“Did you overhear him give his name or rank or branch of service?”
“No, he didn’t say any of that. He told people that he was meeting his girlfriend, but that she hadn’t come off the flight. A few people remembered seeing me get on, so he knew I’d been on the plane. He had old ladies searching the bathroom. When some dude headed for the smoking lounge, I slipped out with my bag and caught a cab. You know the rest.”
“And you’ve never seen that uniform before?” Thorpe asked.
Callie paused, scanning her memory. “No, I think I have. But it seems like it’s been forever ago. I just can’t place it.”
Now that she remembered it, she flipped back through memories, years, locations. Not since she’d arrived at Dominion. Not while she’d been running before then. At home. With her father.
“Wait! A man came.” Her heart pounded. “To our house. Not long before the murders.” The memory sharpened, coming into clear focus. “An older man—not like the young guy from the airport. But I think they wore the same uniform. My father took him into his office. They argued. I remember it because Dad almost never raised his voice. He did that day. When I asked him about it later, he just said the man was pressing for a political donation and didn’t want to take no for an answer. I let it go.”
Sean frowned. “Did you ever see the older man in the uniform again?”
“No. My father was largely a recluse. He met with very few people, especially at the house. When I was a kid, the only person who came over with any regularity was some sort of medical researcher, Doctor . . . Aslanov, I think.” Callie frowned. “But he stopped coming around when I was ten or so.”
Sean searched around for a piece of paper and jotted some notes. “Yes, I know who he is. Doctor Aslanov researched cancer. I know your father funded quite a bit of his work for about five years.”
“Yeah. Like he thought it would bring my mother back.”
Thorpe came closer then and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, pet.”
About her mother? Yes, she was, too. He seemed very sorry about Holden and Charlotte, as well. They both did. She drew in their sweet empathy.
Callie softened in his arms, and Sean joined them. They cocooned her in warmth and acceptance. Love. She kissed them each briefly, then backed away. They still had work to do.
“I think it’s fair to say that the man who came to your house in uniform didn’t drop in on your dad for a political donation,” Sean said. “Any guesses about why he was really there?”
“None. I didn’t get involved in Dad’s stuff. I was a typical teenager, too wrapped up in my own.”
“So . . . if we don’t know who visited your house in uniform and we don’t know what he wanted, let’s talk about what the police found at the crime scene after the murders.”
“You said my home was ransacked?” Callie frowned and wrapped her arms around herself. “I remember that big, gorgeous house like it was yesterday. Double grand staircases with white marble, wrought iron railings, and so much natural light. The house always seemed so . . . pristine. It was a reflection of my mother, and Dad never changed it. I can’t imagine it torn apart.”
“I saw the pictures,” Sean said softly. “They didn’t have a lot of time in the house before the police arrived, but they searched in every nook and cranny, every drawer, closet, and niche.”
That shocked Callie. “They had to have worked fast in over sixteen thousand square feet.”
“Sounds like they knew the layout of the house,” Thorpe surmised.
She shrugged. “It was public record. Architectural Digest had done a spread on the house about a year prior. It showed the floor plan.”
Sean sighed. “I’m looking for logic. Why would anyone come in, kill the occupants of the house, then tear it apart to take one item?”
“I don’t think anything had been stolen. What did they actually take?” She searched her memory for all the treasures her father had in his possession. As a man who’d come from enormous wealth and had a talent for growing it, he’d had some priceless treasures. But if the killers hadn’t taken any of the art or the cash, what had they sought?
“An Imperial Fabergé egg. It’s worth about . . . eighteen million dollars, give or take a few pennies. I can’t imagine someone stealing it for profit, but we’ve never seen the egg for sale, even in the most illegal channels. It doesn’t seem likely that hardened criminals would break in and kill simply to decorate their mantel.”
Callie flushed. “They didn’t take it. I did. It’s in my backpack. My backpack! Where is it? I left it in my hotel room in Vegas and—”
“We brought it with us, lovely. Take a breath. Relax,” Sean advised. “Why did you take the egg?”
“It was my mother’s. It was all I had of her.”
“It’s rare and incredibly expensive. You’ve been carting it around for nine years while living in slums?”
She sighed. “I know. But it’s not like I could have rented a safe-deposit box or anything. My consolation was that if anyone ever thought about swiping it, in those neighborhoods, they probably wouldn’t have had a clue what it was. After all, it’s one of only about six dozen to survive the Bolshevik Revolution.”
Thorpe’s eyes widened. “You had that egg in my club for four years?”
Callie nodded. “It was kind of a relief. No one was going to steal it from there. They didn’t dare come in my room or you would remove their heads from their bodies in the most unpleasant way possible.”
“That’s true,” Thorpe concurred, smiling as if pleased with himself.
It was . . . cute.
“I never imagined you took that egg,” Sean admitted. “One way the bureau tracked you was your pattern of leaving everything behind. You were reported as a missing person about a half a dozen times, so we got to know your MO. You never took personal mementos when you moved from one location to another.”
“Well, my father had so many of my mother’s photos locked away, as if he couldn’t look at them without grieving all over again. But Mom told me just before she died that the egg was mine. I probably should have left it behind, but I couldn’t.”
“Is there any chance that whoever killed your family wanted that egg?” Sean wondered aloud.