“Now, where do we drop these?”
“In the large bottle by the stairs, sir, but I must tell Ms. Peabody you’re here.”
“Relax, kid, put your feet up. Margot!”
Max waved to a woman just emerging from the crowd in an ivory summer dress tied at the waist. The sandals laced elaborately round her ankles hinted at ancient Greece, besotted fauns and massive hedge funds.
“How lovely to see you,” she said with a smile that gave no hint they had never met. Max was always meticulous about his research, and had assured Owen that Margot Peabody was renowned for a spectacular collection of jewellery. It was not much in evidence tonight: a single strand of pearls, perfect milky spheres, circled her throat. “Come and have a drink on the lawn. I’m sure you’ll find scads of people you know.”
“Sorry, Margot. Can’t stay. Gotta be in the capital first thing in the morning.” He waggled the cheque at her and popped it into the bottle.
“Oh, stay for one drink, I insist. I’m trying to remember where it was we met.”
“Hah! You’ve got me there. The Leonardo drawings?”
“The Getty! Of course, of course! And is this your son?”
“Nephew. Carter Gould-doesn’t like to use the numerals. Grumpy teenager, way they all are.”
“A handsome teenager nevertheless.” She reached out a hand that was pure gristle. He gave it a brief squeeze. “Are you really such a grump?” she asked.
“Not at all, ma’am,” Owen said. “Pleasure to meet you.” He inserted his cheque into the mouth of the bottle and tapped it home.
“You’re both too, too kind. Now follow me.”
She led them through the crowd toward a pair of French doors. Owen noted earrings, necklaces, brooches, watches; your honest, God-fearing Republicans were not averse to a little ostentation. What’s the point of owning diamonds if you never wear them?
Under a snow-white canopy out back, a cover band was doing an earnest version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” the singer sounding in imminent danger of aneurysm. Sausalito glittered across the black water, and off to the south the arc of the Bay Bridge. In the dark of the waterfront, the house seemed to blaze and shimmer.
Ms. Peabody led them to the bar and made sure they got their drinks-gin and tonic for Max, Coke for Owen. She introduced Owen to a busty debutante who shook his hand and smiled shyly. He tried to engage her in conversation, but she blushed and looked at her feet.
“To be perfectly honest,” Margot Peabody said to Max, “I don’t think we’re in much danger of losing in November, but we do want to be on the safe side, don’t we.”
“Absolutely,” Max said. “Have to generate a healthy investment climate, get those returns growing again.”
“Well, yes. And property values.”
“Excuse me,” Owen said, “back in a minute.” He headed into the house at a clip that suggested serious discomfort.
“Poor kid,” Max said. “Ever since the accident he’s had the bladder of a little girl.”
“Accident?”
“High-strung filly. Took a nasty tumble.”
Ms. Peabody spread that gristly hand, fanlike, over her heart. “A riding accident! He’s lucky he didn’t end up paralyzed, or in a coma.”
“He was wearing the regulation helmet, thank God.”
“He was playing polo? There’s nowhere near here, is there?”
“Cirencester, U.K. Charity match. Three princes there that afternoon, and I guarantee you not one of their horses balked. I was ready to blow a gasket, but you know you can’t say anything to a royal-raise an international stink. They did send a nice card, I’ll give ’em that.”
“The least they could do, under the circumstances. You probably could have sued them.”
“Nah,” Max said. “Polo’s a tough game. Have to expect to get knocked around a little.”
“How delightfully macho,” his hostess said, and gave a musical laugh.
Inside, Owen bounded up the front stairs two at a time.
“Sir! Sir!” the houseboy called after him, “there are plenty of restrooms down here.”
Owen found a sumptuous bathroom halfway along the hall. He stepped in and checked himself out in multiple mirrors. The black Armani looked great, he had to admit, and the new curls seemed to be working wonders with the female element. He flushed the toilet and set the tap running in the sink so the bathroom would sound occupied, then shut the door from the outside. At the end of the hall a pair of double doors was closed. Under Max’s tutelage he had developed an instinct for such things.
If you want to rob a Republican, your best time is supper-time, Max had taught him. They always have company, the place is full of strangers, and every alarm is exactly where you want it: off.
Five minutes, he wouldn’t need more.
The master bedroom was all rustic wood and white fabric, but Owen made straight for the dressing room, a compact chamber redolent with aromas of cedar, Guerlain and shoe leather, and got it right on the first guess: the set of library steps gave her away. He reached up into the space between the ceiling and the top shelf and pulled out a high-quality wooden chest secured with a paltry lock that he snapped in less than two seconds.
Inside, there was a diamond brooch that had to be worth thirty or forty grand, an exquisite jade cameo, and a gold and ruby bracelet. But the real showstopper was the pair of emerald earrings, emeralds being more valuable even than diamonds. Both gems looked free of inclusions and were at least twelve carats, the light and clear green of a cat’s eye. Hundred and twenty grand on a bad day.
Owen lifted the tray out of the chest. Underneath, he found two fat packets of hundred-dollar bills. He had no idea why Margot Peabody would be stashing approximately thirty grand in her jewellery box, but he certainly wasn’t about to complain.
“God, I love this job,” he said softly. He stuffed his pockets, closed the doors, and returned to the bathroom to shut off the water.
When he emerged, a somewhat off-kilter babe in a shimmery blue dress was having trouble making it up the last few stairs, pressing a cellphone to her ear with one hand and clutching a martini in the other. She snapped the phone shut, eyeing Owen.
“What are you doing up here?” she said, an edge in her voice.
“Bathroom.”
“There are bathrooms downstairs,” she said, slurring a little.
“They were occupied.”
“Yeah?” She looked him up and down, taking her time about it. She was pretty in a hard way; her frown looked like it might be permanent. “Who are you? Why haven’t we met?”
Owen put out a hand. “Carter Gould. Who are you?”
“Melinda Peabody. Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
She waved a limp hand. “Long story. How old are you, anyway? I’m twenty-five.” She looked ten years older.
“I’m eighteen,” Owen said. “Just turned.”
“Too young. Which is too bad, because you’re so cute you’re making me dizzy.” She steadied herself against the wall.
“That must be the martini,” Owen said. “I better be getting back downstairs.” Max would be wondering where the hell he was. A missed cue could ruin the whole show.
“No, really,” Melinda said. “People must tell you that all the time, right? That you’re totally fucking devastating?”
“Never,” Owen said. “This is the first time.”
“Liar. Get out of here before I jump you.” She flung open the bathroom door, nearly toppling herself, and shut it behind her.
Owen stopped at the mezzanine on the way down. The band was taking a break, and Margot Peabody was herding everyone into the great hall below, where a bulky bear of a man in a tux was seated at a grand piano. Max looked up at Owen, and Owen pulled out the jammer and flipped it open. He pushed the On button and held it to his ear as if answering a call. Then he scowled at it and put it back into his pocket.
When she had got the crowd quiet, Ms. Peabody told them they were in for a terrific surprise. “We are honoured to have a very special guest with us tonight, one who needs no introduction, seeing how she’s come here straight from the stage of New York’s Lincoln Center. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Evelyn del Rio.”