“Isn’t this kind of shop too, um . . .”
“High-end for crooks?” he finished dryly.
“Right.”
“No matter where on the food chain you start, goods like we’re chasing would end up in Sea Gems, where the clientele is rich enough to buy third-world countries but would rather have baubles.”
Hannah chewed lightly on her lower lip. She was still getting used to the taste of indestructible lipstick. “Is Sea Gems part of the Chang family’s holdings?”
“Sam Chang is the owner of record,” Archer said quietly, “but you have to dig a long time to find that out. The store has the best pearls in Hong Kong, which is to say some of the best pearls in the world.”
“Both the name Sam and the name Chang are common, especially in the westernized East. Are you sure it’s the same Sam Chang? Ian’s father?”
Archer nodded. “The old man owns and operates high-end pearl stores all over the world. Tokyo. Shanghai. Los Angeles. Manhattan. London. Paris. Rome. He was going to open up one in Moscow, too, but the ruble keeps crashing.”
“What about your father’s company?”
“Donovan International?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “We have offices in every country that has significant mineral reserves, if that’s what you mean.”
In mock salute she touched the brim of the wide, floppy black hat she had picked up in the airport. “Impressive.”
“That’s The Donovan, all right,” he said, forcing a path through the crowded sidewalk so that they could stand close to one of the many display windows. “Impressive. Like that pearl choker.”
He stepped back just enough to let her look past him into the display window. To the right, next to a long strand of golden pearls alternating with glittering diamonds, she saw a black pearl choker. The pearls were at least eighteen millimeters, as big as the choker Archer had bought for her in Broome. After that, all similarity between the two necklaces ended. These pearls had a fine luster, an iridescent blue-black color, and a fat six-figure price tag.
Frowning, she went in closer until she was all but pressing her nose against the glass. The city heat was so intense she couldn’t have steamed up the glass with her breath if she tried. She looked at the necklace with such concentration that the rest of reality just faded into background.
“What do you think?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Quite nice, despite the fact that the color match across the strand is only good, not excellent.”
He turned, looked at the necklace appraisingly, and then at her. “Only good?”
“Yes,” she said, not glancing away from the window. There was no hesitation in her voice. “I can’t tell from here, but I suspect that the surface isn’t quite up to the price on one or two of those pearls. If so, it would explain the less than superior color match.”
A slow smile spread across Archer’s face. He thought of how quickly she had become a pouting tourist for the shopkeeper in Broome. He was accustomed to working alone, but he was beginning to appreciate just how useful she could be in catching pearl traders off guard.
“Can you play the part of an ultrafussy, not-too-classy rich bitch without revealing how much you really know about pearls?” he asked.
“You mean the kind of spoiled brat who knows what she likes, never sees it, and could find fault with God?”
Archer laughed out loud. “Perfect.” He ran his fingertips over Hannah’s cheek in a light caress. “You’re looking for a very special black pearl necklace. You don’t know what kind, but you’ll know it when you see it.”
“How special?” she asked.
He shook his head, silently telling her not to mention the Black Trinity. “As long as you don’t describe right away how special the orient is, the necklace can be as special as you like.”
“A real colorful black,” she said, deadpan.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You got it. Let’s go make the manager chew his very expensive carpet. If he gets irked enough, he’ll let us into the vault in back just to show us how important he and his pearls are and how ignorant and ordinary we are. Then we’ll see how much he knows and what he’s saving for his special clients.”
And, depending on what Archer saw or didn’t see, he would decide if it was time to put a rainbow cat among the sleek pearl pigeons.
“How do you know this store has the really good stuff hidden in a vault?” she asked.
“Stores like this always do. What’s in the windows is just the lure. Besides, I’ve been in the vault before. That’s where they keep their virgins,” he said, using the common name for pearls that haven’t been drilled. “Nice goods. Really nice.”
“Will someone here recognize you?”
“I doubt it. It’s been years.”
He pulled out a pair of clear glasses. It looked like they were bifocal, but they weren’t. There was just an extra thickness of glass at the bottom of the lens. The frames were thin, black, the latest in Italian flash. The lenses were amber tinted. The glasses, like the hat, completely changed the lines of his face.
She lifted her eyebrows in silent salute. “Spoiled, bitchy, and way too picky. Anything else?”
“I don’t know anything about pearls. And my name is—”
“Sugar,” Hannah cut in quickly. “I’m rotten with names.”
“Sugar?” His mouth curled up at the corners. “Okay, I can live with that. It beats buttercup.”
“Buttercup?” She looked him up and down, lingering on the size and set of his shoulders. “Doesn’t suit.”
“Thank you. But that’s what my sister Honor calls her husband when she’s annoyed with him. And vice versa.”
“Buttercup. Is her husband, um, small?”
“Am I?”
“No.”
“Jake’s the same size as me.”
“Buttercup.” She rolled the word around on her tongue and grinned. “I like it.”
Archer had a feeling he was going to wish he hadn’t let Hannah in on that particular family joke. Yet seeing her face light up with amusement was something he couldn’t really regret.
The inside of the store was like a museum rather than a commercial enterprise. Instead of putting out as much merchandise as possible, the decorator had used empty space to create a feeling of importance around the display pedestals. In place of the brilliant, pinpoint lighting used by jewelers to enhance diamonds and other faceted stones, the light aimed at the pearls in their satin nests was soft, carefully color balanced, and often fluorescent rather than incandescent.
No glass caged the tops of the pedestals. Potential buyers were kept just out of easy arm’s reach by burgundy velvet ropes. A very old, fabulously costly silk carpet muffled the sound of expensively shod feet. French Impressionist paintings and works by ancient masters of calligraphy hung on the walls, adding to the feeling of richness and cultural worth. Intricately carved, museum-quality folding screens separated various areas. Quietly, repeatedly, the decor let customers know that they were privileged to be part of such elegance and taste.
The interior was divided into suites. Each had its own type of pearls. Freshwater baroques from every river, stream, pond, and lake in the world, in sizes from hummingbird to chicken egg. Saltwater baroques from abalone whose rainbow orient was intense, but lacked the mystery of the Black Trinity’s pearls. Small Japanese Akoya pearls, with their natural pale blue tones and their unnatural pink and silver ones. Larger Tahitian pearls, whose highlights ranged from steel gray to peacock blue to jungle green. Big South Seas pearls with their silver-whites and radiant golds—angel dreams fashioned into necklaces and bracelets, set into earrings and brooches and rings. The Australian pearls were biggest of all, legacy of the Indian Ocean’s sweeping tides and the pearl farmers’ skill.
Most of the suites held customers conversing in Chinese. There were a few speaking English and what might have been Italian. The suite specializing in black pearls was empty
but for a man sitting at a desk. The polished brass plaque announced that he was Paul Chevalier. Archer knew that Monsieur Paul was one of Sam Chang’s head pearl buyers, an up-and-comer from Tahiti who had his eye on one of the Chang granddaughters. If rumor was correct, the granddaughter had both eyes on the very handsome Paul.
Paul barely nodded to Hannah and Archer before he went back to his phone call. He left the distinct impression that he knew important customers on sight, and they didn’t qualify.
Archer bent over Hannah, nuzzled and nibbled on her neck, and said softly, “We’re in luck. That’s their top black pearl expert. If anyone can get us into the vault room, he can. Word is that he’s a vain, self-important son of a bitch. The kind who loves to put people in their place, which is the dirt under his feet.”
Her slow smile was pure acid. “Only in the colonies,” she said in a calm, carrying voice, “would anyone think their great-grandmother’s hallway rug was classy.”
“You’re the one who wanted to look at pearls,” Archer said. A twang had appeared in his voice, something between Oklahoma and Texas. “We were told this was the place to look, darlin’. So look. Screw the rug.”
“You never understand.”
“Aw, babe. How long did I look for just the right shade of fancy blue diamond for you?”
She rolled her eyes. “I was looking right alongside you.”
“Years.”
“But we found it, didn’t we?” She held her hand out and admired the flash and play of her rings. “Even if it looks a little off in this light. Stupid jewelry stores. Why don’t they just use full-spectrum lighting?”
“Admire your rocks outside. We’re looking for a pearl necklace in here, remember?” But he grinned and ran his fingertip down her arm in a slow caress to take any possible sting from his words. “You know my policy. Only the best for you, darlin’.”
She made a husky, murmurous sound, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips against his. “You’re such a sweetie.”
“For you, I’m pure sugar.” He smoothed his hand over her hip and squeezed with the assurance of a man fondling a longtime lover. “Go see if you like something. If not, there are other stores in Hong Kong.”
She toyed with the gold chain lying against his furry chest, smiled when he winced at the hair caught in the chain, and sauntered over to the nearest pedestal. After walking around it once, she leaned in and calmly snagged the necklace off its ice-blue satin pillow.
Instantly an alarm chimed, both musical and loud. Monsieur Paul hung up and shot out of his chair, letting loose a torrent of French with a pronounced Tahitian flavor.
Ignoring him like dirt under her feet, Hannah kept looking at the necklace. The semibaroque black pearls were beautifully matched for shape, size, color, and luster. They looked like slightly flattened planets with rings around them. Their orient had an unusual silver-blue sheen. There was a scattering of surface pits and a few cloudy spots, all of which were very minor on first inspection. The asking price was major, just under $320,000. A portion of that price was due to the pale blue diamonds set in the platinum clasp.
“What’s he fussing about, sugar?” she asked without looking up from the pearl necklace.
“Beats me,” Archer said, swallowing his laughter.
She replaced the necklace on its pedestal, which shut up the alarm. Without a pause she headed toward the next display area. This one featured a matinee-length necklace of matched, uniform black pearls. These had a peacock-blue sheen and a pigeon-blood ruby clasp.
“Madame,” the man said quickly in English, stepping between Hannah and the velvet rope. “I am Monsieur Paul. Please permit me to assist you. Pearls are like a woman, very delicate. They must be handled carefully.”
His accent was island French, legacy of his birth on the Chang pearl farms in Tahiti. His demeanor was that of a slender prince trying to be patient with a thickheaded peon. He wore a suit and tie, both of cream-colored silk. His shirt was also silk, dawn pink in color. Handsome as a soap-opera star, he moved confidently, knowing women of all races would forgive him in advance.
He led Hannah back to the first pedestal and pulled a butter-soft cloth from his inner suit-coat pocket. Deftly he switched off the alarm and wiped down the pearls Hannah had touched. Only when he was satisfied with their gleam did he settle them back into their satin-lined display and reactivate the alarm.
Throughout the whole process, Hannah examined her fingernails. One by one. The hot pink color she had applied on the plane was already showing wear. When it came to nail polish, she was hopeless. Nor did she care whether her nails were perfect or perfectly awful. She was silently, thoroughly, telling the elegant Monsieur Paul that she wasn’t forgiving him for anything, no matter how beautifully he pouted.
“If pearls are that delicate, they won’t last long, will they?” Archer asked Paul.
“Mais non! With care, they will last for generation after generation.”
“Care, huh?” Archer glanced at Hannah. She was still examining the polish she had put on while he slept on the plane. “Maybe you better fill me in. My wife and I are new to the pearl game. She saw some black pearls on a French model at our last party and hasn’t let up on me since.”
Paul’s eyes brightened. Paying celebrities and models to wear Tahitian pearls was a common, very effective way of drawing attention to pearls in a culture such as America’s, which was focused on faceted gems.
“Always store your fine pearls in a soft bag,” Paul said in the tone of a professor, “separate from your hard gems. But no plastic, you understand. They must breathe. They were created by a living animal. To remain beautiful, they must have moisture.”
“Good news, darlin’,” Archer said to Hannah. “You can wear them to your aerobics class. That should give ’em a good drink.”
Monsieur Paul paled. “No, no!” He cleared his throat. “The moisture in the air is best. Perspiration, even from the most, ah, delicate of women, simply will not do. Perspiration has acid in it, which will eventually change the pearls’ color.”
“Handle like a baby and no sweat. Anything else?” Archer asked, looking impatient.
Ignoring the men, Hannah sidled up to the next display pedestal. She wanted a closer look at the matinee-length pearls.
“Of course, Madame knows not to put on her pearls until after she has applied her perfume or hair lacquer and cosmetics,” Paul said, inching away from Archer and watching Hannah with faint horror.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Archer said, his voice edged with impatience. “Perfume, hair spray, and makeup aren’t good for pearls.”
“Ahhh,” Paul sighed, relieved. “You understand.”
“How about swimming in the damn things?”
“In the ocean, if you must. In a pool, never. Chlorine—”
“I get it,” Archer cut in. “Chlorine eats the dainty little things. So how do you keep them clean? Or are they too delicate to take that, too?”
“Use soap, not detergent, then rinse thoroughly and let the pearls dry in the air,” Paul said, watching Hannah narrowly. “Never use ammonia or vinegar. It will destroy the pearls. Un moment, madame. I will show you those pearls.”
But Archer wasn’t ready to let Paul off the hook quite yet. “Sounds easier just to lock pearls in a safety-deposit box and be done with it.”
Hannah smiled to herself as Paul muttered something under his breath. It was one of Coco’s favorite curses, obscene and blasphemous in equal parts.
“Vaults are often very dry,” Paul said with immense patience. “That is not good for pearls. If you must lock them away in a steel box, put with them a damp cloth. Moisture, yes?”
“Darlin’?” Archer called out.
“Yeah?” She leaned in and reached for another necklace.
“Stick to diamonds.”
She gave both men a pouty, impatient look. “I want black pearls.” An alarm chimed as she lifted the long necklace off its pedestal.
Archer s
ighed. “Okay, babe. If you scratch them up, I’ll get you some more.”
She blew him a kiss.
Outrage and greed warred for control of Paul’s expression. Greed won. He was, after all, in the business of selling pearls.
Even to swine.
Fifteen
“So, tell me about this one,” Hannah said, running the pearls through her fingers.
Paul saw only her unusual, high-quality diamond, not the skill and care of her fingers as she handled the necklace. “Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, American.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Why?” she repeated. “With diamonds you have a fixed color scale and carat weight to determine price. What did you do to price this necklace, pick a number out of the air?”
Paul cleared his throat. “It is a very complex process.”
“Uh-huh.” Clearly she wasn’t impressed.
“Color, shape, presence or absence of blemishes, and size all figure into the price,” Paul said stiffly.
She nodded. “Like diamonds.”
“Unlike diamonds, pearls are not touched by man. Their shape and polish is as natural as the shine of water. Pearls come to you as they came from the oyster.”
And pigs fly, Hannah thought sardonically. There were a hundred ways to make inferior pearls look better than they were. But she wasn’t supposed to know about that. She was just supposed to know what she liked.
“Unlike diamonds, which can be cut into many shapes, the shape of a pearl is determined solely by the oyster,” Paul said, falling into his sales patter. “These are living gems, very unique, very precious. Especially the spherical pearls. Most pearls are baroque. Do you understand baroque?”
“It means they’re not round, doesn’t it?” Hannah asked indifferently.
“Each shape has its own beauty, its own mystery, its own admirers—” Paul began.
“Round,” she cut in.
“Pardon?”
“I want my pearls round. The model’s were round and black, but not really black. Lots of color.”
“Spherical is the most valuable class of pearls. The ones you are holding now are spherical. They also have a peacock-blue sheen, which makes them very desirable.”