Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

“Five hundred dollars,” he said.

Constance fixed her gaze on his. “Don’t think you can take advantage of me because I’m a woman. That stone is unique — and worth far more.”

The man hesitated. “Seven hundred.”

Constance held out her hand for the stone.

“Eight hundred and fifty,” he said. “I can’t go any higher because... frankly, that’s all the funds I have on hand.” He paused. “Since you wish to remain anonymous, I might point out that I am taking a risk.”

Constance worked out just how large that sum was in 1880. Workingmen earned less than two dollars a day, and a good house cost fifteen hundred dollars. While it still was far less than the diamond was worth, it would do — for now. “Very well,” she said.

She waited as the man went into the back room. She heard a whispered conversation, and — slipping her hand into her pocket and grasping the stiletto — she made sure she had a clear path to the door. But a minute later, the manager appeared again. Wordlessly, he laid a stack of bills on the velvet tray and overturned a small bag of twenty-dollar gold pieces on the velvet for her to count. Constance flipped through the bills and counted out the coins. She nodded. He put the notes in an envelope and the coins back in the bag and gave them to her. She tucked both bag and envelope into the pocket of her dress, thanked him, and exited to the avenue.

A block away, she found a couturier that, in addition to tailored dresses, also sold prêt-à-porter outfits. An hour later she emerged again, with a shop’s assistant holding a hatbox and two large bags in tow. Instead of the purple gown, Constance was now wearing an elegant bustle dress of peacock-blue silk and white ruffles, with a matching bonnet and heavy Eton jacket. As she walked briskly to the curb, the gazes she attracted were admiring rather than curious. Constance paused while the assistant flagged down a hansom cab.

The driver began to get down from his seat, but Constance opened the door herself and — putting a high-buttoned shoe on the running board — sprang up easily into the compartment.

The driver raised his eyebrows, then mounted his seat as the shop assistant put the bags and the hatbox inside the cab. “Where to, ma’am?” he asked as he drew in the reins.

“The Fifth Avenue Hotel,” Constance said, proffering a dollar bill.

“Yes, ma’am ,” the driver said as he pocketed it. Without another word, he urged his horse forward, and within moments, the cab was lost in the ebb and flow of the noonday traffic.

The story of Dan Cooper (aka D. B. Cooper) as recounted in the opening chapters is a true one and is presented here with only a few embellishments, demanded by the novel that it precedes. As of this writing, neither Dan Cooper nor his remains have ever been satisfactorily identified.

The authors wish to apologize for the actions and unpleasant nature of Senator Drayton, who is an entirely fictitious character. No such person has ever disgraced the beautiful and time-honored state of Georgia with his or her representation. Likewise, Armand Cobb is entirely a figment of the authors’ imagination and has no basis in any person who works or has ever worked at the Owens-Thomas House.

And while we are apologizing, a thousand pardons to Savannah — which we both believe to be one of the most fascinating, welcoming, gracious, and endlessly mysterious cities we have ever visited — for the attentions this novel subjects it to. We urge all readers interested in charming and historic places to visit Savannah, where we are confident the mosquitoes they encounter — if any — will be of ordinary size.