Page 79 of The Scarab's Game
“I have. But at least one piece in the auction is stolen, and we were in Monaco looking for it. If someone had told us you had it?—”
Martine said, “You know I don’t deal in stolen goods.”
We both knew she would. She’d been the Casino’s manager for years, walking the narrow line between black and gray market on the regular. It was the perfect position to gather secrets from the ultra-wealthy, wasn’t it? Would she also have been MI6? French intelligence? Just a source?
“Sometimes provenance research is challenging,” I said. “No one would accuse you of doing anything like that intentionally. However, if I can provide evidence, perhaps you’d consider releasing this particular piece early? Immediate purchase instead of sending it to the auction block?”
Martine took a sip from her glass. She surveyed the crowd as she always did. Watching? Waiting? “If I did that and word got out, what would my clientele say? Why, I’d be little more than a consignment shop and not an auction house.”
I chuckled and took a drink of my own. “You’re the manager of one of the best casinos in the world. You’re not Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”
Martine stopped us at a roulette table. The dealer spun the ball as the wheel turned, its rhythmic click pairing with the players chanting under their breath.
I suppressed a head shake.The house always wins.That’s why I preferred poker. It wasn’t about the house. It was about the players.
“The Egyptian authorities have been searching for it for some time.”
Martine gave me a long glance and fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, Reginald, darling,” she drawled. “Don’t even pretend you think the police will do anything about my auction.”
I kissed her cheek again. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I would suggest some particularly enterprising young Egyptians might take it upon themselves to retrieve it.”
“Or some particularly enterprising Canadians?”
“How about a trade? Is there anything I can do for you that might change your mind?”
The roulette ball landed on red twenty-three, and two men jumped up from beside the table, arms in the air—a five-hundred-euro win on a straight-up bet.
Had I given too much money to Jenn? How much of it had she spent? How much of it had she lost? Jenn and Scarlett often played cards with their other two best friends—their game was poker or Euchre, only for dimes, and Scarlett always lost.
Such a strange relationship she had with those women. Which was the real Scarlett? Heist crew mastermind who strategized high-stakes thefts around the world or the woman who couldn’t bluff her way past her best friends?
Or was she somewhere in between?
Martine urged me along, each of us sipping our champagne. The dealers didn’t acknowledge us, but everyone saw her.
More than that, it was clear they all saw me with her.
She said, “This is an appealing offer—a trade of favors. But I cannot. The auctions are a gateway to more and bigger business.”
This would make things difficult. I hadn’t expected Martine to agree to any of it, so talking to her had been a calculated risk. She now knew the Reynolds team might attempt to take something, and when the scarab turned up missing, she’d know it was us. She’d be more cautious and put more security on the inventory. If we stole it during the auction, that would be a problem for her. And as one of Evelyn’s contacts, what was bad for Martine was bad for Reynolds.
“And what if this item went missing, but no one realized it?”
“Someone always figures it out.” Martine frowned playfully. “No matter how good your replica is.”
How did she know we had a replica?Because she’s your mother’s friend.After imaging the scarab in Washington this past June, Will had constructed a perfect copy, right down to the gold base and the worn hieroglyphs. Short of running chemical analysis, no one would figure it out.
Although whoever created the fake Constable painting no doubt thought the same, and our contacts still identified it.
“What if...” I lifted my champagne flute to disguise my lips moving. “What if we do a job for you?”
A sly smile slid up Martine’s face. She leaned toward my ear, using her hair to conceal her words. “Why don’t I call your mother, and we can sort out the details?”
Chapter 28
Jenn
The German woman’ssympathetic gaze was like salt in the wound of my epic loss. I forced what smile I could, trying to mask the sting of defeat and the growing unease in my stomach. So much for putting my love life in the hands of fate.