THIRTY-EIGHT

UNFORTUNATELY, our rapid ascent was not to street level. Matt and Sophia were obliged to return to the offices of Lyons Global Security where they signed a barrage of property transfer papers for Sal Arnold. Then more forms arrived from Lyons, and even more from the Swiss company insuring the gem. It was well after seven PM before we left the Diamond Tower.

We’d barely hit the chilly evening sidewalk before Matt and Sophia had their phones to their ears—Matt ringing up his mother; Sophia calling Gus.

I folded my arms and casually watched the parade of traffic and pedestrians heading down Fifth Avenue.

And then I saw something curious.

Across Fifth, a car was idling, and not just any car. This was a vintage black Jaguar, the same kind of car that had pulled up in front of the Campana store last week.

My gaze moved to the driver’s seat, and sitting behind the wheel was the same big man in black with the same U-shaped scar on his cheek.

I remembered the woman who’d been with him—the fashionista with the cat-shaped turquoise glasses and dramatic two-toned hair. She’d imperiously commanded me to hold open that iron gate to the courtyard so she could get to Gus. Matt as good as told her to go fly a kite.

Was that woman in the Jag’s backseat now? And was she also staring at these two new trustees of a long-lost gem and veritable fortune?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer either question. Though the front seat windows were down, the back windows were up and heavily tinted.

Too curious not to get a closer look, I moved slowly away from Sophia and Matt, walking uptown along the sidewalk. Traffic on Fifth was light, and I managed to jaywalk (carefully!) through the passing vehicles to the other side of the street.

I approached the Jag from the rear—all the better to see through the back window.

Unfortunately, that window was tinted, too.

Now what?

I would need to stick my head through one of the front seat windows to see into the backseat, which seemed impossible—until I came up with a solution inspired by the U-shaped scar on the man’s face.

Anxious but determined, I charged down the street, frantically waving my smartphone like a semaphore. I rushed right up to the Jaguar.

“Hello? Are you my Uber car? You must be my Uber car. I’m late and I’ve been waiting forev—”

I expected the driver to speak to me—which would have given me a chance to peek into the backseat and address the woman (if she was there).

Didn’t I see you in front of the Campanas’ shop in the Village? I was ready to ask, which would have opened the conversation to more urgent questions.

But instead of speaking with me, the driver threw the idling car into gear, and punched the gas. Tires squealed as the Jag leaped forward, into traffic. Yells and honks ensued. The driver ignored them and kept going.

I would have chalked that encounter up to paranoia or coincidence. (After all, Cat Glasses woman was a fashionista and we were in the Diamond District.) But before the black Jag’s uber-scary driver screeched away, I’d caught a split-second sight of something too disturbing to dismiss. The driver wasn’t just staring at Sophia and Matt. By the time I reached him, he had lifted a smartphone, as if he were taking photos or digital video.

“Clare! Over here!”

On the other side of Fifth, Matt was waving frantically with one hand while he held a cab door with the other. Sophia was already in the backseat.

“There’s no time to window-shop!” he shouted. “You know we’re in a hurry. Come on!”