The Third Sin (2 page)

She wondered if the way Kirsten ate was a rebellion against her mother, Blair Bruckheimer. Blair was a well-known cookbook author; Sonya had seen her two or three times as a guest on The Food Network.

Kirsten was also a shopping junkie who spent her free hours at H&M, Express, and other stores aimed at young women. Kirsten didn't want her mother to know how much she was spending, so she'd hide her shopping bags in Sonya's closet and take her purchases home gradually. Sonya had no idea where she got the money—certainly not from the little she earned as an intern. Perhaps her father provided it. Or dear Uncle Wade.

Sonya swallowed and flipped open her notebook. This was not the time to tell Donna her opinion of Kirsten's behavior. It could only cause trouble, especially if Donna repeated the story to Kirsten's mother. She would need the family's cooperation for the story.

Donna smiled. “So Sonya, I gather from Kirsten's outburst that you are about to recommend that we do the diamond story after all.”

“Yes. According to Kirsten, Wade Bruckheimer estimates the diamond will bring thirty million, so there should be some interest in who buys it. Of course, there's a risk that it could wind up being a private sale with an unnamed buyer. Then there wouldn't be much of a story. Still, the stone has a romantic history and we can cover that.”

“Do you really think you have enough to do a full segment of the show?”

“There's an additional angle that makes it stronger—the family. Kirsten says there are lots of hard feelings there. I'd work on the Bruckheimers. Why did Wade decide to sell, who gets the money, how do the Brazilians feel about seeing a piece of their history on the auction block? That kind of thing. Conflict. What do you think?”

Donna stared at Sonya for a moment before leaning forward intently, nodding. “Yes,” she said, “that would work. But Sonya, go lightly. I know that family; they're complicated. The fact that Wade kept changing his mind about the sale…” Her voice trailed off. “There could be some real anger there.”

Anger. That was exactly the way Kirsten had put it. Sonya frowned, musing. It wasn't like Donna to warn her off; usually, the boss insisted on having conflict in every story. That's what made the show successful. She wondered what was in Donna's mind, and was about to ask when the other woman rose to her feet, picking up her tote. Sonya stood as well, saying, “Okay, I understand. But I need to be able to go where the story takes me. I've gathered from Kirsten's hints that Wade Bruckheimer's high living has made him desperate for money. If that's true, the sale of the diamond could be a real blessing. Others in the family might be hoping for part of the money. At this point, I have to take Kirsten's word for it that the stone belongs to Wade, though I've found dozens of photos of his stepmother, Irina, wearing it at big parties. I wonder how she feels about the auction.”

Donna nodded. “I've seen her with it. I must say it is a spectacular stone.”

“What's Irina Bruckheimer like?”

“I don't know her well, just from casual encounters at parties. But Irina certainly behaves as if the Braganza were hers, so I always assumed it was. I know she's used to getting her own way and I'll bet that she'd do anything to avoid giving up that diamond.”

“I did a little research on the family when Kirsten first raised the possibility of a sale, and as I remember, Wade's mother—Douglas Bruckheimer's first wife—was a sensational beauty. That's how the diamond came into the family in the first place: Esperanza Dias Bruckheimer's father gave her the diamond and she brought it to New York when she married Douglas.”

Sonya had come to the end of her notes. “That's all I've got. I didn't go much further because it didn't seem like we would do the story. Now I'm not sure what happened to her. I remember something about a murder. Or was it just a divorce?”

“No, never,” Donna laughed, “not in that Brazilian family. They would have killed Douglas before they'd let him disgrace their family with a divorce. Blair told me Esperanza died in a violent car crash two years into the marriage—shortly after Wade was born.”

“Does Blair know all the family dirt?” Sonya asked lightly.

“Only some of it. She told me that Douglas once got drunk and told her about his ‘beautiful Esperanza.' She came to New York in the sixties as Douglas Bruckheimer's bride and was an instant celebrity, with her pictures all over the tabloids and fashion magazines.”

“Yes,” Sonya said, “I've seen some of those pictures online. How does Irina, wife-number-two, feel about worship of wife-number-one? Not happy, I'll bet.”

“I'm not sure. Most of what I know is just hearsay from Blair, but she's got a good nose for family secrets.”

“Like her daughter, huh?” Sonya joked. “But the more I hear, the more I'm convinced this can be a great story for us.”

“Sonya, keep in mind that Blair is married to Irina's son, Harold, and might have her own slant on the family, as well as a stake in the sale.”

Sonya responded with a burst of enthusiasm as something leaped out at her from her memories of the research she'd done on the Bruckheimers. “I remember! Esperanza came from a rich, politically powerful family. When she died, her father built a church in a small Brazilian town as a memorial. It's called the ‘Church of Beauty' or the ‘Church of the Young' or something like that. I'll check on it. One article claimed that many young women go there to pray because they believe it's a shrine with special powers.”

“Really?” Donna asked with surprise. “That's odd, but it adds up. Esperanza's son, Wade, waited until he was in his forties to marry, and then he chose a twenty-two-year-old Brazilian model named Bella, who I hear is the image of Esperanza.”

Sonya closed her notebook. “Donna, I'll wrap the story around Esperanza, the history of the diamond, and the conflict in the family. How about this for a segment tease: ‘Esperanza—the beautiful ghost that needs to be laid to rest.' Something like that?”

Donna hesitated, turning away and staring out the window. Her voice was low and serious. “Sonya, you may be right. When she died, the story went around that the ghosts of Brazilian queens had cursed her for taking the stone out of the country.” She turned back to Sonya. “You never know what the sale and our story will stir up.”

“What do you mean?” Sonya asked.

Donna shrugged. “It's just a feeling I have.”

The two women walked out of Donna's office together. Sonya was uneasy. More often than not, Donna's intuition was right. She tried not to think about it as her boss headed for the elevators.

By the time she'd reached her office, Sonya had shoved her misgivings aside. The story was good, and she was ready to work on it.

 

Chapter
3

W
EDNESDAY, 12:05 P.M.

Irina Bruckheimer's Fifth Avenue apartment

Irina Bruckheimer clicked off the TV and hurled the remote at the screen. The remote bounced harmlessly off the set and fell to the floor, burying itself in the deep pile of the carpet which had been custom woven in Belgium in the perfect shade of gold to complement her bedroom décor.

“How dare you, you bitch?” she raged at the now-vanished gossip reporter she had been staring at moments before. “Why don't you leave me alone? Haven't I suffered enough?”

The reporter had been careful not to use names as she'd delivered her report with barely concealed glee. But Irina knew the woman was talking about her. Irina's friends would be discreet and not mention the broadcast, but she knew they would all know about it. The noon gossip segment was a must-see for her Upper East Side set.

Tears filled Irina's eyes as she remembered settling in to watch the program. The television had been artfully built into an elegant Louis XVI credenza which Irina had had converted into a media center.

“In the ‘right circles,'” the woman had said, “a party isn't a party until a certain self-important socialite shows up, flashing a certain stone.” Irina had frozen, staring at the screen as the report continued, “I'll have to let you guess who I'm talking about.” Her smile seemed brightly artificial.

The reporter arched a perfectly shaped brow, leaned closer to the camera, and continued in a conspiratorial tone, “Please don't tell this grieving widow that her favorite sparkler may soon be sold. Sold by someone very near, but not so dear. Of course, there's plenty of money in the family, so maybe her daddy could buy it for her? My friends, here's a final question for you all to ponder. If this lady no longer has that big old rock, how many invitation lists will no longer include her name?”

Irina felt as if every word was a blow. The woman had struck at her greatest vulnerability.

There was no way she would let the Braganza diamond be sold. The glorious yellow stone had established her position in New York society from the moment her husband had fastened it around her neck. It had rescued her after the horror of those years in Cincinnati. There was nothing she would not do to keep it.

Irina threw herself onto the antique lace bedspread and rested her head on one of her large, soft pillows encased in fine Irish linen. The spread reminded her of Venice and the island of Burano where she had ordered the coverlet to be handmade.

The comfort and beauty of her bed and bedroom always lifted her spirits. The room was filled with her carefully collected, gilded French antiques. She absolutely insisted on authenticity, so everything was an original, and each piece had been selected for its quality, line, and proportion. Not even the smallest items were copies. She needed to have the best, no matter how expensive.

In the drawer of her Louis XVI desk was a certification of provenance asserting that Marie Antoinette had been the owner of the very bed on which she, Irina Bruckheimer, was now resting. An ornate chest placed in front of the brocaded wall had also belonged to the unfortunate queen. Near the window overlooking Central Park was the Empire chaise that had been in the bedroom of Napoleon's sister, Pauline. It was reputed to be the very one on which she had posed while Canova made that scandalous nude sculpture of her.

She had met Douglas Bruckheimer when she was nineteen. He was a handsome, wealthy man, ten years her senior, who could give her the security she craved. She gloried in his attention and was gladly seduced.

Shortly after they were married, she had bought Pauline's chaise after seeing it advertised in an antiques magazine. It was her first antique, and as it had been set into place, she had unexpectedly felt important. Young and romantic, she had persuaded Douglas to make love to her on Pauline's chaise. Weeks later, she realized her son had been conceived that day.

Irina had soon realized that the marriage would have failed if she had not become pregnant. She told herself that it didn't matter. For her, her husband—and their child—were a way out of the agony of her father's house, and an entrée to New York society.

After Harold was born, Douglas's lovemaking was infrequent and perfunctory. He had fulfilled his obligation by creating another heir—as had she. He moved on with his life, happy to have the generous allowance Irina's father gave them but uninterested in his wife or son. Instead, he turned to other women. Without his love to distance her from the horrific memories of what she had seen as a teenager, Irina sought refuge in the excitement of acquisition. If Douglas refused to pay for something she wanted, she manipulated her father to get it.

Irina sat up and looked around her bedroom. These beautiful objects defined her place in the world, but nothing was as important to her as the Braganza. Now her stepson planned to sell her precious diamond to the highest bidder. She clenched her hands and screamed, “No, I will never let it go.”

Getting off the bed, she went to the window, trailing her fingers over the furniture along the way. Fourteen stories below, the sun shimmered on the deep blue of the Central Park reservoir; the leaves on the trees had begun to change color. It was fall, the time she looked forward to every year. She'd recently received the new designer clothes she'd ordered for the season's big parties. The Braganza would complete her look. It was part of her identity. She'd worn it longer than Esperanza—the diamond belonged to her more than it did to Douglas's long-dead first wife.

She knew what she had to do.

She picked up her cell phone from the desk, clicked it open, and started to dial her father's number, then closed it and reached for the landline. Max refused to speak on cells. The FBI could be listening.

The call went through without trouble and soon Irina heard his crusty voice demanding impatiently, “Who is it? Who is it?” He never revealed who he was until he knew who was calling.

“It's Irina, your daughter. Look at your caller ID, for god's sake.”

“Yes, Irina, what do you want?”

She knew she had to get right to the point. At seventy-five, Max Lundell refused to waste time on small talk. If she tried to chat with him, he would just hang up.

She kept her voice calm and spoke clearly because she knew he was a little hard of hearing. She began as she had so often before, playing the game, as she had for years. “Dad, do you remember the promise you made in the attorney's office after Mother's murder?”

“Shit. That again, huh?”

“Yes, Dad, that. Again.”

“No. I don't remember. It was a long time ago. And you know goddamned well my memory isn't what it used to be.” Irina could tell by his tone of voice that he knew very well what she was talking about.

She made her usual reply.

“How could you forget?” she asked.

To her surprise, he cut the exchange short, saying, “I'm tired today. Let's get right to it, Irina. What do you want this time?”

“You said that you could never repay me for what I did. You thanked me for betraying my mother.”