THIRTY-NINE

“I can’t reach my father, or the jewelry shop,” Sophia told me as I slid into the cab’s backseat.

Matt squeezed in beside me and shut the door. “I can’t reach Mother, either, but that’s nothing new. She’s always busy with someone or something.”

“Maybe a high-end client showed up unexpectedly,” Sophia considered aloud. “I don’t know, but it feels wrong . . .”

Her anxiety was palpable, and I didn’t want to add to it, but I did need to find out if she knew anything about the driver in the vintage black Jag.

Sophia’s brow wrinkled at my descriptions of the man—and the woman who’d asked to see Gus the week before.

“Neither sounds familiar, but then I don’t deal with retail anymore or making appointments. Monica will know—”

“Monica?” I asked. “Is she the petite, young blonde who greets customers?”

“The same.”

“Matt and I met her the other day, but we didn’t catch her name.”

“She works full-time for my father. So she may know if he doesn’t. When we get to the shop, we’ll ask them.”

The mood in the cab was beyond tense.

To calm my nerves, I began playing with Quinn’s engagement ring—until I felt Matt’s right hand cover my left.

With Sophia focused on her smartphone on one side of me, Matt took hold of my hand on the other and firmly pulled it into his lap.

I sent him a withering You have got to be kidding!

Rolling his eyes, his fingers did their silent work and he released my hand with Quinn’s ring turned 180 degrees. Now the jewels, including those questionable coffee diamonds, were facing my palm and effectively hidden from Sophia’s view.

“Why?” I mouthed.

“Tell you later,” he mouthed back. “Trust me.”

Two simple words in the English language, easy enough to understand—but when uttered by Matteo Allegro, I found impossible to believe.

*   *   *

AS soon as we pulled up in front of the Campana address, Sophia rang the bell for the jewelry store, and we waited to be buzzed in.

“Come on, Monica. Answer the door, you stupid girl.”

High-heeled foot tapping impatiently, she tried a second time, but got no response.

“Fine, I’ll let myself in.”

She swiped her thumbprint over a tiny panel on the door frame, and a small hatch opened to reveal a security keypad. She punched in a series of numbers and letters, cursed, and did it again. After a third attempt, the panel light remained red.

“This isn’t right. The security code won’t work—I think it’s been changed.”

“Changed? When?”

“Today, Matt. The old code worked last evening. Nobody told me about a change!”

An anxious Sophia shoved a key into the door lock. Matt grabbed her hand. “This could be a robbery situation. You shouldn’t go in there.”

“Dad could be in danger. I have to go!”

“It’s not smart, Sophia.”

“Look, fifteen seconds after I open this door, the alarm is going to go off—here, in the backhouse, and at our security’s central station. The police will be here in minutes.”

“Fine,” Matt said. “But if you insist on going in, then I’m going with you.”

Sophia nodded, turned the key, and the lock clicked.

Matt turned to me. “Wait here, Clare. When help arrives, explain the situation to the cops so some trigger-happy rookie doesn’t shoot us by mistake.”

With Matt in the lead, the pair pushed through the store entrance. I stepped out of the recessed doorway and along the sidewalk, counting down the seconds.

The alarm went off on cue, an earsplitting clamor that battered the quiet block and made my teeth rattle. The noise rattled someone else, too, as I discovered the hard way.

I was watching for the police like Matt’s good little soldier, when, behind me, I heard metal crash against metal. Before I could turn, someone slammed into me. I stumbled and fell, landing on my Spanx-covered backside.

I tried to ID the fast-moving figure, but the most I could see from my unceremonious sidewalk view was a long black coat (a raincoat?) fluttering loosely with the black hood up. The figure moved fast as flickering light along Perry Street, disappearing into the shadows like an urban phantom.

As I stood and dusted myself off, I realized the Phantom had gone through the arch. I knew because the iron gate that had been closed when we arrived was now wide open.

I thought about giving chase—a futile gesture in low heels and a skirt, and an all-round stupid idea. Besides, I was more worried about Gus, now. Had he been robbed? Attacked?

I peeked around the arch and found the gate had been yanked open with such force that it wedged itself against the spiral staircase to Gus’s upstairs office and workshop. I listened again for sirens—and heard nothing but the continuous jangle of the burglar alarm.

So much for the police showing up “in minutes.”

Well, I couldn’t wait. If Gus was hurt, then seconds counted.

I left the gate open to signal Matt and the police where I’d gone. Then I proceeded along the narrow cobblestone corridor, where shadows were so deep I couldn’t see my feet. Soon I moved into the dim glow of the courtyard’s bell-shaped lamps.

I hesitated before stepping into the clear.

What if the prowler had an accomplice, lurking behind the tinkling fountain, or among the manicured bushes?

Then I saw the front door to Gus’s hidden backhouse was open, light from the foyer spilling onto the outside steps. I forgot everything else and hurried across the courtyard.

Moving through the door, I called out Gus’s name. Except for the brightly illuminated foyer, the other rooms in the house appeared dark—until I spied the glow of a flickering fireplace in the sitting room, where Gus had shared his memories of the Andrea Doria.

“Gus?”

Standing at the doorway, I finally saw him, slumped in one of the beautifully embroidered Italianate chairs. His head was down, so I couldn’t see his expression. A nearly finished glass of cold brew sat on the side table next to him. Another glass, still full, sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, as if Gus had served a guest.

Is he asleep?

I moved closer—and cried out when I saw flecks of black blood dotting his white polo shirt. I rushed forward and touched the man. His head lolled sideways, and I saw the mess around his mouth, on his chin.

I felt for a pulse and, miracle of miracles, found one!

Despite his lean frame, Gus was surprisingly heavy, but after some difficulty I managed to get him off the chair and onto the floor. I rolled him on his back and checked his mouth for blockage. I heard a gurgle with every labored breath.

I used chest compression to clear his breathing passage. Eight, nine, ten hard pumps, and suddenly Gus’s body convulsed and he emptied the rest of his stomach onto the Persian carpet.

“Clare!”

Matt was at the door, along with two policemen. Sophia peeked over their broad shoulders and pushed her way into the room.

“Call 911!” she cried. “We need an ambulance!”

“It’s on the way, ma’am,” one officer said.

Then we worked in tandem, performing CPR on the still-unconscious Gus Campana, until the paramedics arrived.