The Trust Read online

  “Let us walk you home,” Thad said.

  “I’m fine,” Lauren said. “I think I just want to enjoy the evening. Being out in the snow reminds me of when I was a little kid.”

  Thad nodded. “You sure?”

  “You go ahead.”

  As Lauren bundled her coat and scarf around her, Claire walked by her. “Lauren, you can’t possibly be going home alone.”

  Lauren looked up. “Yes, Claire, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Oh, no,” Claire said as she surreptitiously plucked a cigarette from the pocket of her coat while nervously watching the steps, probably to make sure her parents couldn’t see her. “I just always imagine you surrounded by tons of boys. Like last semester.”

  Lauren paused. Claire was so annoying, and so rude, and it stung, hurt like a fall on the icy sidewalk. She knew it shouldn’t affect her, as Claire was everything she didn’t want to be. Lauren composed herself after a moment, cinching the belt on her overcoat and facing in the direction of Park Avenue. She knew she shouldn’t say what she was about to say, but she had taken enough from Claire, and she didn’t care if her mother was their decorator.

  “That’s funny, Claire,” she said over her shoulder. “Because I always imagine you rotting and alone.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The next morning was Valentine’s Day, and Patch woke up early. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been drinking champagne the night before, since he was working, at least until the necklace debacle. He had been excited about the DJ gig, and even though Claire had been a complete pill, he was disappointed he hadn’t been given the chance to finish off his set list. He’d also wanted to impress Lia with his taste and skill.

  Patch padded into the kitchen, and as usual, Genie was already up, doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

  “I hear you had quite a night,” she said.

  “How do you know that?”

  She held up a copy of the Daily News. “Freddy downstairs gave me his,” she said, referring to the doorman on the early Sunday morning shift.

  The headline on the cover read: “Oh, Goddess! Ancient Jewels Heisted at Socialite Ball.” Inside, the story recounted all the facts that Patch already knew from having been there himself. There hadn’t been much time for actual analysis; that would come online and in the later editions of the paper.

  In the Daily News spread, there was a close-up of the original necklace, a file photo provided by the museum.

  “I think you should see this,” Genie said. She held up an old, yellowed news clipping from W magazine, one Patch hadn’t seen before. It was similar to the photo that had been in the Times nearly twenty years ago, of his mother at the last Dendur Ball, but this one was a close-up.

  His mother was wearing a necklace that looked like the Scarab of Isis. The caption noted that she was wearing a rare replica of the necklace. The original had been on loan to the museum and was being shown in New York for the very first time.

  “They made replicas for everyone twenty years ago as well?” Patch asked.

  “No, no, that wasn’t it,” Genie said. “Far be it from Esmé to do something that wasn’t unique. She’s wearing something that someone gave to me. Well, I suppose you can know. She’s wearing something that Palmer gave to me.”

  “Palmer Bell?”

  “Yes, while we were engaged. He had been on a trip to Cairo, and he was very taken with the necklace when he viewed it at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. He had a copy made, based on photographs. He gave it to me on the night of our engagement. It may have been a copy, but it was one of a kind.”

  “And you gave it to my mom?”

  “Yes. I had no attachment to it anymore.”

  Patch wanted to learn more, but he knew better than to pry. Genie would sometimes clam up completely if she thought he was getting too nosy about the past.

  “Where is the copy now?” Patch didn’t even know why he was asking this, but somehow it seemed important to know about something that belonged, ever so briefly, to his mother.

  “Esmé 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.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  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. Ho
w 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.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  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.”

  Lia looked up at the horse, a gold and cream palomino. “You’re joking,” she said. “Are we really?”

  Patch nodded. “Yup. Get on up.”

  Lia laughed. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Oh, it gets better.”

  He handed an envelope to the driver. In it was two hundred dollars in cash, much more than the cost of a ride through Central Park.

  “Kid, if anyone says anything, you’re taking the blame for this, you got it?” the driver said.

  “I understand,” Patch said.

  “Wait, I don’t get it,” Lia said. “What’s going on?”

  Patch climbed up into the driver’s seat and motioned for Lia to sit next to him. The driver got out of the carriage and gestured for Patch to get going before anyone noticed.

  “Where are we headed?” Lia asked.

  “We’re going to see a bit of the city,” Patch said.

  Lia smiled. “Okay—but you know that if we get arrested for this, we’re ending up on the cover of the Post, right?”

  “Maybe that’s a risk worth taking.”

  Instead of heading into the park, as the horses usually did, Patch maneuvered the carriage down Fifth Avenue. For once, he was grateful for the riding lessons he had taken with Nick when he was younger, as driving a carriage wasn’t all that different from riding a horse. The driver had also given him a short primer a few days ago.

  It was Valentine’s Day, the shops on Fifth Avenue were all lit up, and no one paid them any mind. If they did, it was only to tip their hat or whistle at his romantic gesture.

  Not many New Yorkers realized that taking a carriage ride out of the park, particularly when you didn’t have a license, was completely illegal.

  They reached 42nd Street, and Patch started to turn right so they could go back up Sixth Avenue.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Lia asked.

  “What do you mean? You want to go downtown?” He was surprised at her audacity, but they had made it to 42nd Street without anyone stopping them. Maybe they should go all the way downtown.

  Lia grinned. “You’re always saying how you want to get out of your little world, aren’t you? Now’s your chance. In a horse-drawn carriage!”

  Patch nodded. It was true. Everything with the Society had felt so suffocating. As he looked up at the lights of Fifth Avenue, this little adventure was a welcome dive into the dark, dazzling unknown.

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  The light turned green, and Patch continued directing Chester to keep walking. He broke into a trot, and Patch held the reins tightly.

  “He’s trying to keep up with traffic!” Lia said, laughing. He was a good horse, and Patch wanted to make sure that he was okay. But he didn’t seem to mind at all—he seemed rather pleased at breaking out of the usual clomp-clomp-clomp routine of rides around Central Park.

  “You are totally ruining my plan!” Patch said in mock annoyance. He was actually grateful. Fifteen minutes out of the park was one thing, but an hour or more—now that was romantic.

  Twenty minutes later, they were down in the Village on a quiet side street. They parked Chester in an empty space and then grabbed some falafel sandwiches and fries at a shop Lia liked. As they ate them in the carriage, Chester craned his neck and sniffed the air curiously.

  “It’s certainly a whole different world from the Dendur Ball, right?” Lia said.

  “Yeah, that’s an understatement,” Patch said.

  “Do they know anything more about who stole the necklace?”

  Patch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I have a suspicion that, you know, the Society had something to do with it. Nick got a weird escort card last night at the ball. It had a series of numbers on it. And my grandmother thinks that Nick’s grandfather has something to do with it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hell if I know,” Patch said. “I just want life to go back to the way it was before all this happened. When I had my vlog.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot—” Lia said. “My parents have a producer friend who I would really like you to show your DVD to.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it—the Society has control over all the footage.”

  “No, I mean, we could explain that this was just a s
ample. That the real show would focus on different people. Do you think you could give me something to send to him?”

  “Sure, I guess. I mean, you know that I don’t technically own the option on the material for another six months, right?”

  “I think he should see it now. He’s an old family friend. He’ll understand that you can’t officially start working on it before June.”

  Patch figured it was unlikely that he could get in any more trouble than he already had been in. He would have to ask Eliot Walker to send him the contents of the safe-deposit box. If he and his four friends were close to getting out of the Society, maybe that was a risk worth taking.

  “Let me treat you to something,” Lia said. She hopped out of the carriage before Patch could say anything.

  She returned a few minutes later with two cups of gelato.

  “Only you would get gelato in the middle of February, outside,” Patch said.

  “You don’t like it? I got pistachio and butterscotch.”

  “No, no, I love it.” He smiled.

  Patch grabbed one of the heavy blankets that was on their laps and pulled it closer.

  “This stuff is the best,” Lia said. “I like to go here whenever I can. Of course, for me, it’s uptown.”

  They enjoyed their gelato quietly. The city was silent that night, as if most of Manhattan had been divided up into two’s, lovers sharing intimacies. Gone were the frat boys, the tourists, the rowdy barhoppers who usually roamed these streets.

  Patch looked at his watch. Genie was always upset with him if he was out too late on a school night. “Okay, eat up, we need to get back uptown.”

  Just as they were pulling out, they got a strange look from some traffic cops. Patch gamely gave them a salute and continued on up Sixth Avenue. Lia smirked as the two cops shook their heads.

  When they reached the park, they rode back in, parking the carriage in an empty lot behind the zoo. Lia pulled the blanket around them and gave Patch a kiss on the lips. Her lips felt like they had frozen over; surely, the gelato hadn’t helped.