Or . . .
Grady glances over his shoulder quickly. He’s blocking the door from the inside with his knee, keeping it from opening too wide. “If there’s nothing else . . .”
Why is he being so secretive? Unless . . .
Oh my God. Does Grady have a woman in there?
Jealousy burns deep inside me as I eye his state of dress—or lack thereof—again.
“Yeah, you do that please,” Doug answers gruffly. Grady’s eyes meet mine for a split second before he shuts and locks his door. I’m left with no other choice but to trail Doug down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, passing the third-floor exit and continuing on. He has his phone pressed to his ear.
“Hey Zac? I need you to tap into this building’s surveillance system.” I follow him to the lobby. Sure enough, there’s a small camera tucked into the overhang, hidden from casual notice. “Yup, standard.”
“Do you think Zac can get in?” I ask when he finally hangs up.
“Any good hacker can get into this if it feeds into a network. Too bad there aren’t any on the fire escape or the back of the building.” He freezes, then snaps his fingers at me, a smile on his face. He has his phone out again in seconds. “Also, look for any deleted video feed files on Miss Gonzalez’s computer.”
CHAPTER 23
Maggie
December 11, 2015
“You sure you saw him come in here?” I hiss, navigating my way around the shop.
“He didn’t just come in here,” Doug mutters, sucking back an extra-large coffee from the greasy diner down the street, exceedingly grouchy after spending the last fourteen hours in his car, monitoring Jace. “He walked in with a cardboard box in his hands and spent half an hour in that office back there, with the store owner, Ling Zhang.”
Hans sniffs his displeasure as he touches the vintage white ceramic cuff links resting on the shelf next to him. The handwritten price tag claims one hundred and twenty-nine dollars. “Only an idiot would take a priceless vase like that to this place. I’ll bet he googled ‘Chinatown appraisers’ and walked into the first place that Yelp listed.”
Hans and I were busy wrapping Celine’s collection of handblown glass when Doug called, only a few blocks away. Hans offered to come with me. Maybe I should have declined. The last thing I need is him making a memorable stink in here. “It doesn’t seem that bad.” Crisp white walls give the Mott Street shop a clean, modern feeling, especially as compared to the retailers in the area—a ragtag mix of gift and dress shops, as well as several businesses I can’t even identify thanks to the anti-theft metal screens and lack of English signage.
Plenty of shiny metals and sparkly crystals vie for my attention as I scope out the wares. Everything is neatly arranged and beautifully displayed on thin dark-wood shelves.
“And she’s a certified appraiser,” I add.
Hans shakes his head. “Anyone can open a shop like this and call themselves an appraiser. This Bone Lady probably registered for a two-day course, and voilà, she’s now part of a certified appraiser’s guild.” His eyes narrow on a petite middle-aged Asian woman with a bob cut and thick-rimmed glasses, talking to an older couple near the back. “I’ll guarantee you she undervalued every last item in here so she could buy them and sell for an inflated profit. That’s how these private dealers work.”
I frown. “Bone Lady?”
“That’s what the sign out front says.” He pauses. “I do speak Mandarin, you know. I’m guessing she specializes in porcelain art. What’s ridiculous is that calling herself ‘the Bone Lady’ makes it sounds like her expertise lies in bone china.” He leans in to hiss, “Bone china wasn’t created by the Chinese. Thomas Frye invented it in 1748 in East London. He used animal bone ash from slaughterhouses and cattle farms in his formulation.”
Every conversation with Hans is beginning to feel like a history lesson. “But I guess you could argue that, if this emperor used his children’s bone ash in his vases, then the Chinese did invent it.” The more I think about it, the more morbid the legend of these vases seems.
“No. You absolutely cannot argue that. Not bone ash in such trace quantities.”
I shrug. He takes this stuff very seriously. “Either way, she’d be a good person to bring a porcelain vase to.”
I get an exasperated stare in return. “Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying about her so-called expertise?”
“You two finished?” Doug mutters under his breath as “the Bone Lady” closes the distance with a smile.
“Can I help you find something?” Her voice is a faint whisper, her accent worn from years of life in America, I’m guessing.
“Yes, my wife and I are looking for a unique piece for our foyer,” Doug says, looping his arm through mine, a lively lilt in his voice. I can’t help but glance down at him. He’s a good five inches shorter than me. Thank God I’m not wearing heels because I’d never be able to pull this off with a straight face.
A sharp elbow to my ribs gets me talking. “Yes, I was thinking that a pretty vase would look good on our foyer table.” Oddly enough, that’s exactly what we had in the entranceway of our La Jolla home, though it was a vibrant terra-cotta piece from Mexico.
“Ah, yes. Maybe something like this?” She leads us over to a glass cabinet, where several colorful vases of different sizes sit.
“These are nice.” I lean in, pretending to be studying the patterns. “Do you have any in a lighter color? Maybe something with gold tones?”
“With a red dragon on it,” Doug pipes in.
I shoot him a sideways warning glance, because that wasn’t subtle at all. “Yeah. My husband is really on this dragon kick lately.” I watch her closely to see if there’s any reaction, if she may have just sat in a room for half an hour with a man trying to sell a valuable vase by that very description.
I see nothing.
“This one is lovely.” She reaches in and pulls out a burgundy one with birds. “Nice, yes?”
“Yes.” I nod in agreement, fighting my disappointment.
“Not birds. Dragons,” Doug reiterates, losing patience. “Do you know of anywhere we could find what my wife has described to you?”
The Bone Lady is already shaking her head and smiling, her inky black eyes seeking out other customers in the shop. Closing off, now that she realizes she’s not getting a sale. “No. Just birds.”