The Third Sin (3 page)

“What the fuck do you want?” He was angry and not angry at the same time. This was an old dance for them both.

“Listen to me, Max. I need to own the Braganza diamond. I've worn it for years. You know that it's important to me.”

“What?” he said. “You call me up to talk about some piece of jewelry?”

She heard him sigh. He was probably sitting in the brown leather library chair in his apartment. He'd still be in his dressing gown and slippers, gazing out at the muddy Ohio River as it curved through Cincinnati. The years had not treated him kindly. All his wealth could not protect him from emphysema, caused by years of smoking. His breathing was increasingly labored and every time Irina spoke to him, his voice sounded weaker.

She pictured his veined hand holding the phone close to his face, staying true to his secretive nature. If she had to, she would press him. He would have to listen to her. After all, she had saved him. Because of her, he had not been charged with her mother's murder. And even after all these years, even if the statute of limitations had run out, if she spoke of that day, he would be ruined.

*   *   *

That day …

She had just turned eleven, and that day she had run home, excited because she had been elected captain of the basketball team. She was eager to share the news with her German-born mother, even though she wasn't sure how Anna would respond. Anna didn't approve of the American school system or her daughter's love of sport. But she loved Irina, so she might try to be happy for her, just for a moment.

As she always did when she came home from school, she gave the doorbell three quick rings, then waited for her mother to open the door. When Anna didn't appear, Irina tried the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Entering the house, she smelled a sickly sweet odor—blood, she quickly found out—and knew something was wrong. She found her mother lying battered and bloody on the bedroom carpet.

Irina didn't know how long she had stood there, frozen, in shock, before panic swept over her. She knew in an instant that her father had killed her mother, as he had so often threatened.

“He'll kill me,” Anna had warned her more than once. “If he does, you must tell how violent he was and how frightened I was of him.”

That morning he had been in a bad mood, and he and Anna had argued—over what, Irina could never remember. There were so many arguments, so many fights. As she'd left for school, she'd heard Max shout, “Fuck you, Anna, you German bitch. Another word and I'll shut your fucking mouth for good.” Irina had closed the door on the sound of a loud slap and her mother's scream and had run all the way to school.

Now she ran that way again, racing back to school and the safety of the classroom. Children were still milling about on the playground and no one noticed when Irina slipped back into the building.

It was some time later when her father and the school principal found her, crouched under her desk. Max walked toward her with his arms outstretched, but Irina screamed and drew away from him.

She knew what he had done.

Somehow, the police had concluded that Anna had surprised someone who had invaded the house looking for drug money. Or perhaps the district attorney had been impressed with her father's wealth and power in his construction business.

Though the police questioned Irina several times, she knew they were not really interested in what she had to say. Not that it would have mattered—she couldn't tell the truth. Max insisted that she tell the police he was a loving husband and father, and the dreadful memory of her mother's body lying on the bloody carpet guaranteed that Irina would stick to this story. The only truth she told was that she had not seen the attack on her mother. With little evidence and no eyewitness, it had been easy for the DA to drop the case.

Anna lingered in a coma for five years. Max lived in fear that she would awaken and accuse him. Irina often went to the hospital to sit with her, staring at her mother's strong hands, useless at her sides. With Anna's death, the case became a matter of murder, but by then, the trail was cold and Max was able to use his money to make sure no one cared.

*   *   *

All these years later, Irina had not forgotten what had happened. She knew Max hadn't forgotten either. Years before, when Anna's murder was officially marked “unsolved” and filed away, Irina's father had told her, “Anything you want, for the rest of your life, I will get for you.” She had cashed in on that promise more than once and was ready to do it again.

“What do I want? I want the Braganza diamond,” she said, hearing the bitterness in her voice. “Wade has decided to sell Esperanza's diamond. You must buy it for me.”

He said nothing.

Angered by his silence, she waited. He had an uncanny ability to sniff out any weakness, and to show anger would give him the upper hand.

“You want me to buy it for you? That's a funny notion,” he said at last.

“Yes.” She went on, unfazed by the sarcasm in his tone, “I've worn it for years. Since I first married Douglas. It's mine, and I won't be humiliated by another woman wearing it.”

She paused, then began again, speaking slowly and deliberately to let her words sink in. “I've had enough of loss and humiliation. You know what my life was after the attack on Mother. How the press never left me alone. Well, they're at it again. They know you have the money to get it for me and they want to know why you haven't already arranged for me to have it. Not ten minutes ago I saw a TV gossip columnist carrying on about my losing the diamond. It was infuriating.”

“What do you mean ‘carrying on'?” She picked up the tension in his voice and smiled to herself. She had him on the hook now.

“She mentioned you and your money. The sale will be news, and Mother's death will probably be rehashed again.”

He sighed. “Why didn't Douglas give you the diamond?” This was his usual tactic—changing the subject.

“The diamond came from the Brazilian side of the family and Douglas claimed he signed an agreement with the Dias family to ensure that it would go to Wade.”

“So let Wade keep it. I'll tell you what—I have friends who can make a perfect copy for you. They make insurance companies happy and no one knows the difference.”

“Don't be crazy. Everyone will know it was sold, especially when some other woman turns up wearing it. Mother came from a family of jewelers and taught me that wearing a genuine stone gives a woman confidence. I'm telling you once and forever, I won't wear a fake.”

“What do you expect me to do? Call Wade and tell him he's making a mistake in selling it?”

She strained to control her temper. “Why would Wade listen to you? I promise you, Max, you're the one who will be making a mistake if you don't buy it for me. I know you have the money. You're worth close to a billion. Buy the stone. Mother would have wanted you to do this for me.”

“Irina.” Max's voice softened with the weariness of age. “I can't afford to buy that diamond and neither can you. It could bring thirty or forty million or more. The damn Arab oil people and the Russians have big money now.”

“You have big money too.”

“You have an over-the-top impression of my money … always have. I've got partners, obligations … problems.”

She interrupted him. “Stop. I'm sick of you crying poor. What you did to my mother ruined my life. How can you deny me what I want?”

When he spoke, she heard the tinge of fear in his voice.

“I'm not promising anything, but I'll give it some thought.” That was the concession she had been waiting for.

“I'm sure you'll find a way. Good-bye.” She smiled as she hung up. The Braganza would be hers.

She stayed at the window, looking down at the golden leaves below. In the end, Max would buy the stone for her.

But if he didn't, what would she do?

 

Chapter
4

W
EDNESDAY, 12:30 P.M.

Guarulhos International Airport, São Paulo, Brazil Private plane lounge

Jorge Dias felt a jab of pain in his chest and stiffened. The surgeon had warned him that he would feel pain after the bypass operation, but this was sharper than he expected. His wife, Elenora, was right. He had to look after himself—he knew that he wasn't well, yet, and worse, he knew that he looked it. The strain of his illness showed. He knew by the way friends glanced at him, and then looked quickly away.

A few more days of rest would have helped, but there was no time for that. This trip to New York might be his last chance to buy the diamond back from his nephew, Wade.

He walked slowly across the lounge and settled in a chair away from the crowd at the bar, who were sipping drinks and chattering, perhaps getting up the nerve to actually fly in their small, private planes. Jorge reached for the newspaper on the table beside him and opened it to hide his face.

His plane would take off in a few minutes, and in nine and a half hours he would land at JFK International Airport in New York. Then he would call Wade and they would meet, and Jorge would struggle, as always, with his feelings for his nephew.

From the terrible day his sister Esperanza was killed, he had felt an inseparable mix of love and pity for her son, and too often, that overwhelmed his good sense. Whatever Wade wanted, Jorge gave him, and the grief-stricken boy had grown into a greedy man. But the Braganza was the one thing Jorge could not give him.

Jorge's father, Fernando Dias, had always intended that the Braganza would remain in Brazil and eventually be displayed as a treasure in the national museum. Though Fernando's will had not specified the stone's fate, the whole family knew what he had wanted. A Brazilian aristocrat, bound by honor, Jorge now had to make good on his father's promises.

Fernando had worshipped his daughter Esperanza. On her eighteenth birthday, he had given her the Braganza. She loved wearing the stone, so Fernando had raised no objection when, after her marriage, she took it to New York.

It had been different when Esperanza's son, Wade, married Bella. Jorge, by then head of the family, objected strenuously to the marriage. Bella was Brazilian, but of a different class than the Diases and a gold digger if he ever saw one. Her brothers were ruffians, and Jorge barely persuaded her to sign the prenuptial agreement he had so carefully prepared. At Bella's instigation Wade had sold the beach house his grandmother had left him, and which had been in the family for more than eighty years.

From the day of their wedding, Wade's demands for money from the Dias trust had increased dramatically. Jorge had given him much of what he'd asked for, but recently he had become concerned about the drain on the family's finances.

Now Wade was refusing to sell the Braganza back to the family so that it could be brought back to Brazil, its rightful home. His response to Jorge's last offer had been a vengeful, brief e-mail: “Uncle, I warned you. You have refused to help me since I married. Now I have to put the diamond on the open market. It will bring more than you can pay.”

Ignoring his doctor's advice to rest, Jorge was flying to New York to settle the matter once and for all. He was determined to get his hands on the stone before it was advertised for auction. He would insist that Wade sell the Braganza to him and his investors, and at a fair price. It must be returned to Brazil. It was a matter of his family's pride and honor.

Of course he could sue to recover the Braganza, but given the lack of documentation, the outcome in the United States courts might be disappointing, and the public disgrace of a legal battle was the last thing he wanted. Still, if Wade wouldn't sell him the diamond, he would do whatever was necessary.

Jorge put down the newspaper and pulled off the navy cashmere scarf his wife had put around his neck as he bent to kiss her good-bye. “Leave it on,” Elenora had insisted as he tried to remove it. “The air-conditioning in those planes is freezing.” She had clung to his arm, tears glistening on her cheeks. “I've always come to New York with you. Why are you refusing me now?”

He'd shaken off her hands and climbed into the backseat of the limo. Through the open window, Jorge had said, trying to be reassuring, “My heart is fine. I'll be back before you know I've gone.” He'd seen tears well up in her eyes and had added, “I'll call you when I get to the airport.”

Now as he folded the scarf precisely, calmed by the softness of the cashmere, he refused to feel guilty for not bringing her. But what lay between him and Wade was man's business and her constant chatter would disturb them. Perhaps, once he had secured the jewel, he would let Elenora wear it once, before they gave it to the museum.

He put the scarf and the newspaper into his briefcase, took out his cell phone, and pressed his home number.

Elenora picked up after the first ring. “I'm fine,” he said. “I've talked to the pilot and we'll take off right on schedule. The next time you speak to me I'll be in New York.” She wouldn't let him finish.

“Wade is no longer your motherless little nephew who needs protection,” she argued.

As he took deep breaths to ease the tension mounting in his chest, he wondered if she realized how much her anxiety tired him. “Yes, yes, stop your nagging.”

“What if we don't get the Braganza back? Who cares? It's been in New York so long that most people have forgotten about it. You have children and grandchildren who love you and need you to guide them, not to mention your wife. Don't be foolish with your old-fashioned talk about honor. Your health is more important.”

Jorge spoke quickly, cutting her off. “The pilot must leave on time. If everything goes as planned, I'll see Wade tonight and have good news tomorrow. You'll see. Good-bye.” He closed the phone before she could speak again.

He stood up, steadying himself with his hand on the back of the chair. Elenora didn't understand what the Braganza meant to him. People have
not
forgotten, he thought—at least not the people who mattered to him.