She paused by the board again. “I’m speculating Barrister left the vault door open because he was going to report the break-in, and if the wife and sister are telling the truth, he intended to return everything. Took too long to figure out how and when, whatever, but they weren’t keeping the stuff. I believe that—or lean toward it—because there’s nothing to indicate otherwise.”
“But you’ll talk to the lawyer, the daughters.”
“Yeah, I will. So I get why he didn’t close the vault. But why didn’t the thief? Maybe ran out of time again, but why not?”
“The vault could’ve given him more trouble than he’d anticipated. Or his popper on the electronic window lock needed finessing. Or he spent far too much time playing about in the vault. Or.”
“What’s thisor?”
“He followed instructions, and they were to leave it open.”
Intrigued, she angled her head. “Why?”
“Bragging rights for the client, if the client’s an eejit. More likely, if it’s thator? The client wanted it known quickly the Suite had been stolen—even if just by the owner of the vault.”
“Like a smug factor?”
Laughing, he nodded. “Could be that simple and petty, yes. And likely figuring no one’s going to report the break-in, as they’d have to explain how it was they had possession not only of the emeralds but of all the rest in the first place.”
“I buy thator. Not just the smug factor, but figuring no cops involved. And I’ve got one moreor. Knowing this Barrister will bring in the cops.”
The way he nodded, she knew he’d reached thatorhimself. “So the theft makes a splash, a public one. Adds excitement for a potential auction.”
“And boosts up that smug factor. I’ve got to get started, and I’ll be back when I’m back. Go on, get that workout, take that swim.”
“I may.” He took her by the shoulders, kissed her, lingered. “Take care of my cop.”
“Always the plan.”
He watched her go, and decided not to think about those best-laid plans.
Chapter Five
She’d been right about the traffic. It glided along relatively smoothly as she headed downtown. Pedestrians, on the other hand, swarmed. Joggers bounded down the sidewalks or pumped in place at crosswalks. Others strolled, walked dogs, pushed a variety of baby carriages. Still more streamed in and out of bakeries, delis, cafés or huddled at carts.
The air through her open window smelled of cart coffee, yeasty things, sidewalk flowers, and the occasional out-of-order recycler.
The sound was movement—the rolling traffic, the crowd, the bass beat through another open window, or the blat of a maxibus pulling up to a stop.
She made it nearly halfway before the first ad blimp lumbered overhead and blared out its morning hype for fall sales.
SNUGGLE INTO SWEATER WEATHER AT THE SKY MALL!
KICK UP YOUR HEELS IN BOOTS, BOOTS, BOOTS!
It seemed to her that marketing, one way or the other, tried to shove the current season aside like it was the enemy.
Ignoring the sales pitch, she watched an airboarder complete a pretty good reverse flip. In the next block a couple embraced beside a waiting Rapid Cab as if one of them was going off to war. As she braked for a red light, an old man with a streaming white ponytail ran huffing across the intersection.
The front of his shirt read:THREE MILES A DAY.
And the back:KEEPS THE REAPER AT BAY.
Beneath his baggy red shorts he had knobs for knees, toothpicks for ankles. His stringy arms pumped as he hit the sidewalk and kept jogging east.
Barring a cardiac incident, Eve figured he’d do the three miles in decent time.
Saturday morning New York City kept her entertained all the way to the morgue.
