Just when we’re ready to let him simply be the playboy friend to Stella.
Pax claps his hands and rubs his palms. “Excellent! Okay, so now we definitely know: Max Blanck has a personal home safe.
“We need the combination,” he says, stroking his chin. There is a faint line of stubble there. “We can’t exactly blast it or drill it in the midst of a swanky soiree. Who would know thecombination besides Blanck?” Pax thinks aloud. “His wife?”
Kiyoko and I both snort a laugh, and Pax looks positively quizzical.
“No way that ass is telling hiswifethe combination to his safe,” Kiyoko says.
“Okay… who? Who would have the combination to Blanck’s safe, if not his wife?”
William has been sitting quietly, eyes closed, fingertips steepled. He does that often, when the world assaults him and his emotions. He doesn’t open his eyes, but says, clear as ice:
“His attorney.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The streets of Manhattan are tattooed on my heart, but William convinces us we should walk the pathways of our plan, now that we are only three days from the party. He’s not wrong, but he insists on staying behind to manage the Bureau. Spirit shows me a finger laid across a set of lips, a secret. I hope Spirit is not telling me to be suspicious of William. I feel my instincts are stronger than that.
So that afternoon, we take the IRT to the city hall stop. The City Hall station is glorious, with domed tile ceilings in intricate patchwork patterns and hundreds of globe lights dotting the air like stars in constellations. A busker plays the violin on the platform, a striking Vivaldi tune echoing in this massive chamber, and Pax drops a dollar bill in her case. She tips her chin at his generosity, bow flying, and I can’t help myself; I lean into him and tease, “Her, you pay? Where’s that nickel you still owe me?”
I am delighted to my core by the crooked smile Pax offers; it’s the first normal interaction we’ve had since Central Park. “It’s coming, Stella Bohdan. I always pay my debts.”
As I climb the majestic stairs of the station shoulder to shoulder with Pax, Nirav, Kiyoko, and Clarice (who has been glaring at me since that lean), my heart races. In three days, my life will be different. I might be wealthy, I might be on the lam, I might be in jail. But it will bedifferent, at long last. Thepossibilities are endless, and I can practically taste the danger and excitement of it all.
We cross the few short blocks to the Potter Building, Pax laying out our plans with whispers and points, drawing routes in the air, noting spots that are free from streetlamps and doormen.
We round the corner of the ornate Potter Building, and gathered there is a group of reporters, flashbulbs popping, shouts erupting: “Mr. Blanck, over here!” “Max Blanck! Can you tell us more about which celebrities to expect at your soiree?” “Mrs. Blanck! Will your friend Evalyn Walsh McLean wear the Hope Diamond to your celebration?”
Pop! Pop! Pow!The smoky stench of flashbulbs turns my stomach. I blink, startled and stumbling.
Slick Max Blanck and a highly coiffed woman—his wife—duck their heads and dart into a waiting Rolls-Royce.
Spirit shows me an image of the zealots, shouting and crowding and pushing. Yes, the paparazzi is similar. I am dazed.
“No,” Kiyoko whispers, discreetly covering her face with her hand. Some of the photographers, while aiming their cameras at the Blancks, face us. “We cannot be in photos.Disperse.”
We do, quickly. I duck into an alley that smells of a rotting carcass. I gag, cover my nose with my collar, andrun. Pulsing Vivaldi music thrums in my head, a fast-paced tune sawing across violin strings. I don’t look up for three blocks. When I do, I stand alone on Broadway. I don’t know where the others are. I feel lonely and lost without my friends.
Lonely, I remind myself,is how this all started. I can’t be sure if these people truly are friends, or if I’m just filling the hole of my longing.
And reporters? How had we not prepared for reporters? So naïve!
Don’t you see, Stella?
You are ill-prepared for this.
Drop this charade, my love. Thievery is not in
your wheelhouse.
I begin the long walk north, up Broadway to Julia’s Bureau. I’ve covered but a block or two, when a man leaps in front of me.
My defense mechanisms kick in, and I find myself shoving the person against a brick wall, my forearm across his windpipe, before I realize: It’s Pax. My heart thrums for a different reason now.
I release him with an awkward chuckle. “Oh! Sorry!”
He grunts. “Never apologize for roughhousing someone who likely deserved it.” It’s meant to be funny, self-deprecating, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness there that makes me wonder why he thinks he deserves a little roughhousing.
