Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Fifty-Five

Charles Benedict was in an excellent mood when he returned to his office. The meal at Venezia had been outstanding, and Bobby Schatz’s plan for defending Horace Blair was not. Schatz was one of the best, but even great boxers like Muhammad Ali lost on occasion, and once in a while a great pitcher will get tagged for a home run. If Schatz tried Blair’s case the way he said he would, Commonwealth v. Blair would be tallied in Schatz’s loss column.

A woman with glasses and short, gray-streaked black hair looked up when Benedict entered his waiting room. She was dressed expensively in a severe charcoal-gray pantsuit, a black silk shirt, and a tasteful pearl necklace.

Benedict asked his receptionist about the visitor in a low voice.

“Her name is Myra Blankenship,” she whispered back. “She came in an hour ago. I told her that I didn’t know when you would return but she insisted on waiting.”

“Didn’t she call a day or so ago?”

“I believe so.”

“Did she tell you what she wants?”

“She said it was confidential and she’ll only talk to you.”

Normally Benedict would have had his secretary deal with someone who walked in without an appointment, but Blankenship’s attire suggested that she had money, and someone with money always deserved an audience. Benedict walked over to his visitor. Blankenship sprang to her feet. The attorney flashed his warmest smile.

“I’m Charles Benedict. I understand you want to see me.”

“Myra Blankenship,” the woman said as she extended her hand.

Benedict shook it. “How can I help you?”

The woman looked over Benedict’s shoulder at the receptionist. “The matter is rather delicate. I’d prefer to discuss it where we can’t be overheard.”

“Of course.”

Benedict led Blankenship to his office.

“I flew here from Seattle as soon as I heard,” Blankenship said as soon as Benedict shut the door.

“Heard what?”

“That Carrie Blair had been murdered. I was in Asia on a buying trip. I was supposed to return a few weeks ago but I was delayed. I e-mailed several times and called but Mrs. Blair didn’t get back to me. I was very upset. I thought the deal had fallen through. Then I arrived back in the States yesterday and learned that Mrs. Blair had been murdered and her husband was in jail.”

Benedict had no idea what Blankenship was talking about.

“Don’t get me wrong. Mrs. Blair’s violent demise is a terrible thing, but there are millions involved and I’m anxious to know if she left any instructions, or if perhaps Mr. Blair was interested despite his”—Blankenship paused, looking for the right words—“present situation.”

The phrase “millions involved” had piqued Benedict’s interest.

“What is it you do, exactly?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just wound up, and I’m still a bit jet-lagged. I’m an art dealer. Martin Draper owns a gallery in Seattle. He sells contemporary pieces: a lot of glass, modern art, some local artists, and a few with national reputations. Every once in a while he is approached about acquiring Asian art. My specialty is Oriental antiquities. I lived in Asia for several years and made contacts there. When a customer wants something in this area, Martin calls me.”

Blankenship paused, and her eyes lost focus as if she were looking at something far away that only she could see.

“The scepter is special, Mr. Benedict. Martin could sense it. He called me immediately but I must admit I’ve never handled anything like it before.”

“What is your connection to the Blairs?”

“They have a home on Isla de Muerta, an island off the coast of Washington State. They came to the gallery looking for pieces to decorate their home. Some of the art they wanted was from Japan and China. That’s how I met them, through Martin.

“I only met Mr. Blair one time. Mrs. Blair was usually the person who came to the gallery. It wasn’t unusual for her to visit the gallery when she was in Seattle. I was consulted because the piece she was interested in was within my area of expertise.”

Blankenship paused. Benedict thought that she looked anxious.

“The papers said you’re representing Mr. Blair,” the woman said.

Benedict nodded. He had been fired but no substitution of counsel had been filed yet, so technically he was still Horace’s lawyer.

“Has he mentioned the scepter?”

“Not specifically. Perhaps you can tell me a little about it so I’ll be knowledgeable when we discuss it.”

“When Sultan Mehmet II conquered Constantinople in 1453 he was concerned that there would be an appeal to Rome for liberation that would set off a new round of Crusades.”

Benedict nodded knowingly, although he had no idea what Blankenship was talking about. He’d had one history course in college, and that was many years ago and he couldn’t remember if Constantinople had been mentioned. All he knew for certain was that Constantinople was now Istanbul and Turks lived there.

“The Eastern Orthodox Church commanded the loyalty of the masses,” Blankenship continued, “so Mehmet asked Gennadius, who was hostile to the West, to become the first Patriarch of Constantinople under Islamic rule. When Gennadius accepted, the sultan gave him a gold, bejeweled scepter as a symbol of authority. This scepter disappeared until it was rediscovered by Antoine Girard, a French soldier of fortune, in a bazaar in Cairo in 1922. Girard spent many years authenticating the scepter. Then he was murdered and the scepter was stolen.

“Recently, we were contacted by a person who purported to own the scepter. He was in financial straits as a result of some very bad investments and had to sell it. I thought of the Blairs immediately.”

“Why the Blairs? Why not a museum?”

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“And can I count on you keeping a confidence?”

“Of course.”

“My seller insisted that I only deal with a private buyer. I don’t know this for a fact but I suspect that he didn’t want me to approach a museum because the scepter may be stolen goods.”

“But why the Blairs?”

“There are no longer any jewels in the scepter, but the scepter is solid gold. However, the value of the gold is secondary. The historical importance of the scepter makes it incredibly valuable.”

“What does that mean in dollars?” Benedict asked.

“I can’t say exactly, but as I said, we’re talking millions. That’s why I contacted Mrs. Blair.”

“You mean Mr. Blair,” Benedict said.

“No, Mr. Blair never seemed terribly interested in art or collecting. But Mrs. Blair had a true appreciation of the value of the scepter.”

“From what I’ve learned, Carrie Blair didn’t have the kind of money you’re talking about.”

“But she was going to. That’s why I had to get back to the States. The week Mrs. Blair died was the week she would have met the terms of a prenuptial agreement she had entered into when she married Mr. Blair. Under the terms of that agreement, she stood to receive twenty million dollars, part of which she planned to use to buy the scepter.”

Benedict’s heart thudded in his chest but he kept his voice calm.

“There’s been a lot of speculation about this prenup but no one seems to have seen it,” he said.

“I have. Mrs. Blair showed it to me.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I called her about the scepter, assuming that she would talk to her husband about purchasing it, but she told me she didn’t want Mr. Blair involved. I was dubious about Mrs. Blair’s ability to pay, so she gave me a copy of the agreement.”

“You have it?” Benedict asked casually, giving the impression that the prenuptial agreement was of little interest to him.

“Not with me.”

“In Seattle?”

“No, I brought it here. It’s at my hotel, in my file. Mr. Benedict, can you tell me what Mr. Blair said about the scepter? Did Mrs. Blair tell him about it? Does he have any interest in obtaining it?”

Benedict pretended to be in conflict while his visitor fidgeted.

“Ms. Blankenship, I’ve sworn to keep your confidences, and an attorney also has a duty to keep secret those matters his client discusses with him.”

“Of course,” the woman answered as she leaned forward expectantly.

“Will you promise not to divulge what I’m going to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Blair has mentioned the scepter.”

“Then he’s interested?”

“I’m not certain. During one of our conferences—when we were discussing Mrs. Blair—he told me that she had mentioned purchasing an expensive historical relic. Presumably that was the scepter.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing. You can understand that his present predicament has dominated his thoughts, but we have high hopes that we’ll win his case. And then he can turn his thoughts elsewhere.”

Benedict’s features displayed an expression of the utmost seriousness.

“I can assure you that Mr. Blair is innocent. He loved his wife very much. If Mrs. Blair wanted this scepter, Mr. Blair might want to honor her wishes. But I’ll have to convince him that she was sincere in her desire to possess it.”

“I can give him that assurance.”

Benedict shook his head. “No offense, but your word would not carry a lot of weight.”

Blankenship straightened up. She looked insulted.

“Mr. Blair knows me. We’ve had business dealings.”

“I didn’t mean to disparage you, but let me ask a question. Will you profit if you broker this deal?”

“Of course.”

“And I assume we’re talking about a very hefty commission.”

Blankenship hesitated before nodding.

Benedict spread his hands. “Surely you see the problem. If Mr. Blair was unaware that Mrs. Blair wanted to pay several million dollars for the scepter, your statement won’t convince him if you are going to make a large profit from the deal.”

“What do you suggest?”

Benedict thought for a moment. Then he brightened.

“If I had a copy of the prenuptial agreement to show Mr. Blair, it would convince him that Carrie trusted you and was deadly serious about buying the scepter. Do you think you can get me a copy of the agreement to show to Mr. Blair?”

The woman’s head bobbed up and down. “Definitely.”

“I assume that you have to act quickly if this sale is to go through?”

“Very quickly.”

Benedict looked at his watch. “Where are you staying?”

Blankenship named a hotel near Dulles Airport and gave Benedict her room number.

“I have a few matters I must attend to,” Benedict said. “Go back to your hotel and I’ll call you when I’m done. We can meet and you can give me a copy of the agreement. I’ll take the document to Mr. Blair today and tell him about the urgency of making a decision about buying the scepter.”

“Thank you,” the woman said.

Benedict smiled. “I hope this works out for you. And it might take Horace’s mind off of his troubles. Of course, you understand that the utmost secrecy is required. Don’t tell anyone, even Mr. Draper, we’ve met, and do not, under any circumstances, discuss the scepter or the prenuptial agreement with anyone. From here on in, we must keep this matter strictly between us until I have an opportunity to discuss it with Mr. Blair.”

Benedict saw out Blankenship. As soon as the door closed, the lawyer went online and typed in Martin Draper’s name. His search turned up the existence of a Martin Draper Gallery in Seattle. A description of the art the gallery handled jibed with what Myra Blankenship had told him.

A search for Myra Blankenship turned up a small website that gave her academic credentials and a brief statement about her specialty, Asian antiquities.

Benedict called the gallery. Draper answered the phone. Benedict gave a false name, then said he wanted to contact Myra Blankenship. Draper said she was in Washington, D.C., on business, and hoped to be back in Seattle soon. He also confirmed that she had just returned from Asia.

Benedict told his secretary to hold his calls. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Blankenship was a gift from the gods. The problem was time. Benedict would have to act fast, because it would soon become public knowledge that he was no longer Blair’s attorney.

Benedict made a decision. He would meet Blankenship and get a copy of the prenuptial agreement. Then he would kill Blankenship and dispose of the body. After that, he would go to Blair’s estate. There was a good chance he could get into the mansion unseen. Horace had told him that the houseman lived in a cottage on the estate and that there was only a skeleton staff now that Carrie was dead and he was locked up. He had gotten the codes for Blair’s front gate and house alarm so he could get suits, ties, and shirts for Blair’s court appearances. When he was inside the mansion, he would hide the copy of the prenup. Then he would tip off Rick Hamada to its hiding place with enough specificity to establish probable cause for a search warrant.