“Would you like them to?” Alex cut in.
The line went quiet for a long moment before Wilks answered.
“What did you have in mind?” he said with a conspiratorial smile Alex could hear.
Almost an hour later, Alex got off a crosstown crawler right in front of Empire Tower. Crawlers were the brain child of John D. Rockefeller, former industrialist and now one of New York’s six resident sorcerers. They had the upper body of a double decker bus but from the wheel wells down, they had thousands of glowing blue legs made of pure energy. To Alex, they looked like a cross between a centipede and a snail.
Formerly called the Empire State Building, Empire Tower had been converted into a magical battery that radiated power to most of the Island of Manhattan. The closer you were to the tower, the better the power reception got, so naturally New York’s well-to-do built their townhouses right up against the tower in an area known as the Core.
The home of Ernest and Linda Atwood was styled after a Grecian temple, with marble columns and friezes under the eaves. Ernest was second-generation money, his father Marvin having made millions providing textiles to the growing nation’s clothing manufacturers.
Marvin was widely reputed to be a workaholic who spent his days in the office making deals and, more importantly, money. Ernest was a man of leisure who, as far as Alex could tell, had never worked a day in his life.
Alex’s clients, Gary and Marjorie Bickman, were waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the elaborate gates that led up to the Atwood home. A police detective Alex didn’t know stood with them, wearing a brown suit and a sour look on his face. He was average height with brown hair, a strong nose, and tired eyes.
“You Lockerby?” he said, barely containing the sneer in his voice.
Alex put on his most affable smile. He was well used to police detectives looking at him like something nasty on their shoe.
“Call me Alex,” he said, offering the detective his hand.
“Marcus North,” he said, not shaking. “I’m only here because Detective Pak vouched for you, but if you’re wasting police time, I’ll bring you up on charges.”
Alex’s smile didn’t even hint at slipping.
“Did you find anything, Mr. Lockerby?” Bickman asked in his proper, British accent. He stood with his arm around his wife, who looked like she might faint at any moment. Gary Bickman was short and slim with a slight build and black hair that he wore slicked back. He was dressed in a tuxedo, which Alex assumed was standard attire for a rich man’s valet. His wife was pretty and blonde with a plump face and round figure in a tasteful floral dress.
“I think I’ve got good news for you,” he said, looking around. “We just need to wait for — ah, here they come.”
A sleek black sedan eased up to the curb and a woman in a form-fitting silk dress got out. She was about Leslie’s age, but time had not been as generous to her as it had been to Alex’s secretary. Her face was lined and her hair had started to gray, but her eyes were sharp, even shrewd.
“Which one of you is Lockerby?” she declared as she mounted the sidewalk.
“Here,” Alex said, tipping his hat. “Are you from Lloyds?”
“Greta Morris,” she said, holding out a hand.
“If this is everyone,” Detective North growled, “let’s get on with this. Some of us have work to do.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Alex said.
“Do you have it?” Greta asked.
With a dramatic gesture, Alex reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the fake Sapphire Rose.
“That’s it,” Marjorie gasped, collapsing against her husband as she began to cry.
“Good show, Alex,” Bickman said.
“Where did you get that,” North asked.
“I found this in the Brooklyn landfill,” he said, passing it to Greta.
“How did it end up in a landfill?” Detective North asked.
“If I had to guess,” Alex said as Greta pulled a jeweler’s loop from her pocket and used it to examine the brooch. “I’d say Atwood threw it in the trash.”
“Why would he do that?” Bickman asked.
“Because this brooch is a fake,” Greta said, tossing it to North.
The detective caught the brooch deftly and held it up to sparkle in the sunlight.
“You sure?”
Greta favored him with a stern look.
“Detective, I’ve worked for Lloyds of London for twenty years,” she said. “We’re the most prestigious insurer of high-end jewelry in the world. I know fake jewelry when I see it.”
“That can’t be,” Marjorie Bickman gasped. “Lady Atwood only wears it on special occasions. The master keeps it in his safe.”
“When was the last time she wore it?” Alex asked.
“They went to a party last week, at the Astors,” Bickman said. “A picture of the Lady Atwood wearing the brooch was in the Times.”
“Convenient,” North said, turning the brooch over in his hands. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”
“Based on what Mr. Wilks of Callahan Brothers Property told me, I’ve made a few enquiries,” Greta said. “The Atwoods have sold off quite a bit of their art collection over the last year.”
“That’s true,” Bickman said. “The elder Mr. Atwood was the collector. The master said he disliked art.”
“I suspect it’s more that he likes money,” North said.
“Or rather spending it,” Alex added. “When was the last time you got paid?” he asked Bickman. “I mean in cash.”
Caught off guard by the question, Bickman took a moment to answer.
“Most of our needs are taken care of as part of the household,” he said. “The master usually just puts my salary in his safe for me. I think the last time I needed money was about a month ago when I took Marjorie to a picture show.”
“What’s this about?” Marjorie asked, her fearful look back with a vengeance.
“Your boss is broke,” Detective North said. “He got rid of this so he could collect the insurance.”
“I suspect they sold off the stones in the real brooch a few at a time,” Greta supplied. “Eventually even the setting. I have a colleague trying to track them down as we speak.”
Alex chuckled at that. Wilks might be a jerk, but he was very good at his job. If the Atwoods had sold off the stones on the black market, Wilks would know about it by breakfast.
“My God,” Marjorie gasped, clinging to her husband. “If the Atwoods are broke, what about our money?”
“How much do they owe you?” Detective North asked.
“Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars,” Bickman answered immediately. “It’s supposed to be in his office safe.”
“I’ll look into that,” North said. “But if they’re trying their hand at insurance fraud, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Mrs. Bickman made a sobbing noise and buried her face in her husband’s lapel.
“What are we going to do?” Bickman asked, his face ashen. “That money is all we have and until the accusations against my wife are cleared up, no one will hire us.”
Alex looked at North, but the detective just shrugged.
“I’ve got some questions for the Atwoods,” he said, pocketing the fake brooch. “I’ll lean on him about your money.”
“Thank you, detective,” Bickman said, somewhat woodenly.
“I’ll go with you,” Greta said to North as the detective headed toward the enormous house. “I have some questions of my own.”
Alex watched them go as Marjorie sobbed into Bickman’s tuxedo jacket. He pulled out his rune book and tore out a minor restoration rune, passing it to the diminutive valet.
“This will get the stains out of your jacket,” he said.
“Thank you,” Bickman said in the same wooden voice he’d used with Detective North.