Authors: Max Allan Collins
Despite the care Kendra and Original Cindy had taken to help her blend in here, that was impossible for Max; in a way, her home girls had done
too
good a job on her. Her dark exotic beauty, so fetchingly displayed in the low-cut frock, had attracted male eyes from the moment she walked in. The women took only a few seconds longer to catch onto her unique presence . . . and suddenly it seemed that Max wasn't the only female with cat genes in the room: the debutante girlfriends and trophy wives threw her looks of undisguised contempt.
A waiter paused for Max to select a champagne flute from his tray, and she exchanged smiles with him—two human beings trapped here in the Decadence Museum. Then he was gone, and she sipped, hoping the bubbly would relax her, but instructing herself to hold it to one glass: she was, after all, working. . . .
As she eased off toward the gallery, Max nodded at several of the appreciatively gazing men, thinking,
Even if I were still in heat, you toms wouldn't stand a chance
. . . .
The vast room where, not so long ago, she and a security guard had interacted now held fifty-some people, mostly milling about enjoying the artwork, murmuring appreciatively at Sterling's collection, about every third one trying to impress with his or her knowledge. Music from the foyer filtered in, but muffled, as if this were Muzak piped in.
Glancing around the room, Max saw that Sterling's people had cleaned up the mess after her visit, neatly, efficiently. The holes from the security leader's pistol shots had been patched; the Jackson Pollock ruined by Maurer's MP7A had been taken down (and replaced by a different Pollock painting!); and—much to Max's surprise—she caught glimpses of a new Plexiglas display case in the corner, where she'd found the Heart of the Ocean. But she would have to get closer, to see what new object had been put on display in the necklace's place. . . .
Not wanting to arouse suspicion—and now starting to look for Sterling in earnest—Max went down the left side of the room (the side opposite the display case), gliding behind guests lined up staring at paintings. A stunning blonde in blue velvet who must have been straight out of art school was explaining a Georgia O'Keeffe flower to her much older male companion, specifically the “powerful symbol of life and female becoming.”
As Max slipped by the couple, she noticed the blonde's hand was brushing the thigh of her date, who was about as weathered as one of O'Keeffe's cow skulls. He was studying her, not the painting—though Max had a hunch the guy understood the blossom symbolism just fine.
Shaking her head a little, Max spotted, on the far wall, one of Andrew Wyeth's
Helga
pictures, which she wished she'd grabbed on her first visit. She smiled privately, moving on even as she considered the possibility of a third visit to the mansion, some night soon. . . .
Still no sign of Sterling—or, for that matter, any of his security staff. She slipped in and out of the clusters of pompous people until she stood in front of another Grant Wood, which had taken the wall space that had belonged to
Death on the Ridge Road. Spring Turning
—another oil on Masonite, done in 1936—featured large green fields going on seemingly forever, rolling hills beneath a blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. In the bottom foreground, a tiny man used a horse-drawn plow. At eighteen by forty,
Spring
was also a bulky painting; if she did return, she'd leave this one behind.
Again, Max slowly scanned the room for Sterling, and didn't see him. But before she'd move on to another room to continue her search, she just had to know how Sterling had filled that Plexiglas case. She waited until two couples blocking her way moved on, then stepped up and looked down at the black velvet pad . . .
. . . and its contents made her breath catch.
The Heart of the Ocean!
What the hell? . . . How could Sterling have gotten it back? There was no
way
—the necklace was hidden in her crib, and even Kendra didn't know it was there.
The necklace on display was breathtaking, and appeared to be the genuine article . . . but this was
crazy.
Her heart pounding, her palms sweaty, Max stepped closer, leaning in, trying to get a better look. A gold plate labeled the exhibit: “The Heart of the Ocean—one of two prop necklaces from the famous film
Titanic;
the other resides in the Hollywood Heritage Museum.”
Just as she was forming an opinion on its authenticity, Max felt a presence—someone stepping up behind her.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
Recognizing the warm masculine voice, Max turned to see Jared Sterling—a tall, blond man in his late twenties with intense blue eyes, a neatly trimmed, slightly darker beard; he wore a black suit with a crisp black collarless shirt, buttoned to the neck, and no tie—casual, in a formal way.
“Beautiful,” she said, adding, “for a fake.”
Sterling favored her with a small twitch of a smile. “Yes, a beautiful fake . . . like you, my dear.”
A shiver shot through her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is the music too loud? Can you not hear me?” He was standing right next to her now, and leaned sideways to her and, with a tone that managed to be both pleasant and rather vicious, said, “The necklace is like you—beautiful, but not what it appears.”
She bestowed a smile of her own. “And what do I appear to be?”
“One of numerous beautiful young women, who were invited to my party . . . but you're not, are you?”
“Not beautiful?”
“Not invited,” Sterling said with a chuckle. “What they used to call, in the old days, a party crasher.”
She swiveled so they faced; they stood close together, as if contemplating a kiss, the Plexiglas dome a foot from her left hand and his right. She could smell his lightly applied cologne, something citrus and deeply inviting. The air between them seemed charged and their eyes locked.
She asked, “How do you know I don't have an invitation? Or maybe I'm here in the company of one your guests?”
“My dear,” he said, with sublime condescension, “I threw this little party myself . . . and I personally okayed every invitation. No one brings a guest to my parties without clearing it first . . . unless one doesn't mind never getting invited again.”
“And here I thought you were such a warm host.”
“Oh I am.” He nodded toward the people appreciating his paintings. “I'm friends with all these people, in fact I know everyone here . . . everyone, that is, but you. Although there is something . . . familiar about you. Have we met, my dear?”
She felt another shiver, asked, “In your dreams, perhaps?”
Another smile twitched within the well-tended beard. “If only I had that vivid an imagination. . . . Would you like a drink? More champagne, perhaps?”
She held up her empty glass. “Why not?”
“Before we do,” he said, “tell me, please, why you think my famous film prop is a fake.”
“Oh, it may actually be a film prop—I'm sure they had a backup for the
real
necklace, when they made that movie.”
“Real necklace?” he said innocently.
“Very few people realize that the necklace in the Hollywood Heritage Museum—which was stolen, by the way—was truly valuable, with forty-eight tiny zircons that formed the heart around the blue stone.”
“That's simply absurd,” he said, without conviction.
“And,” she continued, with a casual, almost contemptuous nod toward the display case, “this paste job has fifty.”
He looked from her to the necklace and back. “Well! . . . You're a very bright young woman. Now, do you want that champagne?”
“I'm right, aren't I?” Entwining her arm in Sterling's, Max allowed him to lead her toward the foyer.
“In a way—the necklace on display
is
a film prop . . . you don't think I would show off the original in front of guests? The more valuable of the two prop necklaces, used only for close-ups? Particularly when its . . . provenance is so . . . controversial.”
“You mean, because it's stolen property. . . . So, then, the real necklace is somewhere safe—bank vault, that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn't know where it is.”
“Why not?”
“Don't be coquettish, my dear—you stole it. Remember?”
Their eyes met and Max's stomach did a back flip, but she said nothing; she did not think he would make a scene here—not and risk it coming out that his collection included hot property.
They got fresh glasses of bubbly from a butler and walked down one of the stairways toward the rear of the house. The crowd was thinner back here.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Sitting room. I have something I want to show you.”
She smiled. “If it's a gun, I'm not interested. . . . If it's something else, thanks anyway—I've seen those before, too.”
“You're such a droll child,” Sterling said, with a chuckle. “Very engaging, but that's not what I meant. I want you to see another piece of art.”
With a shrug, she said, “All right.”
Sterling unlocked a door and they entered a large sitting room with a plush violet velvet sofa.
“For our privacy,” Sterling said, “I need to lock the door again . . . are you comfortable with that?”
She was not afraid of him in the least. “Go ahead.”
He locked the door and they soon sat side by side on the velvet sofa; the Mission style again predominated. A walnut coffee table separated them from two wing chairs and one wall was taken up by bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. On the opposite wall hung heavy velvet curtains that matched the sofa and presumably covered a large window that overlooked the rear of the estate.
On the wall behind the couch was what Max suspected to be the original
Night Watch
by Rembrandt. Near the locked door was a Remington painting that Max recognized as
The Snow Trail.
“Are these the pieces you wanted me to see?”
“No.” The collector sipped his champagne, then smiled again, a toothy smile that was a little too white, a little too wide. “Did you really tell the guard outside you were Marisa Barton?”
Sterling didn't seem to miss much, around here. Suddenly that locked door was starting to bother her. She decided to play him.
“Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do,” she said, “to meet the man she wants to meet.”
“And you wanted to meet me?”
Max touched his leg. “Handsome, wealthy . . . you do have some points in your favor, Mr. Sterling.”
He placed a hand over hers. “Thank you for putting ‘handsome' on the list
before
‘wealthy.' ” Now he was the one who glanced toward the closed door. “But what do you think we should do about Marisa?”
Max moved closer. “Forget about her.”
“That's an option,” he said; again they were close enough to kiss. “Or . . . we could invite her to join us.”
Again the air between them seemed charged, but this time in a different way, and Max forced herself not to recoil. “I don't like to share good things,” she managed.
This part of the big house was very quiet. Were she and Sterling the only ones not out front, at the party?
“Before we decide what to do about Marisa,” he said, and eased away from her, just a bit, “perhaps we should decide what to do about
you.
”
He withdrew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it on the coffee table before them—a surveillance photo, culled from video footage, courtesy of a security cam . . .
. . .
a picture of Max standing in the gallery of the Sterling mansion with the real Heart of the Ocean in her hand.
“This,” he said, and he was not smiling now, “is the piece of art I wanted you to see.”
So much for disabling the video system.
He was saying, “I take it you came here tonight to . . . what is your name, dear?”
She said nothing.
Sterling pressed on: “I take it you're here to make arrangements to return the necklace, and the Grant Wood painting . . . correct?”
Her face blank, she said simply, “No.”
“Please don't play innocent—why else would you come to my home tonight, risking a prison sentence, going through all the trouble of jumping the wall and skulking around like a common thief?”
“Actually, I'm a very uncommon thief, Mr. Sterling.”
His smile returned—fewer teeth, though. “That's true, my dear—that's certainly true.”
She folded her arms, Indian-style. “We could, I suppose, arrange a price for the return of those two items. You might be surprised by how reasonable that price might be.”
His eyes tightened; he was clearly intrigued. “Try me.”
She curtailed the intensity, the urgency in her voice. “Just tell me where you got it.”
“Got what, my dear?”
“The Heart of the Ocean. Tell me, and you can have it back. . . . The Grant Wood might require some cash outlay, but . . .”
“My dear,” Sterling said. “Surely you understand that a man who deals in the netherworld of art collecting, as I do, must protect not only himself, but his sources. Anyway, why is it any of your concern, where I got that necklace?”
“I
need
to know,” she said, and this time the intensity bled through.
He considered what she'd said; then he said, “I may strike a bargain with you—but I must protect myself. Again, I must ask—why do you want to know?”
She could think of nothing else to tell him but the truth—so she did: “I'm the one who stole the necklace in the first place, from that museum in LA.”
“. . . I am impressed.”
“I left the necklace with friends, when I skipped town. Those friends turned up dead, in the meantime—and now the necklace winds up with you. I need to know how that happened.”
He seemed amused. “To avenge your friends,” he said, as if this were a quaint notion.
“Of course to avenge my friends.”
“And this is more important than money?”
“It is to me. Mr. Sterling . . . Jared—can we do business? Do you want your necklace back?”
“Well, of course I do . . .
gentlemen!
”
The door unlocked and Morales and Maurer stepped into the sitting room. In black suits with ties, the guards wore remembrances of their first meeting with Max: Maurer had two black eyes and a bandage over his broken nose, and Morales sported assorted bruises. They glowered at her.