“What did you imagine?” I ask, not sure I really want to know.
“I thought we would talk shells. I remember your old column. I was a fan. I thought I’d show you my collection, let you see what my life has been about. Because it hasn’t been about drilling for oil. All that goes on without me.”
“But you profit from it.”
“I do. And so did my grandfather. And he put that money to good use.”
I recall what Ness said about some things skipping a generation. Or was that me who’d said that?
“You do know you have a reputation,” I say. “Journalism isn’t a large field. Reporters hang out in the same circles.”
“And you believe everything you read in the papers?”
I don’t have a quick response to that.
“Why don’t we go inside while this is charging?” he asks.
“Why can’t you just admit what’s going on? Have you spent any time examining this? Your father fell in love with a reporter, and you seem to be fascinated by that. And now you’re older than he was then, and look at this pattern you’ve formed—”
“I don’t just date reporters.”
“Congratulations.”
“I don’t. It’s just … that’s who I meet. Who else do I socialize with? Have I dated more people than you have? Have I dated more reporters than you have?”
“Yes,” I say with confidence. I eye the battery booster; I could probably get to the end of that long-ass driveway on five minutes of charge, then call a cab or have the inn send someone. Ness glances at his watch.
“It’s ten,” he says. “Come inside so you don’t freeze. We don’t have to sit in the same room if you don’t want—”
“Tell me about Dimitri Arlov,” I blurt out.
Ness stares at me across the open hood of my car. Bugs swirl about, meandering toward the beacon that is the front porch light.
“Where did you hear that name?” he asks.
“Did he work for you?” I hug myself, shivering. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the adrenaline rush of confronting him about this.
“Dimitri is dead,” Ness says. “Come inside.”
I clutch my bag. “If I come inside, it’s just so I can show you something,” I warn him. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
10
I leave my car charging and follow Ness back up to the porch. Again he gives me the overly polite Ladies first while waving me into the house. I feel clammy as I go over and over how best to show him the shells. I finally decide that Agent Cooper’s method was most dramatic. So I pull out a stool at his kitchen counter and sit down, my bag on the granite between us.
Ness pours himself another glass of wine. I wave him off before he can offer me any. “I need to drive,” I remind him.
“And I need to calm my nerves,” he says.
It’s almost as if he knows what’s coming. But he must be referring to our confrontation from earlier.
“What did Dimitri do for the company?” I ask.
“A lot of things. Dimitri was a bright man. I’m assuming you know that he passed away this year.”
“Yes. Were you close to him?”
“Very close.”
I open my bag and dig out the box. “I’m sorry for your loss, then.”
“The whole world lost something when Dimitri passed. They don’t make them like that anymore.” Ness raises his glass toward the ceiling and takes a large gulp. As I set the small case on the counter, I hear him nearly choke and fight to swallow. He eyes the plastic case like it’s a lump of radioactive material. I almost don’t need to open the thing to know what I needed to know.
“Tell me what you think of this,” I say. I open the box so that only I can see inside, and I pull out one of the lace murexes. I pass it to Ness. He barely looks at the shell as he takes it, is still eyeing the box.
“A murex,” he finally says. “In good condition.”
“In flawless condition,” I say. “Museum quality. One of a kind, wouldn’t you say?”
Ness nods. “Sure.”
“So explain this.”
I place the other two shells on the counter. I can’t believe I’m doing this. And maybe since I just had one battery fail me, I worry about the amount of charge the FBI recorder has. I should have turned on my phone recorder as well. I try not to worry about that and just concentrate on Ness’s reaction as he studies the three shells.
“They’re nice,” he says. But he sounds distant. Far away.
“Any idea where they might have come from?” I ask.
Ness shrugs.
“I think you know,” I tell him.
He reaches for the bottle of wine, but I grab his wrist and stop him. I slide the bottle of wine toward me and out of his reach. Ness looks at me with a film of tears across his eyes. Worry at being busted? Nerves?
“I think …” Ness hesitates. “I don’t know why he would have taken them. It doesn’t make any sense. He could have just asked.”
“So these are yours?” I can’t believe this. Ness looks staggered. Numb. He would probably tell me anything in this moment.