CHAPTER NINE
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
The entry hall was small but meticulously maintained, with dark wood paneling and a Persian rug that looked older than Miles.
A crystal chandelier hung overhead, and oil paintings in gilded frames lined the walls.
Everything whispered old money and careful curation.
A receptionist sat at an antique desk, her posture perfect. She wore a black dress and pearls that probably cost more than Miles’s car. When she saw their badges, her professional smile didn't waver.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“We’re here to speak with whoever handled Mrs. Rothschild’s jewelry when it was appraised two weeks ago,” Miles said. “And I know we don’t have an appointment, but this is very urgent.”
“Of course. That would be Mr. Harrington.” She pointed down the hallway to their left and said, “Go all the way down the hall, take a right, and his is the last office on the left.”
They nodded their thanks and followed the woman’s instructions.
The first hallway was filled with more paintings, each one probably worth a small fortune.
Miles noticed Vic looking at a landscape that might have been a Hudson River School piece with rapt fascination.
They took the right and came to Mr. Harrington’s office.
The door was opened and when they came into the doorway, Miles saw Harrington hanging up his landline phone. Probably the lady up front calling to warn him, he thought.
Harrington’s office managed to be both spacious and intimate. Here, there was more wood paneling, more antiques, and a desk that could have belonged to a Gilded Age robber baron. Behind it sat a man in his early sixties. His gray hair was combed back, and he wore an expertly tailored suit.
"Agents," he said, standing to shake their hands. "I'm Richard Harrington, director of Whitmore. Please, sit."
Ah, so she did warn him, Miles thought.
Miles and Vic took the chairs opposite his desk. Harrington settled back into his own seat with the ease of someone completely comfortable in his environment.
"I understand you're here about Diane Rothschild," Harrington said. "Terrible business. We were all shocked to hear about her death this morning."
"Did you know her at all outside of your business relationship?" Miles asked.
"Not personally, no. But she'd been a client for several years. We handled appraisals for her on three separate occasions."
"The most recent being two weeks ago, correct?"
"Yes. She brought in her platinum collection for evaluation." Harrington folded his hands on the desk. "She was considering insurance updates, I believe. Some of the pieces had appreciated significantly since their last appraisal."
"Who handled the evaluation?" Vic asked.
"I took the job in…the paperwork and all of that. But it was Gregory Marshall, one of our senior gemologists, who handled the evaluation. He's worked here for twenty-three years. Impeccable credentials, and absolute discretion. Would you like to speak with him?"
"Please."
Harrington made a brief phone call on the landline, spoke very briefly, and then stood. "He'll be down momentarily. I'll leave you with him. If you need anything else from me, just ask reception."
He left, and Miles took the opportunity to look around the office more carefully.
Every object had been chosen with intention.
Certain elements did look a bit pretentious but there was a simple elegance to it all—the colors, the layout and the feel of everything—that made him feel slightly comfortable.
Less than three minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Gregory Marshall entered and Miles’s first thought was that the man looked a bit like a scarecrow.
He was tall and thin, probably in his late fifties, with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning brown hair.
He wore a cardigan over a button-down shirt, looking a little too casual for the environment.
"Agents," he said, shaking their hands. His grip was gentle but firm. "I understand you have questions about Mrs. Rothschild's collection."
"We do," Miles said. "Please, have a seat."
Marshall took the chair Harrington had vacated, adjusting his glasses as he settled in. "I was devastated to hear about her death. She was a wonderful client. Very knowledgeable about her pieces, always interested in their provenance and craftsmanship."
"Tell us about the appraisal," Miles said. "What was the scope of it?"
"Mrs. Rothschild brought in thirty-one pieces, all platinum. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings. Each one had been custom-made to her specifications over the years. No retail pieces whatsoever. Everything was bespoke."
"Custom-made," Vic repeated. "Why?"
Marshall smiled slightly. "Mrs. Rothschild had very particular tastes. She wanted pieces that no one else would have. Unique designs, specific stones, certain settings. She worked with various jewelers who could execute her vision."
"And the value?" Miles asked.
"Collectively? Approximately two point three million dollars. Some individual pieces were worth as much as two hundred thousand. And that’s just the platinum-heavy items. As I’m sure you know, she had much more at home. Gold, diamonds and so on."
Miles kept his expression neutral, though the figure was staggering. "Walk us through some of the standout pieces."
Marshall leaned forward, warming to the subject.
"There was a necklace, for instance, with a forty-carat oval diamond set in platinum filigree.
The work was extraordinary. The platinum was formed into these delicate spirals that looked almost like lace.
The craftsmanship alone took over eight months. "
"Who made it?"
"A jeweler in Midtown. I can get you the name if you need it.
" Marshall continued, his hands moving as he described the pieces.
"Then there was a bracelet with alternating sapphires and diamonds, each stone set in individual platinum bezels.
The designer created a mechanism that allowed the bracelet to move fluidly while maintaining structural integrity. Quite remarkable, really."
"And Rothschild specified all these details herself?" Vic asked.
"Down to the millimeter in some cases. She knew what she wanted. The jewelers she worked with were essentially executing her artistic vision."
Miles watched Marshall's face as he spoke. There was genuine admiration there, the kind that came from someone who understood and appreciated the craft involved.
"The platinum itself," Miles said. "Do you have any idea why she preferred it over gold?"
"Platinum is rarer than gold, more durable, hypoallergenic.
It doesn't tarnish or lose its luster. And aesthetically, it has that distinctive white color that enhances diamonds and colored stones without competing with them.
For someone like Mrs. Rothschild, who valued both beauty and durability, platinum was the obvious choice. "
"You said none of her pieces were store-bought," Miles said. "That everything was custom-made."
"That's correct. Each piece was commissioned specifically for her."
Miles felt something click in his mind. "Would you be able to give us the names of the jewelers who made them?"
Marshall blinked behind his glasses. "The jewelers? Yes, I suppose so. We keep detailed records of provenance for appraisal purposes. Knowing the maker can affect value, especially if the jeweler has a reputation."
"We'd appreciate it if you could pull those records," Miles said.
"Of course. It'll take me a few minutes to compile everything. Would you like some tea while you wait? We have an excellent Earl Grey."
Miles nodded. "That would be fine, thank you."
Marshall stood. "I'll have reception bring it in and get you those names. Shouldn't take more than ten or fifteen minutes."
He left, closing the door quietly behind him. He did not seem at all bothered to have had two federal agents interrupt his day. If anything, he seemed eager to help.
Vic looked at Miles. "You think one of the jewelers is involved?"
"Someone with access to her jewelry collection would know which pieces she owned. Would understand the craftsmanship, the value, the symbolism. And making custom jewelry requires understanding of metallurgy, chemistry, electroplating techniques…like our killer."
Miles stood and walked to the window. From here, he could see the street below, people passing by in the evening light. It had been Los Angeles last time and now New York. It was literally showing them that Kane had spread his influence from coast to coast.
The door opened and the receptionist entered with a silver tea service.
She set it on a side table with practiced ease, poured two cups, and left without a word.
Miles returned to his seat and picked up one of the cups.
The tea was hot, perfectly brewed. Everything about this place was perfect, controlled, maintained to exacting standards.
"What are we looking for in these jeweler names?" Vic asked, sipping her own tea.
"I'm not sure yet. But Rothschild's collection was her identity. She displayed it publicly, used it to project status and wealth. If someone wanted to make a statement about platinum and what it represents, they'd need to understand it intimately."
"And who understands platinum better than someone who works with it every day?"
Miles set down his cup. "Marshall said it takes months to create some of these pieces. That's months of interaction with Rothschild. Learning about her preferences, her tastes, her lifestyle. Getting to know her through her jewelry."
"Personal enough to select her as a target."
"Maybe. Or maybe we're reaching. But it's the first connection we've got between Rothschild and someone with the technical knowledge to pull this off."
The door opened and Marshall returned, carrying a manila folder. He sat down and opened it, revealing several pages of typewritten notes.
"I've compiled a list of every jeweler who created pieces in Mrs. Rothschild's collection," he said, sliding the folder across the desk. "There are eleven names in total. Some made only one or two pieces for her, others worked with her more extensively over the years."
Miles picked up the folder and scanned the list. It was quite concise: names, addresses, contact information, notes about which pieces each jeweler had created. Marshall had been thorough.
"This is very helpful," Miles said. "Thank you."
"I hope it assists your investigation. Mrs. Rothschild was a remarkable woman. She deserves justice."
Miles stood, tucking the folder under his arm. "We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Marshall. If we have any follow-up questions, we'll be in touch."
"Of course. Anything I can do to help." He handed Miles a business card, which he tucked into his pocket.
Marshall walked them back to the entry hall, shook their hands again, and waved at them as they headed for the door. Outside, inching past 4:00 in the afternoon, the temperature had dropped. Miles pulled his jacket a bit tighter as they walked down the steps to the street.
"Eleven jewelers," Vic said. "That's manageable."
Miles thought so, too. But he also knew that these killers moved quickly and that by the time they’d gone through even half of this list, the killer could very likely strike again.