The Collector
Page 65

“That sounds perfect. Surprise me.”
He went to see Angie, getting out of the cab several blocks from the apartment to walk. He needed the walk, but more, if the woman was watching, she might tag the cab number, find a way to trace it back to where he now felt Lila was safe.
Paranoid, maybe, but why take chances?
He spent a hard, unhappy hour with Angie and her family. Then opted to walk from there.
How was his radar? he wondered. Would he feel it if she was watching him, following him? He’d recognize her, that he was sure of, if he spotted her, so he took his time half hoping—more than half—she’d make some move.
He saw Trench Coat Man marching and muttering, and a woman pushing an infant in a stroller. He remembered her walking the neighborhood weeks before, hugely pregnant. But he didn’t see a tall, stunning Asian woman.
He took a detour into a bookstore, wandered the stacks, one eye on the door. He found and purchased a coffee table book on Fabergé eggs, and another on the history, then struck up a conversation with the clerk so he’d be remembered should anyone ask.
He considered it laying a trail.
And maybe he did feel a prickle at the back of his neck when he crossed the street only a block from his loft. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as if to answer it, fumbled a little with his shopping bag, shifted angles, glanced behind him.
But he didn’t see the woman.
Before he shoved the phone back in his pocket, it rang in his hand. He didn’t recognize the number on his display.
“Yeah, Archer.”
“Mr. Archer. My name is Alexi Kerinov.”
Ash slowed his steps. The accent was light, he thought, but definitely Eastern European. “Mr. Kerinov.”
“I’m a friend of Vincent Tartelli’s—Vinnie. I heard only a short time ago what happened, when I tried to reach him. I’m . . . This is devastating.”
“How did you know Vinnie?”
“Both as a client and an occasional consultant. He recently asked me to translate some documents for him—from Russian to English—and he gave me your name and number.”
Not the woman’s boss, Ash thought. The translator.
“He told me he was giving them to you. Have you had a chance to look at them?”
“Yes, yes. I haven’t finished completely, but I found . . . I wanted to speak to Vinnie right away, but when I finally tried his home, Angie said . . . This is a terrible shock.”
“For all of us.”
“He spoke fondly of you. He said you’d acquired the documents and needed to know what they said.”
“Yes. He did me a favor.” And that would weigh forever. “And took them to you.”
“I need to discuss them with you. Can we meet to discuss this? I’m not in New York until tomorrow. I had a brief trip to D.C., and brought them with me. I come back tomorrow. Can we meet?”
When he reached his house, Ash took out his keys, went through the more laborious process of opening his own front door, keying in his new codes. “Yeah, no problem. Have you been to Vinnie’s house?”
“Yes, many times.”
“For dinner maybe?”
“Yes, why?”
“What’s Angie’s specialty?”
“Roast chicken with garlic and sage. Please, call Angie. You worry, I understand. She’ll tell you who I am.”
“You got the chicken, that’s good enough. Why don’t you tell me a little of what you found?”
Ash stepped inside, scanned the room, and the new monitor, satisfying himself before he locked the door behind him.
“Do you know anything about Fabergé?”
Ash dropped the book on a table. “As a matter of fact, yeah, some.”
“Do you know of the Imperial eggs?”
“I do, and about the eight lost ones. Specifically the Cherub with Chariot.”
“You already know? You understood one of the documents?”
“No, not those documents.” How to play it? “There were also some in English.”
“Then you know it’s possible to trace the egg, through the documents. It’s an enormous find. As is the other.”
“What other?”
“The other lost egg. There are two documented in these papers. The Cherub with Chariot and the Nécessaire egg.”
“Two of them,” Ash murmured. “When do you get in tomorrow?”
“I arrive just after one in the afternoon.”
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Vinnie asked I only speak with him or you, not even my wife or his. He was a friend, Mr. Archer. He was my good friend.”
“Understood, and appreciated. I’m going to give you an address now, and I’ll meet you there. Tomorrow as soon as you get in.”
He gave Kerinov Lila’s address at Tudor City. Safer, he thought. Away from his own place, and Vinnie’s shop. “You have my number. If anything happens, if you feel uneasy about anything, contact me. Or the police.”
“Is this responsible for what happened to Vinnie?”
“I think it is.”
“I’ll come straight to you tomorrow. Do you know the value if these could be found?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
When he hung up, Ash grabbed both books, took them straight to his office. And dug into research on the second egg.
Sixteen
Lila unpacked, enjoying, as always, the feeling of the new. Her client had left some provisions for her, and she appreciated it, but she’d take Earl Grey for a walk later, pick up a few things. For a while she played with the dog, who—as advertised—enjoyed chasing a little red rubber ball rolled over the floor. So they played chase and fetch, then find-the-ball until Earl Grey retreated to one of his little beds to nap.
In the quiet, Lila set up her workstation, poured herself a tall glass of lemon water and updated her blog, answered e-mails, booked two jobs.
She considered dipping back into the book when her house phone rang.
“Lowenstein residence.”
“Ms. Emerson, this is Dwayne on the door. There’s a Julie Bryant in the lobby.”
“She’s a friend. You can send her right up. Thanks, Dwayne.”
“No problem.”
Lila checked the time, frowned. Much too late for Julie’s lunch hour, and still a little too early for the usual end of her day. But the visit couldn’t have been more welcome—she had to tell Julie about Ash, about her and Ash, about the night after the awful day.