Page 59 of Smoke Screen
Still typing, Cruz didn’t bother looking up, but Rohan swiveled his chair, his attention now on the board. “How many carats?”
“The center diamond alone is twenty-nine. I’m not sure about these smaller ones along the strands.”
She moved to the next photo of a brooch. A flower with a stem, also labeled as part of the queen’s collection. The piece showcased a large single diamond surrounded by smaller baguettes in the shape of petals and a stem.
“The center is a pink diamond.”
“One of the rarest in the world,” Rohan added.
“It is. When we put the exhibit together, Mrs. Thompson told me the diamond was discovered in Tanzania in the forties. There’s no provenance on that, though, so we didn’t include it in our description.”
Cruz finally looked up. “We can use that. Tell us more.”
Maddy leaned one hip against the table, her gaze still on the photo. “The diamond was part of a fifty-carat raw one that the queen had broken down into three pieces. The center is now eighteen carats.”
More typing from Cruz. “How many total diamonds in the brooch?”
“Between the large diamond and the baguettes? Over two hundred.”
“Holy hell,” Phin said.
“Phin,” Zeke said, “how did you do with the guy in New York?”
Phin peered at Maddy. “I have a contact. A gallery owner in New York. He brokers deals for high-end jewelry and art. He hasn’t heard anything about the Pierres.”
“What about the queen’s collection?”
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t offer it up. Guessing it’s not out there yet about the queen’s pieces.”
“Maybe they’re sitting on them,” Rohan said.
Cruz rocked back in his chair. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth while eyeing the board, his face a stiff mask of concentration. “Ransom grab,” he said. “Probably getting ready to make contact.”
“That’s what I’d do,” Phin said. “No reputable auction house or dealer will touch those pieces, never mind buy them.”
Maddy leaned back on the table, her body appearing loose and relaxed, and something in Phin’s chest lit him up like a summer sunrise.
Dang, he loved seeing her not twisted up and stressed. More of that. That’s what she needed. He’d have to figure out a way to make it happen.
She gestured to the photos. “What makes these pieces priceless is the historical value. Even if they’re sold on the black market, they’d have to stay hidden. It’s not as if the buyer can wear the queen’s stolen tiara in public.”
“That might be the play,” Rohan said. “They make contact and tell the Thompsons they’ll save them the embarrassment of the world finding out they failed to keep the queen’s pieces secure. They’ll return the pieces for a hefty fee.”
Maddy’s hand shot up like a third-grader with a question. How cute was she? “Just jump in. This is what we do. We spitball.”
She nodded. “How much could they even ask? As you said, no reputable collector will buy these pieces.”
“They could break them up,” Zeke said, “and melt down the metal.”
Zeke wandered to the board and picked up one of the markers. He jotted Rory Emlynson’s name with a question mark and then below that the words dealer and database. “Where are we with Rory?”
“He’s dodging my calls,” Phin said. “I’ll keep on it.”
“All right,” Zeke tapped the marker against the board where he’d written “dealer.” “Let’s contact that company in San Francisco. The one with the stolen art info.”
The organization, run by a lawyer, maintained a database of missing art and collectibles back in the '80s. Being a collector, he’d started a spreadsheet for his own use. After years of adding works to it and subsequently getting inquiries from friends and even law enforcement, he saw an opportunity and monetized it. Now, with over half a million entries, the database streamlined investigations and kept collectors, galleries, and museums from the headaches that came with purchasing stolen art.
What he could do for them right now, Phin wasn’t sure, since the theft of the queen’s pieces hadn’t been revealed. “I can call him,” Phin said. “What am I looking for?”
