“Then it was partly true.”

“He didn’t tell her because he didn’t trust her, and because he didn’t want her to have as much control as he did. His deal, his way. And she died for it.”

“So did he, Ashton. Tell me this.” She closed her hands around his arms in turn—contact for contact. “If he could have, would he have told, would he have given it to this client to save her?”

“Yes.”

“Then let that be enough.” She rose to her toes, pressed her lips to his. Then found herself caught against him, sinking again, heart quivering as he took her under.

“I could distract you now.”

“No question about it. But.”

He skimmed his hands down her arms. “But.”

They went back in. She watched him set the leather box in the shopping bag, lay the tissue over it and the envelope, the money. “I need to leave tomorrow. There are some arrangements I have to finalize in person. Since I’m cornering you into the funeral, why don’t you see if Julie will come on Sunday, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“It might be awkward for her and Luke.”

“They’re grown-ups.”

“A lot you know.”

“Ask her. And text me the address where you’re staying next so I’ll have it. You said Upper East?”

“That’s right. Tudor City.”

He frowned. “That’s a haul from my loft. I’ll get a car service for you when we schedule sittings.”

“Subways—you might have heard of them—run right through the city. So do cabs and buses. It’s a miracle of mass transit.”

“I’ll get the car service. Do me a favor. Don’t go out again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but—”

“Good.” He picked up the bags, started for the door.

“You should take a cab or a car rather than walk with that thing in that stupid bag. You should take an armored car.”

“My armored car’s in the shop. I’ll see you in a couple days. Call Julie. Stay in.”

Pretty free with the orders, she thought as he left. And he had a smooth and clever way of making them seem like favors or just good sense.

“I ought to go run around the block a few times just for spite,” she told Thomas. “But it’s not worth it. Dishes, then book. And what the hell, I’ll call Julie.”

Nine

Ash chilled a tall glass. A brutally cold gin and tonic was Vinnie’s favorite summer drink, and since he was about to impose in a big way, the least he could provide was the man’s drink of choice.

Vinnie hadn’t asked questions when Ash called. He’d just agreed to swing by after he closed the shop. Ash heard the sorrow in his voice, and the willingness to help, and knew he’d need to use both when he pulled Vinnie into the . . . situation.

He was a good man, Ash thought as he surfed the Internet for more information on the egg. Happily married for nearly forty years, a canny businessman with an unerring eye for value, father of three, besotted grandfather of six. Or it might be seven by now.

Have to check the spreadsheet.

He’d taken Oliver on, knowing full well he was taking on the unreliable and capricious in his sister’s only son. But it had seemed to work. Everyone got along with Vinnie, that was true enough, but he expected—and received—good value from his employees.

Whenever Ash had asked, Vinnie always said Oliver was doing well, was coming into his own, had a knack for the business and a way with the clients.

His way with them, Ash thought now, might be the root of the problem.

He sat back a moment, studied the egg. Where had it been, he wondered, this exquisite and whimsical gift created for Russian royalty? Who’d gazed upon it, run their fingers over its details?

And who wanted it enough to kill for it?

He pushed away from the computer at the sound of the buzzer.

“Archer,” he said into the intercom.

“Hey, Ash, it’s Vinnie.”

“Come on in.” He released the locks, walked out of the sitting area and started down.

Vinnie stood, leather briefcase in hand, his exceptional suit a subtle gray chalk-striped paired with a crisp white shirt—despite the heat and the workday—and a precisely knotted Hermès tie in bold paisley.

His shoes carried a high gloss shine; his hair swept back in white wings from a tanned face set off with a neat, natty goatee.

He looked, Ash always thought, more like one of his well-heeled clients than the man who bargained with them.

He looked up as Ash came down. “Ash.” His voice still carried the Jersey of his boyhood. “A terrible time.” Setting his briefcase down, he embraced Ash in a hard bear hug. “How are you holding up?”

“There’s a lot to do. It helps.”

“Busy always does. What can I do? Olympia’s coming in tonight, but she’s going straight to the compound. She told me not to come until Sunday morning, but I think Angie and the kids will go up tomorrow.”

“She and Angie have always been close.”

“Like sisters,” Vinnie agreed. “She’d rather have Angie than me—than Nigel, when it comes to it. There must be something we can do for you, once we get there.”

“Can you talk her out of the bagpipes?”

He barked a short laugh. “Not in a hundred years. She’s convinced Oliver would want them. Do the police know any more?”

“Not that they’re telling me.”

“Who would do such a thing? Sage—they seemed to suit each other. I think they might have been happy together. I can only think it had to be a jealous ex. That’s what I told the police when they came to talk to me.”

“Did she have one?”

“A woman like that, with her looks, her lifestyle? She must have. Oliver never mentioned anyone, but she must have. But he was happy, that’s something we have to remember. The last few weeks, he was so energized. He talked about taking her on a trip. I think he planned to propose. He had that excited, anxious air about him a man gets when he’s about to take a major step.”

“I think he planned a major step. I have something I want you to look at. Upstairs.”

“Of course.”

Ash led the way to the elevator. “Did he say anything to you about a deal he was making, a special client?”