Ghost of a Chance

Shaking off his euphoria, Alex opened his office window, letting in a blast of heat. One of the few nice things in his life was the fact that his office was always cool thanks to the small coldbox mounted above the door.

A coldbox was basically a box lined with asbestos that had an opening in the top and a fan on the front edge. When the power was turned on, the fan drew air through the box and over three metal disks that had been enchanted to remain cold for up to six months. The disks were the work of the Ice Queen, Sorsha Kincaid. Despite Alex dropping her castle in the North Atlantic, Sorsha had offered Leslie new cold disks whenever she wanted them, so Alex’s offices were always cool, even in the summer.

With the window open, Alex was almost ready for the rune. Cleaning runes were finicky magic, and they had the potential to simply redistribute filth rather than removing it. He plugged the desk fan into an electrical socket, pointed it at the window, then turned it on. The motor hummed as the brass blades of the fan began to pick up speed.

His preparations complete, Alex stood in front of the fan, facing the open window. Licking the edge of the paper, Alex stuck the cleaning rune to the brim of his hat, then touched the lit end of his cigarette to it. The paper burned away in an instant and Alex felt a tingling sensation wash over him. He held his breath until a puff of dust-like particles leapt away from him, catching in the wind from the fan and swirling away out the window. Alex knew from experience that you didn’t want to breathe any of that. If you did, it took days to get the taste out of your mouth.

With the dirt and the smell of the landfill stripped away, Alex shut the window, then returned the electric fan to his vault. When he emerged back into his office, the coldbox was already beginning to return the room to a comfortable temperature. All in all, Alex reasoned, this had been a good day’s work.

* * *

Leslie’s face did not mirror Alex’s enthusiasm when he went back into the outer office. She sat at her desk, staring at the Sapphire Rose with a stern look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She looked up with a grim expression.

“Did that butler pay you for this job yet?” she asked.

“No,” Alex admitted. “He kept his money in his employer’s safe and the jerk refused to give it to him. He’ll have to once I bring this back.”

Leslie’s expression soured even more.

“I doubt it,” she said. She stood and handed Alex the brooch. “It’s a fake.”

Alex held the brooch up to the light, but the stones looked real enough.

“How could you know that?”

Leslie took the brooch back and turned it over so Alex could see the back of the setting where a long straight pin and hook would keep it in place when worn.

“Here,” she said, indicating the seams where the pin had been attached to the setting.

Alex looked closely, but aside from a bit of tarnish on the silvery metal, he saw nothing amiss.

“I called the Atwood’s insurance company while you were out,” she said, picking up a note pad from her desk. “According to them,” she said, consulting her notes, “the Sapphire Rose is a brooch made of seven small sapphires, one large sapphire, and sixteen diamonds in a platinum setting.”

Alex turned the brooch over and did a quick count of the stones. All were present and accounted for.

“I still don’t get it.”

Leslie turned the brooch to the back again.

“Platinum doesn’t tarnish,” she said, indicating the tarnished area again. “This is silver, which means it isn’t the original setting.”

Alex felt a lump form in the pit of his stomach.

“And if the setting’s a fake—” he began.

“Then the stones are sure to be fakes too,” Leslie finished.

Alex just stared at the bit of tarnish on the bottom of the brooch.

“This means we aren’t getting paid, doesn’t it?” Leslie said. “I mean, if you take this to Atwood, he’ll just say the butler had it made.”

“Valet,” Alex corrected absently while his mind was working overtime. Leslie was right; Atwood would claim that Bickman had the fake made, either to clear his name or to cover for the theft. He had to prove that the fake came from Atwood.

Unless he didn’t.

“Who is the Atwood’s insurance company?” he asked, puffing absently on his cigarette.

“Lloyds,” Leslie replied. “And if we’re not getting paid, you could at least let me have one of those,” she said, pointing at the cigarette. “It’s been almost a week for me.”

Alex grinned and tossed her the nearly-empty pack.

“Save me the last one,” he said, heading back to his office. “And call Bickman. Have him meet me in front of Atwood’s place in an hour. Then call Danny and have him tell the detective on this case to do the same.”

* * *

“Callahan Brothers Property,” a perky voice came through the phone once Alex’s call connected.

“Arthur Wilks, please. Tell him it’s Alex Lockerby.”

The perky voice asked him to wait. Alex met Arthur Wilks while chasing down some stolen diamonds. He was a former cop turned insurance investigator with an extensive network of underworld informants.