Max Collins - Before the Dawn

Still no sign of Sterling — or, for that matter, any of his security staff. She slipped in and out of the clusters of pompous people until she stood in front of another Grant Wood, which had taken the wall space that had belonged to Death on the Ridge Road. Spring Turning — another oil on Masonite, done in 1936 — featured large green fields going on seemingly forever, rolling hills beneath a blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. In the bottom foreground, a tiny man used a horse-drawn plow. At eighteen by forty, Spring was also a bulky painting; if she did return, she’d leave this one behind.

Again, Max slowly scanned the room for Sterling, and didn’t see him. But before she’d move on to another room to continue her search, she just had to know how Sterling had filled that Plexiglas case. She waited until two couples blocking her way moved on, then stepped up and looked down at the black velvet pad...

... and its contents made her breath catch.

The Heart of the Ocean!

What the hell?... How could Sterling have gotten it back? There was no way — the necklace was hidden in her crib, and even Kendra didn’t know it was there.

The necklace on display was breathtaking, and appeared to be the genuine article... but this was crazy. Her heart pounding, her palms sweaty, Max stepped closer, leaning in, trying to get a better look. A gold plate labeled the exhibit: “The Heart of the Ocean — one of two prop necklaces from the famous film Titanic; the other resides in the Hollywood Heritage Museum.”

Just as she was forming an opinion on its authenticity, Max felt a presence — someone stepping up behind her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Recognizing the warm masculine voice, Max turned to see Jared Sterling — a tall, blond man in his late twenties with intense blue eyes, a neatly trimmed, slightly darker beard; he wore a black suit with a crisp black collarless shirt, buttoned to the neck, and no tie — casual, in a formal way.

“Beautiful,” she said, adding, “for a fake.”

Sterling favored her with a small twitch of a smile. “Yes, a beautiful fake... like you, my dear.”

A shiver shot through her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is the music too loud? Can you not hear me?” He was standing right next to her now, and leaned sideways to her and, with a tone that managed to be both pleasant and rather vicious, said, “The necklace is like you — beautiful, but not what it appears.”

She bestowed a smile of her own. “And what do I appear to be?”

“One of numerous beautiful young women, who were invited to my party... but you’re not, are you?”

“Not beautiful?”

“Not invited,” Sterling said with a chuckle. “What they used to call, in the old days, a party crasher.”

She swiveled so they faced; they stood close together, as if contemplating a kiss, the Plexiglas dome a foot from her left hand and his right. She could smell his lightly applied cologne, something citrus and deeply inviting. The air between them seemed charged and their eyes locked.

She asked, “How do you know I don’t have an invitation? Or maybe I’m here in the company of one your guests?”

“My dear,” he said, with sublime condescension, “I threw this little party myself... and I personally okayed every invitation. No one brings a guest to my parties without clearing it first... unless one doesn’t mind never getting invited again.”

“And here I thought you were such a warm host.”

“Oh I am.” He nodded toward the people appreciating his paintings. “I’m friends with all these people, in fact I know everyone here... everyone, that is, but you. Although there is something... familiar about you. Have we met, my dear?”

She felt another shiver, asked, “In your dreams, perhaps?”

Another smile twitched within the well-tended beard. “If only I had that vivid an imagination... Would you like a drink? More champagne, perhaps?”

She held up her empty glass. “Why not?”

“Before we do,” he said, “tell me, please, why you think my famous film prop is a fake.”

“Oh, it may actually be a film prop — I’m sure they had a backup for the real necklace, when they made that movie.”

“Real necklace?” he said innocently.

“Very few people realize that the necklace in the Hollywood Heritage Museum — which was stolen, by the way — was truly valuable, with forty-eight tiny zircons that formed the heart around the blue stone.”

“That’s simply absurd,” he said, without conviction.

“And,” she continued, with a casual, almost contemptuous nod toward the display case, “this paste job has fifty.”

He looked from her to the necklace and back. “Well!.. You’re a very bright young woman. Now, do you want that champagne?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Entwining her arm in Sterling’s, Max allowed him to lead her toward the foyer.

“In a way — the necklace on display is a film prop... you don’t think I would show off the original in front of guests? The more valuable of the two prop necklaces, used only for close-ups? Particularly when its... provenance is so... controversial.”

“You mean, because it’s stolen property... So, then, the real necklace is somewhere safe — bank vault, that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t know where it is.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be coquettish, my dear — you stole it. Remember?”

Their eyes met and Max’s stomach did a back flip, but she said nothing; she did not think he would make a scene here — not and risk it coming out that his collection included hot property.

They got fresh glasses of bubbly from a butler and walked down one of the stairways toward the rear of the house. The crowd was thinner back here.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Sitting room. I have something I want to show you.”

She smiled. “If it’s a gun, I’m not interested... If it’s something else, thanks anyway — I’ve seen those before, too.”

“You’re such a droll child,” Sterling said, with a chuckle. “Very engaging, but that’s not what I meant. I want you to see another piece of art.”

With a shrug, she said, “All right.”

Sterling unlocked a door and they entered a large sitting room with a plush violet velvet sofa.

“For our privacy,” Sterling said, “I need to lock the door again... are you comfortable with that?”

She was not afraid of him in the least. “Go ahead.”

He locked the door and they soon sat side by side on the velvet sofa; the Mission style again predominated. A walnut coffee table separated them from two wing chairs and one wall was taken up by bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. On the opposite wall hung heavy velvet curtains that matched the sofa and presumably covered a large window that overlooked the rear of the estate.

On the wall behind the couch was what Max suspected to be the original Night Watch by Rembrandt. Near the locked door was a Remington painting that Max recognized as The Snow Trail.

“Are these the pieces you wanted me to see?”

“No.” The collector sipped his champagne, then smiled again, a toothy smile that was a little too white, a little too wide. “Did you really tell the guard outside you were Marisa Barton?”

Sterling didn’t seem to miss much, around here. Suddenly that locked door was starting to bother her. She decided to play him.

“Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” she said, “to meet the man she wants to meet.”

“And you wanted to meet me?”

Max touched his leg. “Handsome, wealthy... you do have some points in your favor, Mr. Sterling.”