Fifty-Five

The first paper was the original copy of Samuel Bello Stone’s birth certificate. The parents, as on the copy I’d seen before, were Grace Harcourt and Luther Stone. The paper stapled behind it was Luther’s original birth certificate. His mother was Agnes Bello. No father was named.

“St. Agnes was the name of the orphanage where Bello took the child,” I said.

“Orphanage? What?” Den said.

“My source in France just called with information. Bello took a baby to St. Agnes’s Orphanage. They specialized in children with disabilities or illness. If you had the bad luck to be born with a problem, it was considered reasonable to send you away.”

Den whistled a low whistle. “Christ.”

“Agnes must be the baby girl Bello took over there. She really might be Jean Harlow’s half sister.”

“How do we find that out for sure?” Den said after a minute. “It was such a long time ago. Adoption laws have all changed. Things were much more hush-hush back then.”

“I’m expecting an email from the French embassy any minute,” I replied, setting aside the birth certificates.

Den cocked his head. “Agnes must not have been that sick if she had a baby.”

“She had CF,” I said. “Back then, few people with the disorder lived past the age of twenty, but she could have had a baby before that age.”

Another stapled group of papers documented Samuel Stone’s official name change, which had taken place in Sweden. No wonder we hadn’t been able to find any record of it.

“I still think it’s strange to change your name to a well-known movie star’s name,” Den said. “Something wasn’t right there.”

“I agree. It’s like Sam was obsessed with Jean Harlow and wanted to become her.” I made a mental note to check in with Maude about this. About the mental health question.

Den shrugged. “Maybe it was the only thing she had in her life. Sounds like the dad was a nut job.”

He handed me Luther “Lucky” Stone’s record. As I glanced it over, he made a call to the precinct to issue an APB for him. “It’s gotta be him, right?”

Luther had quite a record, everything from attempted murder and manslaughter to theft of valuable art and jewelry belonging to movie stars. But he was slippery, either serving small stints in jail or weaseling his way out of it by hiring good lawyers.

Jewelry belonging to movie stars.

So he was a collector. And he must have been after the ring.

Knowing Justine, I understood that she’d never hand it over to a man like that. So she’d gotten herself embroiled in protecting the look-alike and the ring. And it’s what got her killed.

But what to do with this information? Den was still on the phone, and my mind was flooding with possibilities.

I glanced over at the last paper, which was a handwritten note on a torn yellow sheet.

“My darling Baby,

One day you will ask many questions. You probably won’t find many answers. But one thing you must know is you were loved. We couldn’t take care of you. I have another daughter and it’s very complicated. But you were loved.”

It ended there. At the tear. It could have been written by anybody. There was no signature. No names. Someone had torn this paper or it was destroyed some other way. I sifted through my mind to remember the name of a handwriting expert we’d used for another book. I had to have his name somewhere. I had to verify this note before I could use it.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Den said as he came up beside me.

I nodded.

“So we’ll search for Luther. Maybe he’s our guy.”

“Perhaps,” I said, sitting down in front of my computer, pulling up my email. There was my email from Lou. It had an attachment. I clicked on it, with Den’s breath on my neck.

An official document, written in French. But there was Marino Bello’s name under “father.” No name under “mother.” No name. They never gave the name of the baby’s mother.

“Shit!” Den said.

“That was the document that would provide a genetic link to Jean Harlow, so we still don’t have one. There’s only a link to Bello.”

“What about this note?”

“I can get a handwriting expert on that. But those results are never one hundred percent.”

Den stood and paced in front of the delicate rose stained-glass window. “It doesn’t matter for me. For my purposes. I think we’ve got our guy. I just need to find him.”

“If he’s in the city, I’m sure the NYPD will get him,” I said, confident.

Den snorted. “I hope so.”

“You don’t sound optimistic.”

“It might be cold. Luther’s trail, I mean. It’s been a while. It’s been well over two weeks since your assault. If it’s the same guy, he could be back in London, or in Sweden, or God knows where else by now.”

I mulled it over for a few minutes. “He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get the ring. If he’s our killer, I don’t think he’d give up until he’s got the ring.”

Den continued to pace. “Could the man have killed his own son or daughter?” He stopped. “It makes no sense. I’ve seen some messed-up things, but to kill your kid over a ring?” His voice rose a decibel or two.

“I agree. It’s disturbing. It makes little sense. But we’re not dealing with a normal person. Who knows what he’s capable of ?” I shivered, remembered his hands pound into my back, pushing me. It had to be him. It was the only answer.

Now the only question that mattered was, where is he?

In a city like New York, people disappeared every day. Some killed, never to be found. Or their remains were discovered years later. Sometimes people broke, lost their way. I suspected it happened a lot here. It was a tough city to live in and it wore people down. If you didn’t have the resources, and had a fragile disposition, you ended up homeless or in a hospital somewhere.

There were also those who had resources who wanted to disappear. New York was a good place for it. Especially if you had connections. Like Justine, harboring the Harlow look-alike in a private club filled with moneyed, educated woman with gravitas. They kept secrets.

Finding Luther “Lucky” Stone in this city would be like finding a needle thrown off a skyscraper. Den didn’t seem to have much confidence in it. There were too many places to hide, especially if you had unlimited resources, which apparently Luther Stone had.

My fingers flew over my keyboard, hunting for any reference online to him.

“Jesus,” Den said when the long row of websites listing entries about Luther “Lucky” Stone came up. Den turned back to his phone, barking orders for someone to do internet research on the man who had amassed his fortune as a gambler and art dealer. According to one website, he had one of the largest private collections of Hollywood memorabilia, with a particular interest in the movie stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood, especially Jean Harlow.

“It’s all right here,” Den said, looking over my shoulder after he hung up his phone.

I clicked on one website that had a photo of him. A damned good photo. Those lizard-like eyes stared back at me, and the scar on his face nauseated me.

“There he is.” A chill moved through me. My hands reached to my mouth. Even though we hadn’t gotten a decent picture of the killer from the security footage, the rendering the police artist had drawn was spot on. Distinct eyes, scar, and a pointy shape to his chin.

“I think you need a break,” Den said. “We need a break.”

He was right, but I wanted to continue. I needed more answers. This mad man was somewhere out there. I’d bet on him still being in the city. How could I stop searching? How would I be able to sleep, to eat, to live?

“We need to find him,” I said. My voice came out a harsh whisper. My fingers moved over the keyboard.

“We won’t find him by researching on the computer any more today,” Den said, crouching down beside me and grabbing my hands. “Let’s go get something to eat. Okay?”

I gaped at him in disbelief. He wanted to eat?

“Look, ah, it will be a long night for me. And you need to get out of this apartment. Okay? I know this is upsetting. But the best thing you can do right now is get away from your screen and fuel up.” His voice reached into the center of me, as it had ever since the day I first met him. Soothing. Comforting. Yet strong and in command.

He opened his arms and I fell into them. Awkward, as I was sitting on the chair and he was crouching, but we found our way to a standing position and he didn’t let go. I buried my face in his chest as he stroked my shoulders, my hair. I pulled away just enough to glimpse his face, lifted my chin, pressed my lips on his.

Currents of white-hot lust waved through me. He met my kiss with soft lips, with a demanding pressure.

Wrong, so wrong. Even though the bet was over, Den had felt strongly about us not getting together while working on the case. But this molten heat sparked my insides. Raw. Want. The sweet rush of the yield.

When we came up for air, he lifted an eyebrow. “Wow.”

I met his gaze.

“We haven’t solved the case yet,” he said, yet he kissed me again.

When we pulled away from one another, heat coursing through us, I gazed at his eyes. “When we solve the case, you know where to find me.”

He pulled further away from me. “I think we better go.” His voice lowered, smoky. “Or I won’t be able to leave this place.” He took me in. “Maybe for days.”

I laughed. “Days, huh?”

He chuckled. “Okay, guess I’d need to find vacation time for that. But seriously, the next few days are likely to be crazy.” He tugged at my hand. “Let’s go eat.”

We exited the apartment and found our way to an Italian place two blocks over.

I remembered my fear and anxiety when I’d returned to the park. I was glad Den was with me. If Luther was anywhere around watching, he wouldn’t bother me while I had a police officer with me. At least I didn’t think so.

We sat at a small table in a corner, complete with a red-checked tablecloth. The server brought menus. And where I’d been queasy walking down the street wondering if I could eat, the moment I walked into the place and smelled fresh rosemary, garlic, and tomato sauce, my queasiness disappeared.

After we ordered our meals, Den the manicotti and me ravioli, his phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said. “Brophy.” Then, “I’ll be in. Give me two hours.”

He clicked off. “Shit’s flying.” He laughed. “I knew that call was coming. Suddenly there’s a lot of research to wade through and we’ve gotten a few calls on the APB, people think they’ve seen him. I gotta get with my partner and check each one of those leads out. Who knows? Maybe it could lead somewhere.”

“What are the chances?” I asked, trying to tamp down my growing hope.

“Sometimes leads pan out, but sometimes not. You never know.” He shrugged. “But we have to check each one.”

Our server brought our salads and we tucked in, not chatting a lot. What more was there to say? We were each lost in our own reflections. Drained, with a full stomach, I yawned.

“So,” he said, and cleared his throat. “How much of this are you going to put in your book?”

“I need to speak with my agent and editor, but I’m thinking, everything,” I said and took my last bite of ravioli.

“I think you should think about it. Look at everything you’ve been through. Is a story worth your life? If I were you, I might not write about it.”

“The Jean Harlow story hasn’t had any new twists since the David Stenn biography in 1993. If I can add more to her story, it will help my career tremendously.”

“But what will it matter if you’re dead?”

He had a point.

“Point taken,” I said. “But after the police get Stone, I’m in the clear, right?”

Den appeared thoughtful as he paused. “I suppose. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

I warmed. “It won’t. Because the police—you and your NYPD—you’ll get Stone. Right? He can’t continue to evade us. He just can’t.”

I sounded more confident than I felt. I was trying to cheer myself into believing the guy would be caught—and soon enough that I could include everything in the book. Was I kidding myself ? Time would only tell—even if I didn’t have much of it.