She nodded. Oh, why the hell not? Somebody else could feed the copy machine.

In her sturdy shoes and worn coat, with her single carryon bag held firmly under her arm, Aunt Willie looked a bit like a bag lady after they’d cleared customs at Kennedy Airport. “Where do we get the bus?” she asked.

“We can take a cab,” Juliana said, leading the way.

“A cab? Why, isn’t there a bus?”

“A cab’s easier. Come on.”

Wilhelmina made no comment, but Juliana could feel her aunt’s disapproval. Americans were extravagant and wasteful. Why should her niece spend the money on a taxi when she could use public transportation? Material success meant nothing to Aunt Willie, and neither did the inconvenience of taking a bus or a train. Juliana wondered what her aunt would have to say about the expensive sportscar she had sitting in a garage. She seldom used it, except to escape to Vermont on occasion.

Vermont. Shuji. Now that her uncle was dead, the dilemmas she’d faced only a few days ago seemed trivial.

“When I’m gone,” Uncle Johannes said in his gentle way, “the Minstrel is yours to do with as you must. No one can tell you what is right, what is wrong. That is for you to decide. Do you understand, Juliana?”

She hadn’t. The largest uncut diamond in the world, the mystery surrounding it, the legend, the myth, the tradition. It was all so much mumbo jumbo to her. Her throat tightened as she remembered the quiet, intelligent man with the soft, proud look in his eyes as he’d come backstage seven years ago in Delftshaven. She’d felt an instant bond with him-as if she could do anything, be anything, and he still would be there for her. You’re the last of the Peperkamps, he’d told her. Until then, she had never thought about it. The Peperkamps had been strangers to her.

She’d stuck the Minstrel’s Rough away and tried to forget about it. And, as he’d requested, she’d never mentioned it to her mother or her aunt.

Now she wasn’t sure what to do. Over and over again on the flight to New York, she’d considered telling Aunt Willie she had it, asking her advice. But she’d resisted. Were people dying because of the Minstrel? Would telling Aunt Willie about it endanger her?

Am I in danger?

Although this was her first trip to the United States, Wilhelmina seemed unimpressed and asked no questions about the sights as they drove into Manhattan. Juliana didn’t bother to point out any landmarks.

Wilhelmina was leaning back against the torn seat, frowning thoughtfully. “Do you think your reporter has gone back to Washington?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose. He might try Mother.”

“He’ll get nothing out of her,” Wilhelmina said with assurance.

“I suspect you’re right; I certainly never have.”

“Well, we’ll just have to locate him and find out what he’s up to. You can do that, Juliana. I’ll see to Catharina.”

“Me? Aunt Willie, Matthew Stark isn’t going to stand for me hanging around.”

“So?”

“So I’m not about to follow him around like a puppy dog with my tail wagging!”

“Achh, so much pride. I don’t understand this about puppy dogs and tails.”

“Never mind. I just think you and I could accomplish more if we stay together.”

“You do, do you? And just what information do we have that we can act upon?”

“You and Mother know who Hendrik de Geer is. You could tell me.”

Aunt Willie snorted in disgust. “And what would that accomplish? Would it tell us where he is? No, it would not. Would it tell us what this Senator Ryder is up to? No, it would not. Would it tell us if Rachel’s and Johannes’s deaths were acts of God? No, it would not. Would it-?”

“Okay, Aunt Willie, you’ve made your point. But I still think Mother should tell me what happened in Amsterdam.”

“So do I, but it’s not my place to make her.”

“Aunt Willie-”

“Are you sure this driver knows what he’s doing? I hate cars. I don’t want to come all this way and then die on a highway in New York City.”

Juliana sighed and tried again. “Aunt Willie-”

“If I do,” she persisted, “just have me cremated. Don’t bother with the expense of having my body shipped back to Holland.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes, I know. But I’m honest.”

“To a fault,” Juliana said.

His head pounding with fatigue and frustration, Matthew indulged himself in a fresh round of self-reproach for having mentioned to Juliana that he was on his way to Antwerp. Dangling such information in front of her was the equivalent of handing her a free ticket and driving her to the airport. How could he not have realized that she just might follow him?

But he had to admit he’d felt a certain satisfaction in running into her at her uncle’s apartment. It meant she wasn’t so self-involved that she didn’t give a damn about an old diamond cutter who just happened to be a relative. It meant she was tough and tenacious enough to risk at least trying to find out what was going on.

It meant the prospect of bumping into him in Antwerp hadn’t bothered her one bit.

Now, though, the adventure was over. Her uncle was dead-two people were dead. That was too much of a coincidence for Stark. Rachel Stein and Johannes Peperkamp had something to do with Otis Raymond and his problems. With Sam Ryder and Phil Bloch. Whatever was going on, Matthew couldn’t justify bringing Juliana Fall and her stout, cranky old aunt further into it. No more encouragement, no more questions.

Do whatever you goddamn well please, ladies, just leave me alone and stay the hell out of this mess.

But Juliana knows something about the Minstrel’s Rough, he thought; you know damn well she does. Probably the aunt does, too. You should ignore feelings, goddamnit, and go after the facts.

He shook his head, adamant. He could see the dark, beautiful eyes of Juliana Fall widen and fill with unspilled tears when he’d told her about her uncle. She was a piano player, for God’s sake. Let her entertain herself with J.J. Pepper. He couldn’t control what she did, perhaps, but he could control what he did.

And what he was going to do was leave her the hell alone.

Aaron Ziegler thrust a sheet torn off the wire in front of him. “I found the Peperkamp obit,” he said proudly. “It was just a couple of lines, a repeat mostly of the information in the folder I already gave you. He died of a heart attack in Amsterdam. He was part of a dying breed of highly skilled cleavers who eschewed lasers and computers in doing their work. His wife was Ann Visser, whose father was in the House of Asscher in Amsterdam before World War Two. The Nazis murdered him in Auschwitz. She died ten years ago.”

“Thanks,” Stark said. “I appreciate it.”

“Sure.”

“Want to do me another favor?”

Aaron shifted from one tassel loafer to the other. “Okay.”

“See what you can find out about a retired army sergeant by the name of Phillip Bloch.” He handed Ziegler a scrap of paper he’d scrawled names on during the flight from Belgium. “You can try the guys listed her. They might be able to help.”

“Is there anything specific you’re after?”

“Yeah. I want to know where he is.”

Juliana’s apartment building was an outrage, of course, but Wilhelmina resisted comment as her niece led her past the uniformed doorman into the marble lobby, then to the brass elevator with its smiling elevator man. Juliana explained that Central Park West attracted numerous performing artists and she felt comfortable there, she could be herself. Wilhelmina wondered, how could you be anyone else? To her, the place felt like a museum or a queen’s palace.

And the apartment itself! So many locks, so many rooms! Juliana told her aunt she could choose whichever bedroom she wanted, except for the “blue” one and the “rose” one.