Sparkles Page 8

  Charlotte listened to the mantel clock in the living room strike eleven thirty. It had been a long day. Aram Faji was dead—murdered. The police had told her this when they showed up at her office at the Quaker City Opera Company. Not only had he been murdered, but it was his headless body, the police detective told her, that had been fished from the Delaware River. After learning precious little from her, the police left Charlotte to mull over the loss of her friend. Her friend. What did she know about him—really know? That he was a master costume designer? Yes. That he was friendly, talkative, and even handsome? Yes. Once, they had been more than friends, yet Charlotte never met his family. Like so many people, Aram Faji was simultaneously an open book full of ciphers. After their breakup Aram married, and later he seemed distracted. Charlotte never pried. Perhaps she should have.

  The only bright spot in her day was that Daniel would be arriving soon. With this promise in mind, she made her way to the second floor of her eighteenth century townhouse. First, she would shower, then slip into a negligee of shimmering cream-colored silk. A dab of perfume behind each ear and on her wrists would finish off the mood. Daniel had given her the perfume as a Christmas gift the first year they had met.

  “I don’t know much about perfume,” he’d confessed, “but the woman at the scent counter said it was a classic from France. I hope you like it.”

  Charlotte not only loved the perfume, that night she fell in love with Daniel Jelski. As she slipped into bed, she mused on how improbable it was for the two of them to be together; she an ambassador’s daughter, and he a man from what is euphemistically referred to as “the other side of the tracks.” None of that mattered. She loved Daniel. Charlotte closed her eyes and shivered at the thought that soon he would be deep inside her.

  DANIEL FISHED out the door key to Charlotte’s home and entered a room straight from a Town and Country catalogue.

  An antique Turcoman carpet sprawled left to right over the flame-colored pine floor before ending at the foot of a wood-burning fireplace. Set facing the fireplace were mahogany end tables topped with lamps made from antique ginger jars. These flanked a sofa slip covered in a bright tartan fabric. A wall of exposed red brick opposite the front door played host to a double set of American Empire bookcases. Sandwiched behind the brick wall and that of the dining room, a flight of stairs led to the second-floor bedroom where Charlotte waited.

  Chapter 25

  Billing and Cooing

  DANIEL SLIPPED from the bed. He headed for the shower where Charlotte stood swathed in warm mist. He pulled back the glass door and swept her into his arms.

  “I thought you were asleep,” she said, nuzzling her face against his shoulder.

  “I can’t sleep. This case I’m working on is really disturbing.”

  “You mean the courier who was maimed?”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Come on, I’ll wash your back. You’ll feel better. By the way, I stopped in to see Aïda today,” Charlotte said as she lathered Daniel’s back. “She’s all excited over a puzzle Jan gave her.”

  “Jan told me he wanted me to try my hand at it too. I guess he’ll show it to me when he’s ready. I can’t imagine why he thinks it’s important.”

  “Beats me. Aïda said it was a jumble.” Charlotte turned. “Here, do my back. I can never reach it.” Daniel swabbed a soapy loofah sponge over Charlotte’s smooth skin.

  “Umm, that feels so good,” she cooed.

  “Glad you like it. Your muscles seem tense. I wasn’t too rough last night, was I?”

  “Of course not. I’m not made of sugar. It’s just I also got some bad news. Our costume designer, Aram Faji, was murdered. Someone cut his head off and dumped him into the river. No one knows where his family is. I still can’t get it out of my mind. I mean, who would want to kill him, of all people?”

  “My God, that’s terrible! You say his name is Faji? Is he, was he an Arab?”

  “No, Iranian… why?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  Charlotte ran her hand down Daniel’s stomach. Cupping his balls, she squeezed gently. She pulled Daniel in close. “You smell nice enough to make love to. How about it, big fella?”

  “Big fella and I have to get home. I have a busy day. We’re still on for tomorrow?” Daniel said.

  “I’ll be there,” Charlotte said with a smile.

  Chapter 26

  Templars of Law

  Rittenhouse Square

  DANIEL AND Jan stood at the window that overlooked the park and the fountain that made up Rittenhouse Square. The fountain was silent. The naked trees seemed to shiver in the cold air. Only the pigeons and squirrels remained animated as they searched for food. It was late afternoon. Just above the city skyline, the cold western sun showed a dull face. Jan took a sip of his favorite drink, Campari liqueur over cracked ice, with a twist of lemon. Jan gestured to the mahogany dry bar set against the wall.

  “Make yourself a drink.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going out tonight—a fund-raiser for our beloved mayor. I expect there will be plenty to drink later.”

  “Careful driving home,” Jan said.

  Daniel nodded but said nothing to this.

  “How did you make out with O’Farrell?”

  “I think he recognized me, or at least he thought he did. I put the idea out of his head,” Daniel said. “He doesn’t know I’m your brother. If he did, he’d put two and two together pretty quickly.”

  “I prefer he not know.”

  “Jan, why do you look out for him? I mean, when he thought he wanted to be a chemist, you fixed it so he could get into Drexel. He didn’t have the grades to make it, but still, you smoothed it over for him. Then when he was married and out of work, you got him the job he has, or had. Of all the people from the old neighborhood, why him?”

  “Let’s just say, he did me a favor—once.”

  “A favor? What kind of favor?”

  Jan turned and looked at Daniel without speaking, a look that in itself spoke volumes.

  “Okay, I get it. Case closed.”

  “Just make this suit go away,” Jan said. “Explain to Jack Spencer just how bad for business hauling a maimed man into court would be for them. If he doesn’t come around, tell him I’d consider it a favor. He owes me one, but Daniel, don’t go there unless you have to. It’s always good to keep these kinds of debts owed, but unpaid.”

  Daniel walked over to the drinks stand and poured himself a small scotch and soda. He took a sip and walked back to the window. He looked down at the people, all hurrying with lives to live.

  Jan eyed the drink. “I thought you didn’t want one…. What’s up?”

  Daniel took another sip. “I got a letter from Sonya. She’s getting married—some guy—professional ski instructor.”

  When Jan didn’t reply, his brother went on. “I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been over five years since the divorce. I’ve moved on with my life. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t. I sold the house in Saint David’s. She loved that house so much. It’s so quiet—not like the city. I’m sending the money to her… I’m babbling. Sorry…. Oh, she said to say hello.” Daniel said all this without turning.

  “You seem sad about it,” Jan said.

  “Not sad, just bittersweet… the baby dying, me being away at the office so much, then the nightmares. She never got over killing those men in Sudan. Yes, they were slave traders, and they were as bad as men get. Yes, it was a sanctioned kill, and yes, you tried to talk her out of going to Sudan in the first place, and yes she was so fired up about what kind of people they were, she couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge that she might have to kill to make her anger go away. She tried hard to put it behind her, maybe too hard. We both did. I knew when she said she wanted a separation that she wouldn’t come back.”

  Jan felt as responsible for Daniel’s marriage breakup as anyone. He could have vetoed Sonya joining the strike team that took out the pasha and his gang of human traf
fickers. He could have stood firm, but in the end, over Daniel’s objections, Jan allowed Sonya to go. As good intentioned as it was, the “righteous kill,” as Daniel put it, had unintended consequences.

  “You and Charlotte are getting along?”

  “Yeah. Funny, I never liked opera. If you hadn’t pulled me along that night, I never would have met her. And to think she lives right across the street from you—Hey! You didn’t plan this, did you?”

  Jan chuckled. “What do you take me for—a puppet master? No, I didn’t, but Charlotte’s a fine woman. And you’re a good man. I’m happy for you both. By the way, now that the house is sold, where will you be living?”

  “I’ve got an apartment near the art museum. Charlotte suggested I move in with her, but I’d rather wait awhile.”

  “I can see that. I’d offer you a room at my place, but that’d just cramp your style.”

  “My style? That’s a laugh. I’m as smooth as a burlap sack.”

  “Baloney. If you’ve got Charlotte De Vere as a lover, you’ve got something most men don’t.”

  Daniel flushed. “Now you’re embarrassing me.”

  “I meant it,” Jan said.

  Daniel shook his head. “Let’s change the subject. Do you want to join Charlotte and me tonight? We have room at our table, and I know Charlotte would love it.”

  “I’m going out myself tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  Jan chuckled without mirth. “It’s Larry Sinclair’s pre, pre, pre, pre-Christmas party.”

  “Geez, how many Christmas parties does he throw?”

  “My guess is, as many as he can squeeze in from Thanksgiving to December twenty-fifth.”

  “Sinclair doesn’t seem like your kinda guy… a little over the top, if you know what I mean.”

  “Daniel, you have no idea, until you see him in one of his ball gowns.”

  “You’re joking. He’s a decorated general!”

  “What do you want me to say? He’s a nice guy, and by all accounts a brave soldier. Clothes don’t always make the man.”

  “Suit yourself. You could spend the evening sitting in chairs that were never designed for humans, eating expensive and highly indigestible food while getting your pocket picked by a politician.”

  This made Jan laugh. “Something tells me I’m going to have more fun.”

  “Ahem.”

  Jan and Daniel turned to see Marsha Betterman standing behind them.

  “Eavesdropping on the boss, Marsha?” Jan said.

  Marsha ignored the remark. “Daniel, Miss De Vere called. She said she’ll meet you at the Four Seasons at 7:00 p.m.”

  “Thanks, Marsha. I’d better get going. Can’t keep hizzonor the mayor waiting.”

  Jan looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to get going too. See you tomorrow?”

  Daniel nodded, downed the rest of his drink. “I’ll be here.”

  Chapter 27

  Larry Sinclair’s Townhouse

  JAN BANGED the brass door knocker, made in the shape of a field cannon. He looked at the mistletoe garland that drooped from the door’s lintel and frowned. I hope Larry doesn’t try to kiss me!

  The man who opened the door wasn’t Larry Sinclair. He was the guy with the auburn curls and dark eyes whom Jan had met outside the Broad Street Diner.

  “Well hello. We meet again. Is it fate, or coincidence?” the man said.

  Jan blinked his loss for words.

  “Don’t just stand there, come in. Come in!”

  “Thanks,” Jan said as he stepped into a large room made small by an enormous Christmas tree. Nearby, a long mahogany trestle table bore the weight of silver platters and épergnes spilling over with every kind of food. At each end of the table, crystal punch bowls brimmed with mulled wine. The aroma of cinnamon and evergreen filled the air. From a mezzanine above the living room, a string quartet played a Bach concerto.

  “I’d ask to take your coat, but you’re not wearing one—and I still don’t know your name.”

  Jan smiled. “Well for starters, my name is Jan Phillips, and I’m not wearing a coat because I live just a few doors from here.”

  “How convenient. My name’s Stephen Roman. I’m the official greeter and drink getter.”

  The two shook hands. Roman had the firm grip of a man sure of himself. Jan looked around at the crowded room and chuckled. “Stephen, it looks like you’re in for a long night.”

  “What are you drinking?” Stephen said as he guided Jan toward a bar.

  “Campari over ice with a twist, if you have it.”

  As if by magic, a short glass filled with the ruby liqueur appeared. Jan took a sip. He winked at Stephen and said, “Smooth, very smooth.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Stephen said coyly.

  Jan just shook his head at the flirting. It was something he hadn’t done in many years. He made his way to where Larry Sinclair was holding court at the steps leading up to the mezzanine.

  “Well as I live and breathe! Look everyone. It’s the all too elusive, and may I say gorgeous, Jan Phillips!”

  The group of men and women, who were often referred to as “the beautiful people,” parted like the proverbial Red Sea. Larry, dressed in a vintage Elsa Schiaparelli red velvet gown, rose, reached out, and pumped Jan’s hand, holding on just a tad too long before releasing it.

  Jan swept the room with a glance. “Larry, you’ve outdone yourself.” He moved in close to Larry’s ear. “Who is Stephen Roman? I mean, what’s his story?”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well so am I, but alas, so is half of Philadelphia. The other half will be too, once they get a look at him.”

  “I asked for his story, not his stats. Where does he come from?”

  “Everyone who meets Stephen Roman asks the same question. I play dumb, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Larry took Jan by the hand and said, “Come on, then, if you really want to know.”

  Jan allowed himself to be pulled along through the crowd, down a short hallway and into Larry’s library. A small fire burned in the hearth. Books on the art of warfare filled floor-to-ceiling shelves. A large bust of Napoleon Bonaparte held a place of honor near a desk of polished rosewood.

  Larry dropped his public persona—that of a flippant, sarcastic queen. It was a mien he employed as armor against the scorn of less accepting folk. He gestured to a pair of club chairs covered in navy blue leather. “Sit down.”

  “You’ve grown serious, Larry. What’s up?”

  Larry pulled the other chair close to Jan. “This is just between us, okay?”

  “Of course. Keeping secrets is my job.”

  Jan was certain Larry had no idea that Jan was Mundus’s North American Master. In fact he was pretty sure Larry had never heard of Mundus, or if he had, he didn’t know what it was.

  “Roman isn’t Stephen’s real name,” Larry said. “I mean, not entirely.”

  “I’m listening,” Jan said.

  Larry drew in a deep breath. “It’s Romanov.”

  Jan looked at the general, who had now grown more serious. “It’s a common enough name…. You aren’t suggesting—”

  Larry nodded. “He’s the real deal.”

  “So what? There are lots of real Romanovs living today. Why is it so important that this one needs a cover name?”

  “He’s not only a Romanov, he’s a direct heir—not that he wants any power, or even the Russian crown.”

  “Well, that’s good, because he wouldn’t get the crown, even if he did want it.”

  Jan turned his head, listening for a moment. Muted laughter from beyond the closed door made the scene between the two men oddly sinister. He shot the general a sidelong glance.

  “Why are you telling me this, Larry? You’ve plenty of connections. You don’t need me to help your boyfriend if he’s got himself in a jam.”

  Larry stood up. He ran his pudgy hands over his belly. “Boyfriend! Look at me, Jan. Stephen is
young and beautiful. Do you really think he’d give me a second look?”

  “I don’t know him. I can’t say.”

  “That’s the lawyer talking. But thanks for the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Well, are you going to tell me about him?”

  Larry paced the room. “I don’t know where to begin, except that he’s in trouble, or at least I think he is. He’s got money pouring out of his ears, if you know what I mean. The money the Romanovs stashed before the revolution in those Swiss banks was no lie.”

  “I’ve already seen the Jag parked outside.”

  “How did you know it was his?”

  “I didn’t until tonight. We met quite by chance on the street. Stephen caught me admiring the car. He even offered me a ride.”

  “Really?” Larry said with a tinge of disbelief mixed with envy.

  “Larry, can we get off the car and back to the man? What’s going on?”

  The older man went to a window. Beyond the wavy glass, pale footlights illuminated the boxwood and laurel garden he’d planted upon moving into the old house. He turned and faced Jan.

  “No one is supposed to know this, Jan, but Stephen’s the owner of that fucking diamond that everybody is looking for. He’s afraid the police are going to suspect the theft was a setup for insurance. Of course, it wasn’t. The man has more money than God.”

  Jan took a sip of Campari. Talk about the six degrees of separation!

  “What else?” Jan said. “You’re not telling me this because of a stolen bauble.”

  Larry rubbed his fleshy hands together. “Jan, he’s beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do. I thought of you. You know everybody worth knowing. I—”

  “Why did he buy the diamond in the first place?”

  “That’s the confidential part I was referring to. I know this is going to sound crazy, but it’s for a ransom. The stone can be cut into smaller pieces. Spencer & Hillier was supposed to take possession of it and do the job. Once cut, the pieces would be untraceable. After the diamond’s breakup, he was supposed to hand the new gems over to some people. Of course S&H had no idea what’s going on, besides cutting the stone, I mean. People do that sort of thing all the time.”