Chapter 25

B ayard ignored her plea to take her on to Upsala and Cleo was too numb to protest. Instead, he drove them farther out of the city, where he pulled the car up onto a verge by the shores of a steel-gray lake reflecting back the cloudy sky. "Isn't this where we had our shooting lesson?"

"It is. Feel like firing off a few rounds?"

"You have no idea."

He flashed her a smile. "Maybe a hint."

That sparked a laugh out of her, and slowly the lump shifted. "Not much of a proper welcome back, was it?"

"Let's say I've become accustomed to your own charming brand of swirling chaos."

"You're not going to tell me I should have waited for you? That I brought this on myself? That I'm a spoiled little rich girl?"

"You'd just been told the man you love is alive. What else could you have done?"

The man she loved. That's right. She loved Micky. She did. She really did. So why was it Bayard's hand she wanted to hold right now? His gaze that sent goose bumps up her back? She wished she could tell him so, but there remained a reserve between them, a line neither of them could bring themselves to cross.

"What else indeed," she murmured, staring out on the wide park, hedged in shrubs. People wandered the paths while others sunbathed on the grass. "You didn't really bring me here to shoot guns, did you?"

"Actually, I thought you could use some fresh country air to clear your head before it was taken up with fertilizer tonnage and seed yields."

"I grew up in Manhattan. Fresh air makes me break out in hives."

"There's the sarcasm I've come to love."

He realized his words at the same moment she did, and an already awkward moment lengthened to the breaking point. When he leaned over, she thought he was actually going to kiss her and she tensed with a mix of anticipation, excitement, and fear. But he only reached across her for the glove box, where he'd stowed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Only one left. Flip you for it?"

She shook her head, dazed that beneath the sick lump was something tingly and warm, though perhaps equally dangerous. He must feel it too, but his guilt and his grief lingered, and she hesitated to enter into competition with a ghost.

He lit the cigarette, taking a drag before handing it over. She inhaled the sweet burn of smoke, letting the taste fill her lungs, swirl down into the cold, achy spot in her chest.

"Better?"

"A bit."

"Enough to fill me in on what's going on with Kominski and whatever that little escapade was at the jeweler's?"

Her heart sank back into her shoes. What was that old tale of wishes that came true but with a twist of the knife you never saw coming? That was Micky. She'd wished him alive, and now here he was, and instead of rejoicing, she was afraid—for him, for her, and for Aunt Daisy, who would be dragged into Cleo's mess if she didn't keep it all under wraps.

She took another deep drag on the cigarette to steady her rat tled nerves. She felt Bayard waiting—the scratch of his uniform sleeve, the shift of his shoulders against the seat, his breath fogging the windows. She handed the cigarette over as a signal she was ready to speak then wished she had something to do with her hands. She shoved them into her lap, clenched into fists. "He told me it was to make up for the jewelry I'd pawned after my mother cut me off. He said it was only paste and wire and colored glass bought off a peddler, but that someday he'd shower me in real diamonds. Show the bigwigs on Fifth Avenue what a scrawny Polish boy from Brooklyn could do."

"But it's not paste and wire."

She dug her nails into the heels of her palms, leaving white crescents against her pale skin. "And no peddler sells diamonds and rubies off the back of a barrow."

"So where do you suppose he got it?"

She stared out at the lake, but she was seeing the snow falling over the rooftops of Zakopane, the wind that blew under her scarf and down her back. The quiet streets guarded by German patrols who watched everything, took note of who gathered and for how long, barked commands at those who lingered, roughed up anyone who looked suspicious, arrested anyone who argued. Empty houses. Vacant shops. The town's inhabitants had become wraiths, moving silently through gray days without end. She'd been one of them.

Micky's gift had been a light within the winter dark, a gift too precious to question until now. She'd truly been the care-for-nothing grasshopper. His sin becoming hers out of purposeful ignorance.

She didn't answer Bayard, and he didn't press. Maybe because he already had a pretty good idea. "Did he explain where he's been all this time, Cleo? He must have realized you'd be upset, that you'd imagine the worst."

"He assumed I'd go home."

"But you didn't." Bayard got there a moment before she did. "And now here you are sporting a necklace that could set him up for life. Lucky break for him."

"Whatever you do, you can't say anything to Aunt Daisy about this. Promise me."

"You want me to lie?"

"I want you to keep quiet, that's all." She gave him her best waif look even though he'd never been susceptible to it before. It wasn't hard. Her heart ached as if someone had scooped it out, and tears burned in her throat. If only she knew whether she was grieving over Micky, Bayard, or her own stupid gullibility.

"Fine," Bayard said. "On one condition—you lock that damned necklace up and stay as far away from Kominski as you can."

"I can't just not see him."

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you and I know you don't want to hear it, but he's bad news, Cleo. If he's in over his head, you don't want him pulling you under along with him."

Mr. Whitney had warned her about the same thing.

She was beginning to think it might be too late.

I t was midnight before Cleo returned to the hotel, but no messages waited for her at the front desk. If Micky had come looking for her, he'd left without a trace. A lot like last time. The lobby still buzzed with activity and the bars and restaurants were crowded with diners. She ducked past and scurried into an elevator, hoping not to be spotted. Upstairs, the passages were quieter. A few people about, but it was easy enough to avoid those she knew with a few well-timed dodges into side hallways and, in one instance, a broom closet.

Cleo slowed as she passed Aunt Daisy's suite. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she should come clean about Micky and the damn necklace. She lifted a hand to knock when movement caught the corner of her eye. A flash of gray. A squeak of a hinge. Or maybe just a stir in the air that wasn't the elevator ascending or a late-night guest coming home from the bar, but the feel of someone trying to be silent—and failing.

She followed the prickling sensation down the passage and around the corner to her room. A faint glimmer of light showed beneath the door. She pressed an ear to the panel. A thud and a hissed "fuck" didn't take overly sensitive ears.

Anger bunched in her stomach. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, flipping on a table lamp. The room flooded with light, illuminating Micky hunched over her dressing table, shining a flashlight on drawers pulled open and dumped. Her jewelry case upside down and emptied.

"If you're looking for the necklace, it's not there."

"What necklace? I don't know what you're talking about. The room was like this when I got here."

"I'm not stupid, Micky. That diamond necklace you gave me is worth a fortune. But you knew that already, didn't you? Since you're the one who stole it."

His features smoothed in defeat. "How did you figure it out?"

Cleo's accusation had been a stab in the dark. One she assumed would cause an angry denial, words she could cling to as a way to salvage even a whisper of the love they'd shared. His response kicked the last support out from under her. She was left twisting, unable to grasp the truth even as she saw it all unspooling like a bad film.

"I'm not a fool. Or maybe I should say I'm not a fool anymore."

"It was one time, Cleo. One lousy time, but Heimmel caught me red-handed. After that, I was trapped. It was do what he said or else. I didn't have a choice."

"Gestapo officer Heimmel?" She was right. The two men did know one another. No wonder he'd been so interested in helping her find Micky. He was looking for him too.

"The bastard's cold as ice. When the Black Cat went up in flames, I saw my way out and I took it."

"Along with the jewelry you stole."

"It was a few pieces. That's all. You can't fault me for that. Their owner was dead. Would you rather the Nazis steal it all?"

She didn't answer, too stunned and sickened by what he'd done. Her hand unconsciously reached for her diamond before she realized what she was doing. The stone was dirty. Bought with someone's blood.

"It doesn't matter anyway." Micky's voice was grudging. "The jewelry's all gone. Moving in the shadows is expensive. People can smell when you're desperate. They cleaned me out. I'm flat broke. Barely a cent to my name."

"Which is why you need the necklace."

"Damn it, Cleo. Just hand it over, and I'm out of here. You never have to see me again. I'll pawn it for enough money for a one-way ticket home. You and your soldier boy can live happily ever after, and you'll never hear from me again."

She was furious and horrified and disgusted—with him and with herself for believing she loved him. And still, his words hurt. That he could walk away so easily. That he could forget their months together without experiencing any of the pain she'd suffered. Had he ever loved her? Or had she been a fool—twice over? Her breathing came quick and fast as if breathing deeply might cause the pain to grow and spread.

"Lieutenant Bayard isn't mine. He never was."

"Then you've lost your touch." His voice softened, and his gaze warmed with emotion. "It wasn't so long ago you could get any man to fall in love with you."

She wanted to believe she saw regret in his eyes or maybe a shred of her grief, which had moved into her throat and made it hard to swallow. But it was clear to her now that he was far better at hiding his real feelings than she ever imagined. This wasn't the Micky she thought she knew. This was a stranger.

"The necklace, Cleo," he insisted. "That's all I want."

She choked back her pain. "And if I don't?"

His chest rose and fell as if he was fighting with himself, his face suffused, his shoulders bunched, arms like cords. Would he hit her? He never had before, but there was a first time for everything. Instead, he studied her from top to toe. She could see the wheels turning. He wasn't beaten. She'd witnessed this trait over their time together, this ability to adapt on the fly, make changes as the situation arose. She'd always seen his quick-thinking cleverness as a strength. Now she saw it for what it was, what he was. A chancer. Always looking for the advantage, uncaring whether he bent the rules so long as he came out on top.

"I hate to do it, Cleo, but you leave me no choice." His features hardened, any lingering persuasive warmth gone. "The necklace or that hoity-toity aunt of yours hears how you helped me loot from the murdered citizens of Zakopane. I'm sure that would go over well. Or maybe..." His eyes took on a glitter she didn't like. "Or maybe I'll bypass your aunt and go straight to the press with my story."

Cold washed over her skin. She almost wished he'd used his fists. She could handle a few bruises. They would fade. A story like this would turn the scandal of last summer into a footnote. She'd be tarred and feathered. Worse than that, Aunt Daisy risked being entangled in her disgrace.

"No one would believe you." She hated that her voice came out high and thin.

"No? You're the one with the priceless pink diamond, not me. Clementine Jaffray, the runaway bride suspected of blowing up a café full of Nazis and now stealing from murdered Polish citizens. Think how that'll read splashed across the front page of the New York Times . By the time anyone decides to check, the damage will be done."

She stood her ground, her knees wobbly. "You wouldn't dare. You'd implicate yourself."

"Yes, but I have nothing left to lose. You do." He brushed past her, his hand on the knob. "Guess I'll see you in the funny papers."

"Wait." It was her turn to scramble for an advantage, an opportunity he couldn't pass up. "If all you want is to go home, I can get you there."

She could feel him weighing the odds of her words. She held her breath, wondering if he'd call her bluff. All he had to do was walk four doors down and knock.

He took his hand off the door handle. "I'm listening."

H er devil's bargain struck, Cleo escorted Micky out of the hotel to make sure he didn't take any detours along the way. She stood back out of the wind and watched him jog across the street until he turned a distant corner. Then she waited another ten minutes to assure herself he wasn't coming back.

She gripped her hands together and willed herself to stay calm. She could handle this. Just another twist in a dangerous road. Her plan was simple. Aunt Daisy was preparing the final passenger list for the American Legion . What was one more name slipped in among nearly a thousand?

"Have you spoken to Berlin?" Two men approached the hotel speaking quietly in German. Hardly unusual in Stockholm. Aside from the main legation on Hovslagargatan, there were secondary agencies and offices sprinkled all over the city, not to mention the bankers and businessmen residing here, hoping to cash in on the flow of Swedish iron to German foundries.

"If the operation is a success, we'll be promoted."

Cleo held her breath. She knew that voice. She pressed deeper into the shelter of the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of them as they passed her. Hoping not to be seen herself.

"And if it's a failure?" They passed into the shine from the hotel's lights. The first man was in his midforties: thinning hair, thickening waistline, bland face. He was one of the suits. Cleo's nails dug into her palms. Her heart banged in her ears.

"We're rogue officers acting on our own." It was Heimmel. The same narrow delicate features that missed handsome by inches. The same upper-crust voice as smooth as good whiskey and twice as warm. What was he doing here? Coincidence? Bad luck?

The two men pushed through the doors into the hotel. Cleo followed at a distance, watching them jog up the steps to the lobby. They caught sight of a third man, this one wearing Wehrmacht gray. All three moved off toward one of the reading rooms. She slid up the steps behind them, keeping to the edges of the lobby as she followed.

"Miss Jaffray, is that you?" Mr. Whitney wiped his spectacles and settled them back on his nose. His stare through the lenses was oddly perceptive—or maybe she was just feeling guilty. "Care to join me for a drink?"

"Isn't it a bit late?" she asked.

"I always took you for the last one to leave the party."

"Habits change."

"Do they?" He tapped his nose with a cold smile before heading into the bar.

What did that barnacle know? Or think he knew? A worry for later. But it was too late. She'd lost her quarry. She reached the end of the corridor, but there was no way to tell whether they'd continued on or doubled back to the bank of elevators. It was probably just as well. What would she say to explain her presence?

She returned to her room, locking the door behind her. Though if Micky had managed to break in, how secure was she really? She shoved a tipped chair under the handle like she saw done in the movies. Her toiletries case sat open but untouched. Micky had taken one look during his search and moved on, just as Cleo had planned. Aunt Daisy gave her the idea, but Cleo had improved upon it. Beneath an extra pair of underclothes, a bra, slip, and two sets of stockings was a brown paper package containing her sanitary belt, menstrual pads—and the necklace.

She smiled and tucked the necklace back into its hiding spot before climbing into bed. She wished she had Bayard's pistol to keep her company. What was the good of learning to shoot if she had no weapon? In the dark, thoughts crowded her. Micky's scent lingered in the air, his words punching at her most vulnerable spots.

She closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling in a slow steady rhythm, hoping to empty her mind with each expelled breath. Her body grew heavy. Noises faded. There was a still point with sleep just beyond. She rolled over, and her mind instantly sprang back to life.

Micky hadn't really loved her, but was she any better? Surely if she'd loved him, she wouldn't have allowed her feelings for Bayard to get the better of her. Maybe it was time to admit that her search for the truth had become more about finding an answer than finding her lover.