FBI.
That was the next logical step.
The yellow cab pulled up in front of the Broadcast Center. She gave the driver a very generous tip. Poor guy, he had to drive around in this mess all day.
He didn’t say thank you. Typical. No good deed goes unpunished.
Dean Cohen was getting ready to go out to lunch when Farrell arrived back in their office. “What have you been up to this morning?” he asked.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Since I’m a short-timer. I’m pretty well doing as I please.” Farrell tried to sound lighthearted.
“Any job prospects yet?”
“Actually, I have a few things in the fire,” she lied.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean lied, too.
Farrell tapped the number pads on the telephone to check her voice-mail messages.
“Hey, Farrell, it’s me, Rob. If you want to have some lunch, give me a call.”
She listened excitedly to the next message, a young man’s scratchy voice.
“Farrell, it’s Peter Devereaux. Olga will let you take pictures of the Moon Egg. Can you do it today, before she chickens out?”
Chapter 47
God, what have I done?
Clifford Montgomery stared from his red leather chair, a stricken expression on his face.
If Farrell Slater proved right. . .
His reputation would be ruined. Churchill’s would be terribly damaged, perhaps irreparably. And the stock . . . Clifford’s mind raced and he could feel his chest tighten.
No, it had to be a mistake, some sort of misunderstanding. Slater could be wrong, couldn’t she? After all, she hadn’t actually
seen
the egg herself. And the egg sold at auction was flawless, down to the Fabergé marking stamped on its golden base.
He had to see this new egg for himself. But how?
Clifford was so engrossed in his worries, he’d momentarily forgotten that Meryl Quan had been privy to the whole unsettling conversation. Word mustn’t get out that there was even a hint of a problem with the auctioned Moon Egg.
He buzzed the intercom, signaling his assistant to come back into his office.
“Meryl, you must promise me, nothing that was said here over the last half-hour must leave this room. Until we figure out what’s going on here, we can’t talk about this to anyone. Understand?”
Chapter 48
“Hey, Jack. What’s the status of the Fauxbergé investigation you’ve been working on?”
“Continuing,” Special Agent McCord grunted, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk at FBI New York Headquarters in Foley Square.
FBI press information spokesman Fred Behrends wasn’t amused. Why was McCord always so damned difficult? Someone should knock that chip off the big guy’s shoulders.
“Well, buddy, KEY News is working on a story about fake Fabergé. The producer who called was asking a lot of questions. Lots of what-ifs.”
Suddenly McCord seemed interested. “Like what?”
“Like, what if a fake piece of Fabergé was auctioned off for serious money? And what if someone else had the real thing, but was afraid to come forward?”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told
her
that we’d get back to her.”
Chapter 49
B. J. adjusted his lights carefully. It wasn’t easy to maneuver in Olga’s tiny living room. He tried to think of the various shots he’d like to get. The old lady’s apartment was a trip. It reminded him of the illustrations in his childhood storybook of the inside of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage, where they lived before their parents lost them on purpose in the woods. Or maybe it was the Three Bears’ house. Whatever. Olga’s place was visually interesting.
Farrell was busy reassuring the old woman. She was looking pretty shaky. Bet the old gal hadn’t had this much excitement in a long time. He hoped she didn’t stroke out or something on them now.
“Olga, it would be great if we could shoot some pictures of you sitting in front of the icon,” Farrell said softly.
So that’s what the little religious painting on the wall was called. An icon
. It was draped with a carefully
That was the next logical step.
The yellow cab pulled up in front of the Broadcast Center. She gave the driver a very generous tip. Poor guy, he had to drive around in this mess all day.
He didn’t say thank you. Typical. No good deed goes unpunished.
Dean Cohen was getting ready to go out to lunch when Farrell arrived back in their office. “What have you been up to this morning?” he asked.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Since I’m a short-timer. I’m pretty well doing as I please.” Farrell tried to sound lighthearted.
“Any job prospects yet?”
“Actually, I have a few things in the fire,” she lied.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean lied, too.
Farrell tapped the number pads on the telephone to check her voice-mail messages.
“Hey, Farrell, it’s me, Rob. If you want to have some lunch, give me a call.”
She listened excitedly to the next message, a young man’s scratchy voice.
“Farrell, it’s Peter Devereaux. Olga will let you take pictures of the Moon Egg. Can you do it today, before she chickens out?”
Chapter 47
God, what have I done?
Clifford Montgomery stared from his red leather chair, a stricken expression on his face.
If Farrell Slater proved right. . .
His reputation would be ruined. Churchill’s would be terribly damaged, perhaps irreparably. And the stock . . . Clifford’s mind raced and he could feel his chest tighten.
No, it had to be a mistake, some sort of misunderstanding. Slater could be wrong, couldn’t she? After all, she hadn’t actually
seen
the egg herself. And the egg sold at auction was flawless, down to the Fabergé marking stamped on its golden base.
He had to see this new egg for himself. But how?
Clifford was so engrossed in his worries, he’d momentarily forgotten that Meryl Quan had been privy to the whole unsettling conversation. Word mustn’t get out that there was even a hint of a problem with the auctioned Moon Egg.
He buzzed the intercom, signaling his assistant to come back into his office.
“Meryl, you must promise me, nothing that was said here over the last half-hour must leave this room. Until we figure out what’s going on here, we can’t talk about this to anyone. Understand?”
Chapter 48
“Hey, Jack. What’s the status of the Fauxbergé investigation you’ve been working on?”
“Continuing,” Special Agent McCord grunted, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk at FBI New York Headquarters in Foley Square.
FBI press information spokesman Fred Behrends wasn’t amused. Why was McCord always so damned difficult? Someone should knock that chip off the big guy’s shoulders.
“Well, buddy, KEY News is working on a story about fake Fabergé. The producer who called was asking a lot of questions. Lots of what-ifs.”
Suddenly McCord seemed interested. “Like what?”
“Like, what if a fake piece of Fabergé was auctioned off for serious money? And what if someone else had the real thing, but was afraid to come forward?”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told
her
that we’d get back to her.”
Chapter 49
B. J. adjusted his lights carefully. It wasn’t easy to maneuver in Olga’s tiny living room. He tried to think of the various shots he’d like to get. The old lady’s apartment was a trip. It reminded him of the illustrations in his childhood storybook of the inside of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage, where they lived before their parents lost them on purpose in the woods. Or maybe it was the Three Bears’ house. Whatever. Olga’s place was visually interesting.
Farrell was busy reassuring the old woman. She was looking pretty shaky. Bet the old gal hadn’t had this much excitement in a long time. He hoped she didn’t stroke out or something on them now.
“Olga, it would be great if we could shoot some pictures of you sitting in front of the icon,” Farrell said softly.
So that’s what the little religious painting on the wall was called. An icon
. It was draped with a carefully
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