Tom Dolby - The Trust

“Esme smashed it during one of her fits. She said she dumped it in the park.”

“Genie, why are you showing this to me? I’m not sure I understand.”

She frowned. “There’s something suspicious about all of this. All you kids serving on that committee. They make replicas for the girls to wear. And then it’s stolen?”

“Are you sure you’re not drawing too many conclusions?”

“Do you know anything about that necklace? Do you know what they say about the goddess Isis?”

Patch shook his head.

“She was one of the most important Egyptian goddesses, the goddess of magic, motherhood, and fertility. The ancient Egyptians believed the Nile flooded each year with tears of sorrow for her husband who died, the god Osiris.”

“What does this have to do with the necklace?”

“Only that it’s a terribly important artifact. It would be a shame if it were never recovered.” She paused. “And that, to me, the necklace is a symbol of grief.”

Patch nodded. “Do you think the Society has anything to do with this? I mean, the event last night was overrun with Society members.”

“I can’t say.” She glanced down at her newspaper. “I really should be getting back to my puzzle. If I don’t finish it in one go, I never get it done.”

Leave it to his grandmother to muddle up his Valentine’s Day with a mystery. And Isis? Osiris? Tears of sorrow? What did that have to do with anything?

His phone buzzed with a joking text from Lia:

HAPPY V-DAY, SEXY. IF YOU’RE GIVING ME THAT NECKLACE TONIGHT, YOU KNOW I DON’T REALLY LIKE JEWELRY.

Patch smiled. He had a big evening planned for the two of them, but first he wanted to try to figure out what had happened last night at the Met.

At Nick’s apartment, no one could talk of anything but the jewelry heist. The theft was all over the papers, and more information and reports emerged gradually during the day. Upper East Side gossip circles, of which Nick’s mother was an integral part, were relishing the scandal, and different and often conflicting accounts of what happened to each guest were traded back and forth like war stories. Some speculated about various guests who were present at the ball; among the suspicious parties were a pair of too-slick, oft-photographed socialites rumored to be the daughters of a Moscow crime boss. Others said the necklace theft could only be the work of Middle Eastern terrorists. One woman claimed that she had spotted a woman walking her pugs down Fifth Avenue and wearing the necklace that morning.

Nick was relieved when he got a text from Patch asking to meet him across the street. They took a walk around the back of the museum, avoiding the police cars that were barricading the institution, which had been closed down for the day. The theft was a major one, as the necklace was valued at nine hundred thousand dollars, and the police, museum officials, and insurance investigators had an interest in making sure it was found. The entire incident was also an embarrassment for the museum, which prided itself on its security. In one of the articles Nick had read, the museum’s director of security was quoted as saying, “When we as an institution start to feel too safe, we’re actually the most vulnerable.”

As they walked, Patch’s breath was visible in the cold air.

“I need to show you something,” Nick said. He pulled out the card from the previous night, and Patch read it.

“‘Table 1603.’ Where’d you get this?”

“It was my escort card from last night. What do you think that means? Do you think it’s a clue?”

Patch shrugged. “I don’t know what to think anymore. My grandmother has this idea that the whole necklace thing is connected to your grandfather.” He told Nick about everything that Genie had said that morning about Palmer’s obsession with the necklace, and how he had made a copy of it for Genie.

“That’s crazy,” Nick said. “My grandfather’s still in the hospital. How could he have anything to do with the theft?”

Walking with Patch, in this rare moment of privacy, Nick felt a chill. He had been hiding something from Patch for more than a month now, the secret his father had told him on New Year’s Eve. Every day he didn’t reveal what he knew, it became more and more awkward to tell his best friend.

That was the thing about secrets: they ate you up inside until there was nothing left, a hollow cadaver of a person. Nick tried to ignore his feelings and not let on what he was thinking, his fear that once again, he would lose Patch’s trust. Nick had to believe the information would be revealed at the right time, in a way that wouldn’t jeopardize their relationship. But now was definitely not the right time. Nick tried to focus on what was in front of them.

Patch nodded. “I think we should focus on the clue you got last night. I don’t think it was a mistake. I mean, it’s so far off in terms of numbers; the tables only went to forty or so. There’s no way it wasn’t meant for you.” Patch paused. “Let me try something.” Patch pulled out his iPhone.

“What are you doing?” Nick said.

“Well, it might be a combination-which, like your key, really doesn’t help us, but it also could be an address.”

Patch punched in the numbers 1603 to the map feature on his phone.

“You think it’s just going to pop up an address?” Nick asked.

Patch waited until the page had loaded. “It is an address. In Copenhagen.”

“Copenhagen?”

“Yup.” Patch grinned. “In Denmark.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“This is so insane. I mean, Palm Beach is one thing, but they expect us to go to Denmark? Forget about it. We don’t even know what we’re looking for!”

They had circled around to the south side of the museum, exiting near the Three Bears Playground.

“So you’re just going to give up?” Nick asked as they paused on the sidewalk.

“It’s not giving up,” Patch said. “I think we need to know that some leads are worth following, and others aren’t.”

“And you’ve deemed this one to be worthless.”

“Keep the numbers, Nick. The answer will come. I have a feeling it’s closer than we think.”

The police cars were still swarmed in front of the Met, and the two boys kept a wide berth to avoid getting caught up in the melee.

“I’ve got to go,” Patch said. “Date tonight.”

Nick nodded. He would be seeing Phoebe, too, but something about trying to celebrate a trivial holiday with her felt lifeless and dull. Until he could figure out what his grandfather had been trying to tell them, that would be his real passion.

Nick touched the key that was around his neck, the key he had been guarding. Never before had he felt so close to an answer, yet also so far away.

That evening Patch rushed to the corner of 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, where he had asked Lia to meet him for the Valentine’s Day he had planned. He cursed himself for running late when he saw her standing at the corner where all the horse-drawn carriages and their drivers congregated. She was ignoring the tourists and tacky souvenir stands and looked mildly annoyed, as if she had expected something more exotic from Patch on Valentine’s Day, like a concert downtown or passes to a speakeasy club on the Bowery.

After greeting Lia with a kiss, Patch walked up to one of the drivers, a scruffy guy in a thick flannel coat, whom he recognized from a ride he had taken a few days ago. On Thursday afternoon, he had talked to a few different drivers, finally meeting one who agreed to help him out.

“Come on,” Patch said to Lia, motioning her over. “Meet Chester.”