Ghost of a Chance

“I thought I told you not to call me,” Wilks’ gruff voice rumbled at him.

“No,” Alex corrected. “You told me not to come back, which you’ll note I haven’t. How are you, Wilks? Catch any jewel thieves lately?”

“I’ve got things to do, Lockerby,” Wilks growled. “What do you want?”

“Do you know anybody at Lloyds of London?”

“It’s a small industry,” he said.

“Do any of them owe you a favor?”

“Lockerby, quit wasting—”

“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.