Angels and Outlaws Page 4

  Morgan ducked her head and Cass was surprised to realize her older sister was feeling shy. She probably felt awkward discussing her sex life.

  “Actually,” Morgan confessed. “I’ve been listening to French language tapes. I thought if I could speak a little French it might spice things up.”

  “Oooh la la.”

  “And then I saw this travel brochure advertising a week at a chateau in the Loire valley. The chateau used to be a military fortress. It has a drawbridge and a moat and everything. It’s situated along the banks of a river. There’s lush gardens and rolling woodlands. Cass, you should see the pictures. It’s breathtaking and so romantic.”

  “Sounds to die for.”

  “I just hope it works,” Morgan fretted.

  “Things have gotten that stale?”

  Morgan nodded and looked away, but not before Cass saw the darkening of concern in her eyes.

  She gulped. Her big sister was always the one to comfort her. Now that the shoe was on the other foot she really didn’t know how to reassure Morgan that everything was going to work out okay. Rather than deal with the awkward silence, Cass started rooting around in the stack of books Morgan had taken from the box, looking for something, anything to make her sister laugh.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Cass picked up a dusty old tome. It was just the sort of book Morgan would love, ancient and lore-riddled. “Look, it’s in French.”

  Her ploy worked. Morgan glanced up, curiosity replacing the worry.

  “Think you can translate it?” Cass passed the book to her.

  Morgan took the thick volume, traced a finger over the aged lettering. “I’ve just started my lessons.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a fast learner, Miss Top Ten Percent of her NYU graduate school class.”

  Morgan smiled. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”

  Cass changed positions, scooting around until she was sitting knee to knee with her sister. They used to sit this way when they were kids, telling each other romantic fairy tales about stalwart knights and fair maidens and true, undying love. It felt good to sit with Morgan like this again. To remember what their relationship had been like before life had gotten in the way.

  As a kid, Cass had always looked up to Morgan and tried to emulate her. But later, as her parents inevitably ended up comparing her to her older sister and she continually came up short, Cass found herself rebelling. She could never be Morgan, so why try?

  Maybe that was one of the reasons she wasn’t so keen on long-term relationships.

  Morgan opened the cover and carefully thumbed through the pages. “It appears to be a text about ancient myths and legends.”

  “Ooh, what kind of legends?” Cass rubbed her palms together. This was getting intriguing.

  Morgan frowned and studied the words. “I think it’s got something to do with star-crossed lovers, but I can’t say for sure. I’ve only started basic French.”

  “Excellent.”

  Morgan flipped more pages, and then stopped. “Hey, this looks familiar.”

  “What does?”

  Morgan turned the book around so Cass could see the illustration of an elaborately detailed five-pointed star with a hollowed-out center. “Where have I seen this drawing before?”

  Cass recognized it immediately, because the article had appeared in the fashion section of that morning’s edition of the Sunday New York Times, right next to an ad for a deadly cute pair of boots on sale at Bergdorf Goodman’s. She hadn’t read the article but she had noticed the sale was going on through the following weekend.

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  She dashed upstairs to the antique shop where they’d had bagels and cream cheese for breakfast while reading the newspaper. She snatched up the arts and entertainment sections and hurried back down to the basement.

  After spreading the newspaper out on the floor, Cass took the book from Morgan and laid it open next to the drawing in the paper.

  They were identical.

  The caption underneath the photograph read Archaeological artifact, the White Star amulet, was listed among items stolen from the Zoey Zander estate after a midnight break-in at Stanhope’s auction house.

  As Cass looked at the picture of the amulet, something warm tugged at her solar plexus. Inexplicably, she started thinking about Detective Sam again.

  “It’s the same amulet,” Morgan said, running a finger along the lines in the book. “I do recognize the words ‘white star’ in this French text.”

  “Très cool.” Cass grinned impishly. “We’re involved in a jewel heist.”

  “We’re not involved.”

  “We’ve found a mysterious old book just at the very same time the amulet is stolen.”

  “Slow down, Harriet the Spy, you’re making grand leaps of logic.”

  “Still, you never know. The book might be helpful to the investigation. Maybe someone should take it to the police.”

  “Someone meaning you?”

  “Sure. I could pop in the police station on my way to work tomorrow morning, leave the book with them. Do my civic duty.”

  “See that sexy detective who went out on the ledge for you.”

  “There is that.” Cass grinned and snapped the book closed.

  “ANY NEW LEADS on the Stanhope auction house robbery?” In the main corridor of the 39th Precinct, Sam caught up with his colleague, Carl Weston, one of the outgoing night shift detectives. Sam was on his way into the briefing room for Monday morning roll call, a cup of strong, black coffee clutched in his hand.

  “You look like hell, bloodhound.” Weston winked. Sam had earned the nickname for his acute sense of smell that had actually helped him solve a case once. “Must have been some wild weekend. Got any details for us married guys who live vicariously through you bachelors?”

  Sam had spent the weekend babysitting his youngest sister Beth’s hellions so she and her husband could have a getaway weekend at the coast, but he wasn’t about to tell Weston that. Playing uncle to three kids under the age of eight had worn him out more completely than a two-day partying binge in Atlantic City. When he’d called his mother to grumble how tough it was, she’d had little sympathy.

  “You were twice as challenging as Beth’s kids. You couldn’t sit still for five minutes. Always on the go, always asking a million questions. You know all these gray hairs I have? Your fault,” Louisa Mason had said. “I can’t wait until you have four or five boys of your own, the spitting image of you.”

  “Mom, that’s just evil.” He’d chuckled.

  Sam smiled at Weston, remembering his wild weekend. “Sorry, I’m not the kind of guy who kisses and tells.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Get your jollies somewhere else. Whatcha got on the Stanhope case?”

  Weston shook his head. “Not much. Scuttlebutt in MI-6 is sending an agent over from London.”

  “MI-6? Why are they interested?”

  “Apparently MI-6 believes the Stanhope break-in could be the work of an international jewel thief they’ve been tracking for years. Goes by the name of Joshua Benedict.”

  “What about our case, the Blueblood Burglar, got any new leads on that?” Even though the NYPD had tried to keep the socialite party larcenies quiet, the media had gotten wind of the crimes and dubbed the thief the Blueblood Burglar. So far, there had been a total of seven robberies over the course of the past three weeks.

  Sam had been asked to track down a couple of leads on the Stanhope case, so the Blueblood Burglar had had to wait.

  “Hey, Mason,” one of the rookies hollered down the hallway at Sam. “There’s some uptown hottie at the front desk asking to see you.”

  Uptown hottie?

  For no good reason at all Sam thought of Cass Richards.

  Even though she lived in Tribeca, she looked like an uptown hottie, with her regal air and her elegant ways. But why would Cass come here to see him at seven o’clock in the morning? He suspected she wasn’t an early r
iser. In his experience, pampered women rarely were.

  “I knew it.” Weston broke into a grin and rubbed his palms together. “You’ve got a new woman. I havta see this.”

  “Weston, don’t make me hose you off,” Sam threatened. “Do us all a favor. Go home and make love to your wife, for crying out loud.”

  “That’s no fun,” Weston sulked, but thankfully did not follow him.

  Even though Sam had immediately pictured Cass when the rookie had said “uptown hottie,” he hadn’t really expected her to be waiting for him at the front desk.

  But there she was. Looking more beautiful than anyone had a right to look.

  She was casting nervous glances around his less-than-glamorous work environment and carrying a book underneath her arm. Funny. He’d never have pegged her for a reader.

  Several of the guys were giving her the once-over and Sam was startled by the unexpected urge to punch out their lights. Damn, what a bunch of horn dogs. Was he going to have to issue drool bibs? Then again, he could hardly blame them. Cass was serious eye candy.

  She was dressed in a simple black blouse and a black and white floral skirt with a swingy hem but there was nothing simple about the way the clothes clung to her curves. She personified elegant sex appeal.

  The minute she saw him, relief washed over her face. “Hi,” she chirped and wriggled her cute little fingers at him.

  “Hi,” he said, feeling as loopy as he did when his niece Amanda gave him that gooey, big-eyed “you’re-my-hero-Uncle-Sam” smile of hers.

  “Woooo,” one of the rookies teased. “Mason’s got a girlfriend.”

  He snapped his head back around and glared at the rookies gathered at the front desk, shooting them his dirtiest, deadliest look usually reserved for hardened criminals.

  “Roll call. Now,” he barked.

  Their smug grins evaporated, as did they, vanishing down the corridor like ghosts fleeing an exorcist.

  “Wow,” Cass said. “Impressive show of authority.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. They’re just rookies. Easily cowed.”

  “Ah,” she said, “And here I was thinking you were the great and powerful Oz.”

  “If you recall, the great Oz had his bluff in on the whole of the Emerald City.”

  “So he did.” She tilted her head and shot him a flirtatious glance.

  Don’t fall for it. She’s a master at getting men to do her bidding.

  “I’m glad you came down,” he said.

  “Oh?” She batted her eyelashes provocatively. “Why’s that?”

  Sam realized the desk sergeant was about to tip over in his chair he was trying so hard to eavesdrop. “Why don’t we find a more private place to talk?”

  He took her by the elbow and guided her into an empty interview room. In a totally feminine gesture, she smoothed down her hair.

  “Is this where you grill criminals?” She glanced around, clearly fascinated. “Is that one of those two-way mirror thingies like you see on television cop shows?”

  “Have a seat, Cass.” Sam reached over and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Thank you.”

  She plopped her delectable butt down in the chair and his hand tingled with the memory of how that butt had felt cupped against his palm.

  He hauled up a chair beside her. The scent of her perfume took hold of him and refused to let go. Sam wasn’t a fanciful man by nature, but his heightened olfactory sense made him more sensitive to aromas than most. Her fragrance provoked poetic comparisons. Realizing he’d made a mistake scooting up so close to her, he leaned away, trying to distance myself.

  But it was no use. He was ensnared.

  Cass smelled of lightning the instant it struck a purple mountain orchid. No, no. Her essence was more like the taste of crème caramel eaten with a platinum spoon. No, that wasn’t right either. Her fragrance embodied the sweet melody of a lover’s sated breath after a long night of excellent sex. No, that was too elemental. Her smell was lighter than that, softer.

  Forget it.

  There was no pinpointing her, but Cass’s scent created a sharp yearning inside him. She was a sultry wind fit to keep him stark awake and plotting midnight indiscretions.

  “Listen,” they said in unison and then both gave a nervous laugh.

  “You go,” she said.

  “No, no, ladies first.”

  He didn’t mind letting her start. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that she was considered a person of interest in the Blueblood Burglaries. Her name was the only one that had appeared on all seven guest lists and it had been his reason for going to see her last Friday.

  “Okay.” She placed her book on the table.

  The binding had cracked and it smelled old, moldy. She flipped the brittle yellowed leaves open to a page bookmarked by a folded piece of newsprint. The book was in French.

  When Cass unfolded the sheaf of newspaper article and he saw the photograph of the White Star, his cop instincts prodded uneasily. Something was fishy here, but he wasn’t sure what.

  Cass tapped a long slender painted fingernail against the illustration in the book. “Look at this.”

  Sam looked. The photograph of the White Star amulet stolen from the Stanhope auction house three days earlier identically matched the drawing in the French text.

  His uneasiness escalated. Why had she come down here to show him this? Until that precise moment he hadn’t considered that the break-in at the auction house was even remotely related to the house-party thefts. The modus operandi in the two cases was very different. But now, he had to wonder.

  “Where did you get this book?”

  Pink lips parted, her pearly whites flashed provocatively. “My sister just bought an antique store in Connecticut and this weekend I was helping her unpack some boxes. We found this book inside. We’d read about the robbery at the Stanhope and I thought maybe the book might have some bearing on your case.”

  Sam sent her a long, assessing glance. His instincts told him that it was no coincidence that she’d shown up here with this particular book and the article, especially when she was already a possible suspect in seven other jewel heists.

  But again, his logic found no clear connection between the two cases, nor could he reconcile why Cass would sashay into the police station and throw more suspicion on herself.

  Unless she wanted to get caught.

  And then there was his damnable heart that didn’t want to believe anything bad about her.

  “So what do you think? Does it help?” Face tipped up to his, she leaned in closer.

  “Hard to say.” Play it cool. She’s trouble, Mason. “Do you mind if I keep the book, have some other people look it over?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” Earnestness perked her blue eyes. He reached for the book, but she put her hand over his to stop him before he could pull it away. “There’s just one catch.”

  Wasn’t there always?

  “Catch?”

  “You’ve got to promise to keep me informed about your progress in the case. I love mysteries and legends and stolen artifacts and exciting stuff like that.”

  A lightbulb switched on in his brain. Sam understood the real reason she’d come down here to show him the book and he hardened his heart against her bedazzling smile.

  God, but she was ballsy. What a cool customer. Strolling in here, flashing that sly grin, batting those baby blues, offering up the book—which wasn’t enough to prove or disprove anything, but it was enough to whet his interest—simply so she could find out what the police knew about the thefts.

  She must think he was the dumbest cop ever to lumber on the face of the earth.

  Okay, fine, he would oblige her curiosity. On his own terms. He could string her along, give her just enough information to hang herself.

  He would turn this around to his advantage. He’d been trying to figure out a way to finagle an invitation to one of the most anticipated social events of the year. If the thief was going to
strike again, he or she was bound to do it at Bunnie Bernaldo’s party.

  He’d done his research and learned Bunnie’s father had made his fortune importing French cheese before he and his wife had been killed in the crash of their private plane. Bunnie had inherited millions. In the ensuing years since their death, the Bernaldos’ only child had become famous for her extravagant taste in jewelry, her cutting-edge parties and her laxness with personal security.

  A jewel thief’s trifecta.

  Sam had also done his research on Cass. On the surface, she seemed innocent enough. She’d been born twenty-nine years ago to James and Victoria Richards from Brookline, Massachusetts. The second of two daughters, making her the baby of the family. Normal childhood. She had lots of friends and even more acquaintances and never seemed to miss whatever good time was going on around her. Fun-loving and likeable, she had a penchant for living beyond her means.

  And that was what concerned him most.

  “You’ve got your stipulations,” he said, placing his other hand on top of hers. “I’ve got mine.”

  Their gazes locked. The air crackled with tension.

  “Yes?” She sat up straighter, her eyes brighter and her smile wider, playing the game.

  If he hadn’t been so pissed off at being manipulated he would have admired her spunk. “You work at Isaac Vincent. I’m assuming that you know Bunnie Bernaldo personally.”

  Bunnie, Sam had discovered in the course of his investigation, had bought herself a job as a fashion columnist for Moment magazine, the trendiest fashion rag in print.

  “Of course I know Bunnie. She and I were at Vassar together, although she was a couple of semesters ahead of me. Why?”

  Sam had a sudden idea. And he would execute it on his own time so he wouldn’t have to run it by the brass, but he had to play it just right.

  Think on your feet. Keep your head in the game.

  “Let’s just say the NYPD considers Bunnie a person of interest.” He threw the idea out there, not sure where it had come from, with no guess as to how to use it. He was simply going to see if she’d take the bait.

  He’d only get one shot at this.

  “In the Stanhope robbery? No way!”