this.”
“Why?”
“The theft at the Met. You are telling me the two events occurred the same evening?”
“Yes.”
“If so, the police may already be involved in this case. It’s not a matter for private investigation.”
“I am very convinced the events are not related.”
“Well, there is always the FBI Art Crime Division if you want to investigate quietly. Why not go to them?”
“I can’t do that.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
He flushed, clearly embarrassed by the question.
“ Certainly not!”
The timer on the control panel began to beep. The scanning process for the mummy was nearly complete.
“I’m sorry, but I have to take care of this.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the other room, as if waiting for an answer. The digital display was counting down the last ten seconds. Holly looked around. Still no sign of the technician.
“So you’ll help me find it?” VerPlanck pressed.
Completely absorbed, she didn’t answer.
“Dr. Graham?”
“Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive,” she said, glancing up at him. “But no. I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”
“You won’t ?”
“Not unless you tell me the whole story.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. VerPlanck. But the way I see it, you should go to the police.”
The machine beeped, and the mummy began to appear. The skull, with its horrible grimace, slid out first. VerPlanck recoiled and stared at the bundle of rags and bones. As the body emerged, the stench increased. VerPlanck stumbled backward toward the door, holding his handkerchief to his nose.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dr. Graham. Thank you for your time.”
15 Desbrosses Street
A CELL PHONE WOKE Tipper VerPlanck. She opened her eyes and realized she was still in Conrad’s bed. A clock on the night table said three p.m. She and Conrad had been naked since they finished lunch. He was snoring gently, exhausted from their strenuous activities. She pushed his heavy arm off and felt around the floor for her phone.
Her ring tone was the hit song “Society Girl”—written for her by the lead singer of the band the Blades. Tipper’s fingertips made contact, and she slid the cell phone out from under the bed.
“Hello,” she croaked.
“It’s Charlie.”
Who the hell was Charlie? She thought about it for a long, fuzzy moment.
“Charlie Hannifin. ”
“What do you want?”
“Is now a good time to talk?”
“Actually, no.” She groped for the bedsheet, pulling it around her. Then she suddenly remembered.
“Wait!” She asked, “Do you know anything about the Sardonyx Cup?”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
Conrad stirred next to her and mumbled something unintelligible. She turned away and whispered, “Charlie, did you steal it?”
There was a long pause.
“Not personally, no.”
Tipper gasped.
“I never agreed to anything ! We were just talking.”
“Is there a way we could meet?” he asked.
Tipper looked over at Conrad. His face was crammed into the pillow and he was snoring with his mouth open.
“Sure, I’ll meet you at the Red Parrot.”
There was a long pause.
“Where’s that?” asked Charlie.
“Tribeca.”
“You’re kidding!” Charlie said in disbelief. “Are you still seeing that rock star?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlie, just meet me at the Red Parrot in an hour.”
Red Parrot Bar,
Vestry Street, New York
W HEN T IPPER WALKED into the Red Parrot, the bartender called out his usual greeting. He was a longtime acquaintance—but not of her uptown world. A gold earring dangled from one earlobe and he wore a red bandanna knotted over his bald cranium.
“Simon, get me something for this hangover.”
He looked at her critically and moved his head side to side with pursed lips. His eyes were calculating.
“Was it hard liquor or wine?”
“What?”
“Last night. What’d ya drink?”
“Both,” she said woefully.
He slid his hand across the bar
“Why?”
“The theft at the Met. You are telling me the two events occurred the same evening?”
“Yes.”
“If so, the police may already be involved in this case. It’s not a matter for private investigation.”
“I am very convinced the events are not related.”
“Well, there is always the FBI Art Crime Division if you want to investigate quietly. Why not go to them?”
“I can’t do that.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
He flushed, clearly embarrassed by the question.
“ Certainly not!”
The timer on the control panel began to beep. The scanning process for the mummy was nearly complete.
“I’m sorry, but I have to take care of this.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the other room, as if waiting for an answer. The digital display was counting down the last ten seconds. Holly looked around. Still no sign of the technician.
“So you’ll help me find it?” VerPlanck pressed.
Completely absorbed, she didn’t answer.
“Dr. Graham?”
“Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive,” she said, glancing up at him. “But no. I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”
“You won’t ?”
“Not unless you tell me the whole story.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. VerPlanck. But the way I see it, you should go to the police.”
The machine beeped, and the mummy began to appear. The skull, with its horrible grimace, slid out first. VerPlanck recoiled and stared at the bundle of rags and bones. As the body emerged, the stench increased. VerPlanck stumbled backward toward the door, holding his handkerchief to his nose.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dr. Graham. Thank you for your time.”
15 Desbrosses Street
A CELL PHONE WOKE Tipper VerPlanck. She opened her eyes and realized she was still in Conrad’s bed. A clock on the night table said three p.m. She and Conrad had been naked since they finished lunch. He was snoring gently, exhausted from their strenuous activities. She pushed his heavy arm off and felt around the floor for her phone.
Her ring tone was the hit song “Society Girl”—written for her by the lead singer of the band the Blades. Tipper’s fingertips made contact, and she slid the cell phone out from under the bed.
“Hello,” she croaked.
“It’s Charlie.”
Who the hell was Charlie? She thought about it for a long, fuzzy moment.
“Charlie Hannifin. ”
“What do you want?”
“Is now a good time to talk?”
“Actually, no.” She groped for the bedsheet, pulling it around her. Then she suddenly remembered.
“Wait!” She asked, “Do you know anything about the Sardonyx Cup?”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
Conrad stirred next to her and mumbled something unintelligible. She turned away and whispered, “Charlie, did you steal it?”
There was a long pause.
“Not personally, no.”
Tipper gasped.
“I never agreed to anything ! We were just talking.”
“Is there a way we could meet?” he asked.
Tipper looked over at Conrad. His face was crammed into the pillow and he was snoring with his mouth open.
“Sure, I’ll meet you at the Red Parrot.”
There was a long pause.
“Where’s that?” asked Charlie.
“Tribeca.”
“You’re kidding!” Charlie said in disbelief. “Are you still seeing that rock star?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlie, just meet me at the Red Parrot in an hour.”
Red Parrot Bar,
Vestry Street, New York
W HEN T IPPER WALKED into the Red Parrot, the bartender called out his usual greeting. He was a longtime acquaintance—but not of her uptown world. A gold earring dangled from one earlobe and he wore a red bandanna knotted over his bald cranium.
“Simon, get me something for this hangover.”
He looked at her critically and moved his head side to side with pursed lips. His eyes were calculating.
“Was it hard liquor or wine?”
“What?”
“Last night. What’d ya drink?”
“Both,” she said woefully.
He slid his hand across the bar
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