“Sigrid Harald?” There was almost a reverent tone in the voice of a nearby man who had turned around eagerly upon hearing her name. He had a shaved head and wore yellow-rimmed trifocals. “
Her gray eyes immediately turned to chips of ice.
“No,” she said before the man could complete his sentence.
The chilly finality of her tone, coupled with the glares he was getting from the storklike man she’d called Elliott, left Rathmann red-faced and defensive. Even the top of his head turned red.
“I do assure you, Ms. Harald—”
“Not now, Rathmann,” the first man said. His tone was mild, but Rathmann must have heard something more, for he muttered a truculent apology to Ms. Harald and melted back into the crowd.
“Elliott Buntrock,” the man said, offering me a firm handshake, “and I gather from your drawl that you’re not from around here.”
I smiled but didn’t answer, because I didn’t know what their relationship was. Kate had told me that Mrs. Lattimore’s granddaughter, a homicide detective with the NYPD, had inherited the large estate of one of the leading artists of the twentieth century. I could imagine just how many Rathmanns must be buzzing around her like a swarm of mosquitoes. Was Buntrock another bloodsucker or a flyswatter?
“Thanks, Elliott.” Her half smile reached her eyes and melted those chips of ice.
Flyswatter, then.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “This is Judge Knott, a friend of my grandmother, who seems to have sent my mother a very odd piece of art. Would you take a look at it?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now?” She looked at me. “I’m sorry to take you away from the party, but—”
“No problem,” I assured her.
Easier said than done for three people to move through that crush of people. Near the doorway, Dwight was in animated conversation with two men—one an African-American, the other of Asian descent—and he brightened when he saw me. “Deb’rah! Look who’s here! This is my old friend Josh Cho.”
“From John Jay College?” I asked, taking the hand of the short, slender man whose military posture and immediate appraisal of me would have ID’d him as former Army Intelligence even if I hadn’t known.
He nodded, but his words were lost beneath all the talk and laughter going on around us. I did make out that the second man was with the New York Police Department and that both of them had worked as consultants on an abortive police drama that was to have starred Luna. When I introduced Elliott Buntrock and Sigrid Harald to Dwight, the second man said, “I’ve had the pleasure of working with Lieutenant Harald before.”
She smiled at the tall black officer with what was clearly genuine pleasure. “Sergeant Vaughn. You still with the Six-Four over in Brooklyn?”
He nodded. “But it’s lieutenant now, ma’am.”
“Congratulations.”
“I heard you took early retirement?”
“A premature rumor,” she said as she gave me an inquiring look that reminded me that she was not here to socialize.
I explained to Dwight that we were going over to the apartment to get Mrs. Lattimore’s package. He grinned and said he’d see me when I got back.
We murmured the usual pleasantries to the others and eventually worked our way out into the hall, past the coat racks and the open doorway, where the party seemed to have spilled into the other apartment. The hall was blocked by people waiting for the elevator, and we had to step back as more partygoers arrived.
I had my keys in hand as we edged past the revelers toward Kate’s apartment. Once there, though, I was surprised to see that the door was ajar. In my hurry to get back to the party with the camera, I hadn’t thought to check that it was firmly latched.
Out in the kitchen, surprise was soon followed by dismay. “I left it right here on this counter,” I told the other two. “And a pair of gold earrings, too.”
The countertop was now bare except for the box and the wrappings that had swaddled that bronze sculpture.
I hurried into the master bedroom and was relieved to see no sign that the drawers had been opened and rifled. The little silk travel bag with the rest of my jewelry still lay atop the dresser, exposing the gold-and-blue- enamel bracelet I’d brought with me. A posthumous gift sent down through the years from my mother, its value to me was above rubies.
“Anything else missing?” Lieutenant Harald asked.
“My laptop?”
I darted into the dining room, shivering at the thought of all the lost data. Happily, it was still there on the table.
An instant later, I realized I was shivering as much from cold as from dismay.
“Where’s that draft coming from?” I wondered aloud.
We followed the icy air into the dimly lit living room, where one of the French doors was ajar. Elliott Buntrock crossed the room in long strides and tried to close it.
“Something’s caught in the hinge,” he said and pulled the door toward him to see what it was.
