So the “collector” was a man. Since the brooch had been stolen in Amsterdam, she asked, “A European collector, perhaps? Because I know a gentleman in Brussels who has an impressive Georgian collection.... Maybe we know the same person.”
“No. Not Brussels.”
One look at his wary expression and she knew he wouldn’t say more. Switching gears, she returned to a safer topic.
“So, is the backing on my earring the same as—”
Releasing a pent-up breath, Enzo picked up the flower brooch and turned it over. “This foil backing is similar to your earring, yes.”
“How much for the pin?”
“Thirty-seven thousand.”
Ten years ago, it had been valued at fifty. Which made it easily worth seventy or more today. He also hadn’t referred to it as the Lady Melbourne brooch or mentioned its history. According to legend, it had been a gift from Queen Charlotte to Lady Melbourne, one of her ladies-in-waiting.
He obviously wanted to sell it, fast. Maybe he had been promised a cut.
“Let me think it over,” she said pleasantly.
He gave her his card, and she left the store, smiling at the security guard on her way out.
As she drove out of the lot, she lightly touched the Lady Melbourne brooch, safely tucked into her inside jacket pocket. The replica now lay in its place at Fortier’s, and unless his “collector” acquaintance checked it closely, no one would know about the switch. That was, until she, or maybe Charlie, returned to interview Enzo about his role in fencing the brooch. Depending on when, or if, she found the master thief, which could take days or weeks. Maybe months. Investigations always had their own timeline, based as much on the investigator’s skill as patience.
Driving down the street, she saw the duplex ahead to her right. The young girl still sat on the porch steps, her eyes glued to the wedding chapel next door.
Frances pulled over and parked. Opening her clutch, she retrieved a bill that she’d tucked away a week or so earlier. Years ago, someone had given her such a gift. Now that she made a good income, she liked to give back in the same quiet way.
The girl’s dark eyes widened with curiosity as Frances walked briskly up the cracked concrete walkway. The youngster scanned her linen pantsuit, all the way down to her Dolce & Gabbana heels, then raised her eyes to the glittering earrings.
Frances paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the pile of old car parts stacked in a corner of the worn wooden porch, the bent metal frame of the screen door. They reminded her of a similar building she had lived in nearly twenty ago, and how for a few weeks she and her parents had spent their evenings in the dark because of an unpaid electric bill.
Not total darkness, though, because her dad lightened their moods, literally, with magic tricks. He’d light candles with a wave of his hand, make lightbulbs glow with a touch of his finger. She and her mom had seen the tricks dozens of times, knew the secrets behind the maneuvers, but they had laughed and clapped as though experiencing them for the first time.
Their responses had been real, not contrived. Although there was always trickery behind a magic act, something mystical bonded an audience to a magician. They shared a belief, as far-fetched as it might seem, that everything would be all right. That the rabbit would reappear, the magician would escape the water tank, the lady sawn in half would be whole again.
Frances met the girl’s gaze. “What’s your name, hon?”
“Whitney.”
She handed the girl a bill. “Whitney, do something nice for yourself and your family.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the fifty-dollar bill, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I don’t do nuthin’ for money.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Why fo’?”
“For you to pay it forward someday.” She saw the confusion on the girl’s face. “Which means...when you’re all grown up, give a gift to another young girl and her family.”
As Frances headed back to her car, she heard the girl’s barely suppressed squeal, followed by the thumpity-thump of feet running across the porch and the slam of a screen door.
* * *
WHILE DRIVING PAST the Clark County courthouse a few minutes later, Frances punched in the speed-dial number for her dad’s cell, hit the speaker button and set the phone on the console. It was against Nevada law to make handheld cell-phone calls. In her opinion, that meant as long as she wasn’t holding her phone, she stayed legal.
After all she’d been through, Frances was definitely keeping her life on the right side of the law. In five years, she would no longer be under court supervision, her payments would be completed for the necklace she stole and her felony conviction would be discharged. When that day came, she would have a second chance to live her life right.
“Hey, baby girl,” her dad said over the speaker, “how’d it go?”
“Slick as glass.”
“Get the brooch?”
“Of course.”
“That’s my girl!”
As she idled at a stoplight, a black cat dashed across the street in front of the Benz. She muttered, “That’s not good.”
“Something wrong?”
“I just saw a black cat.”
“You and your superstitions,” her dad said with a chuckle. “On your way to meet Charlie now?”
“He’s in meetings until five. Figured while I’m downtown, I’ll pull some files at the clerk and recorder’s office to see if Enzo has recently used his jewelry inventory as collateral for a loan.”
“This has something to do with the brooch?”
“Enzo’s up to his teeth in litigation, probably having trouble borrowing money from banks right now. People in tight spots sometimes turn to questionable money sources, especially in Vegas. If Enzo took out a loan within the past week or so, which of course coincides with the brooch mysteriously surfacing, the identified lender might be the thief, too.”
“My daughter, Sherlock—or should I say Shirley—Holmes.”
In her rearview mirror, she saw swirling red lights from a white Crown Victoria hugging the bumper of her Benz.
Anxiety rippled through her. “Looks like I got company. Unmarked cop car’s pulling me over.”
“That’s odd. Why an unmarked?”
Seemed odd to her, too, but she didn’t have time to analyze the situation. “Charlie’s office and cell numbers are written on the bottom of the whiteboard in the kitchen. Leave messages on both that I’ve been pulled over on Third, across from the courthouse. Gotta go.”
After stopping the car, she eased the brooch from her pocket and set it carefully between the leather seat and the console, then rolled down her window and killed the engine. Slowly, she placed her hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.
Exhaust fumes and the scents of hot dogs from a nearby street vendor wafted into the car as she watched the man in her rearview mirror unfold himself from the vehicle and swagger to her car. He wore jeans, white T-shirt, windbreaker—universal undercover-cop attire.
His steps crunched to a stop next to her window. Leaning over slightly, his blue eyes fastened on hers like steel shards to a magnet.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked politely.
“Howdy,” he said, all friendly like, “mind handing over your phone