the problem.
It was all too handy. Too tidy. Too neatly tied up.
If Cass had stolen the jewels, then why send them to herself? And then call him to report it?
It made no sense.
And the main thing he couldn’t reconcile was how she was able to rob Stanhope’s. The auction house boasted state-of-the-art surveillance equipment and his research into Cass’s background told him she possessed no skills in circumventing complex security systems.
He could buy her as the Blueblood Burglar. She’s at a party, goes up to use the ladies’ room, detours by the hostess’s bedroom, steals a necklace or a toe ring or ankle bracelet from the jewelry box on the dresser. No one’s the wiser until the party’s over.
Sam had never believed that the two cases were related, but now his leading suspect in the Blueblood Burglaries had received jewels from the Stanhope caper. Mailed to her from an anonymous source. Much too coincidental.
Unless someone was trying to frame her.
But who?
And why?
He kneaded his temples with his fingers. He was so tired, he couldn’t think straight but he wasn’t willing to give up. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he was missing something significant.
One by one, he picked up the pieces with his gloved hands, examining each under the light again and then matching them to the descriptive list of jewels stolen from the Zander collection. Every item was here and accounted for except for the White Star.
Why was it not with the rest of the gems? Where was the White Star? And maybe, most importantly, what was the amulet worth to the right person?
Sam held the antique onyx brooch under the high-powered lamp and for the first time noticed something dark on the sharp end of the stick pin.
Frowning, he narrowed his eyes.
Was that blood?
Excitement surged through him. By damn, it sure as hell looked like blood.
Don’t get too fired up, he cautioned himself. The brooch was old. The blood could belong to Zoey Zander.
Still, it was the first good lead that didn’t automatically point to Cass as the culprit.
“Hey, Joey,” he called to the lab tech. “Have you tested for trace evidence on these items from the Stanhope robbery yet?”
“No, I’ve been swamped, but they’re next on my list. So far, they’ve only been dusted for prints.”
“Could you look at this a minute?”
The technician pried himself from the project he was working on and ambled over. “Find something?”
“This look like blood to you?”
Joey bent over to peer at the broach under the high-powered lighted magnifying glass. “Affirmative.”
“Think it’s enough for a DNA sample?”
Joey smiled. “Does the Pope…”
“Wear a funny hat? Yes, he does. Can you put a rush on it?”
Joey looked back at the project he’d just abandoned. “Working on a double homicide, here Sam. You’re gonna have to wait.”
“Do what you can, will ya? I need it sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks.” Sam stood up and reached for his jacket. Finding the blood on the brooch had given him a second wind.
“Hey, bloodhound.” One of the rookies stuck his head into the lab.
“Yeah?”
“Your uptown hottie just called. She says someone broke in to her apartment.”
“What?”
The rookie repeated himself, but it had been a rhetorical question.
Sam was already out the door.