Ten

The trouble was, he didn’t believe me. His eyes spoke of disbelief as he sipped his Earl Grey.

“I’m certain Justine knew nothing about the ring as well,” I said. “Only that it’s been missing since Harlow’s death. That’s all any of us know.”

A chubby man with ruddy cheeks, Chad Walters’ bushy eyebrows rose as he leaned forward. “I’ll pay you double what it’s worth.”

I could not figure out if he was daft or dangerous. “Look, Mr. Walters, I’m unaware of the ring showing up recently or at all. And if Justine knew something, why wouldn’t she tell me? I was her assistant and knew everything about the woman. She wouldn’t have kept it a secret.”

“You recognize that lost things turn up every so often,” Chad said. “Take the Tino Costa painting, for example.” He was talking about the life-sized painting of Jean Harlow that was lost for over fifty years, then suddenly found belonging to a collector in the middle of the country somewhere. It now resided in the Hollywood Museum with a number of other Jean Harlow items.

I shrugged and sipped my tea. This is a mistake. I never should have agreed to this meeting.

“Playing dumb is not going to help your cause,” he said with a sneer.

“Excuse me?” Was this guy for real?

“I traced the ring to Justine and have spoken to her about it. Are you certain it’s not in a lockbox or safe deposit box somewhere?”

My intuition pricked at me, sending tingles up my spine. If Justine owned either of those, what concern was it of his? What made him think I’d divulge that information? I sipped from my peppermint tea, inhaling the fragrance to calm myself.

Chad Walters pursed his lips. “I’m getting nowhere with you.”

“Excuse me?” I said for the second time, setting my teacup in the saucer with a clank.

“If you don’t let me buy the ring, there will be consequences. For both of us.”

“Are you mad? Because as I’ve told you, it’s nowhere to be found,” I said. “Even if I wanted to give it to you, I couldn’t.” I balled my hands into fists, now on my lap. Was this guy going to attack me? I’d be ready for the fat bastard.

His fleshy ears reddened and the color spread through his face.

“I’m leaving, Mr. Walters,” I said and stood. “Please don’t bother me again.”

He seethed in front of his porcelain teacup and I turned to walk out, not acknowledging the chill racing up and down my spine. Fuck him. Who did he think he was?

As I walked along the street, heading toward Central Park, it occurred to me that I should alert Den to this guy. If he were threatening me over a non-existent ring, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine him as a killer, or someone who’d hire one. He definitely was not the man in the video, who’d been thin and tall. Nevertheless, he was definitely one of the “kooks” Justine had alluded to during our last conversation. This particular collector hadn’t been on my list of suspects at all.

I passed two police officers dressed in uniform, and I have to admit I lost my focus for just a moment as they were both gorgeous Hispanic guys, built.

Even though I would be getting paid to write the Harlow book, I still needed every cent I could get to pay off my hospital and doctor bills. Not only that, but someday I’d like to have my own place. So I ignored my baser instincts to flirt with the uniformed hotties and made my way to a bench and dialed Den, who was completely untouchable, or at least in my mind he was. I had a bet to win.

The day was an almost perfect spring day, and I breathed in the brisk air as I sat on the first empty bench I found, facing the reservoir. Water called to me. Perhaps it was because I’d grown up on the island. Gazing at the water always soothed me, helped me to think, and got my creative juices flowing.

“Sergeant Den Brophy speaking.”

“Hi, this is Charlotte Donovan.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?” he breathed into the phone. He wasn’t flirting, was he? It was probably dreaming on my part. But something about the tone in his voice made my insides pop.

“I just had the oddest experience,” I said.

“Tell ya what, it’s about time for me to take off outta here. Maybe we could chat in person. What do you say?”

“Ah,” I said, not my most articulate response.

“It’s just that I’d rather see you in person, and I’d like to catch you up on what we’ve found. I kinda hate the phone.”

“Oh,” I said. Still articulate.

“Let’s meet at Charley’s on West 72nd. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” I said. Of course I did. It was one of the many cop bars in the city. I hoped I didn’t run into any of my other “interests.” Of course, I’d not seen any of those cops in a while. I’d most recently been dating a few from the Lower East Side.

I wasn’t good with changes in plans or spur-of-the-moment meetings. But I had enough time to consider it and feel good about it. Even though Den was off-limits to me at this point, I wanted to tell him about Chad Walters the collector and to find out where the investigation stood. So despite myself, pangs of anticipation moved through me.

I headed toward the subway. The L’Ombragé Apartments came into view, along with a familiar figure—Walters, milling about just outside the building.

I was certain he didn’t see me, but it unnerved me. What business did he have there? Did he know I was staying there? My heart raced. I needed to tell Den about this—but it would mean confessing that I’d been staying at Justine’s place.

For the first time since I’d been living there, I was glad there was security at the door. I hoped Walters wasn’t aware of the back door.

I took one last glance at him before descending beneath the streets. A woman elbowed me as I became part of the monster of moving parts of people heading downward.