“Go inside, Neev,” I directed.
She pouted but glanced at Yseult, stuck herself over the bannister, and investigated the situation. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”
My lips twitched as I heard her thudding footsteps, assuring me she’d returned to her own apartment, so I gestured at my door. “Would you like to come in, Yseult?”
“That would be very kind of you. Thank you.”
I guided her inside and asked if she wanted refreshments. By the time I returned from the kitchen with a pot of coffee, some of Ma’s homemade chocolate digestive biscuits (not cookies as per her wishes or she’d stop baking the damn things), and a carafe of water on a tray I’d stolen from Ma’s kitchen at some point, the men had all lined up by my table and were uncuffing the briefcases from their persons.
“Wait outside,” Yseult ordered, accepting the coffee cup with a gentle smile.
The men marched out, leaving us alone.
“What’s going on, Yseult?”
“I’m here at the request of a mutual friend.”
“Levin?” Stan inserted.
She dipped her chin. “Precisely. I’m sure you can imagine what the cases contain.”
“What is it? Grab bag?” he mocked.
“If the rubies you seek are in there, you’re welcome to them.”
Her tone was prim. Pious, even. So stodgy and stilted that I didn’t know what to make of her. She looked like her great-granddaddy had built railroads, and the steel in her spine only confirmed it, but I noticed the small holes that spoke of a multitude of piercings in one ear and the soft lines at her throat that told me she had another tattoo there.
When Stan gusted out his cheeks as he stared at the briefcases, she surprised me further—her cell rang. But rather than a standard tone or a buzzing sound, a song blared: “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”
She seemed more the Vivaldi type.
She answered with little fanfare and spoke in Russian. I left her to her call and headed over to the table. I could tell that Stan had half an ear on her conversation, but the tension in his shoulders faded shortly after I made it to his side.
“She’s on a call with Ilya Levin.”
I nodded. “Do you have a picture? Maybe I can help with the search.”
“You take one briefcase and I can take another?”
“Sounds good to me.”
He retrieved his cell from the back pocket of his slacks, found a black-and-white pic, showed me the ruby necklace that was borderline distasteful in all its dubious majesty, and let me zoom in a couple of times to get a feel for the setting.
By the time Stan opened the first briefcase, Yseult had finished with her call and retreated to the dinner table where she took a seat, sipping another cup of coffee.
With those few actions, she said she wouldn’t be helping us but that she was curious enough to watch.
My eyes widened when Stan unzipped one of the protective flaps, revealing antique velvet boxes—dozens of them. Hell, more than that. And this was just the first briefcase!
He left me to that one and then opened up another.
“Holy fuck,” I choked out when I opened the first box. “How weren’t you escorted with your own private army?”
Her coffee cup didn’t snick the saucer as she paired the two together. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
Never, not even at a museum exhibition, had I seen this many jewels.
Rubies—every single piece, but tangled with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, you name it. If it cost a million plus, then it was here.
