She reached out, as though searching for my hand. Fuck if I didn’t grab it.
“I spent years searching,” Dmitry said. “Dead ends. False leads. All I had to start from was a photograph of a young woman standing in front of a bombed building in Marseille. ‘Delphine’ written on the back. No last name. No other records.”
“The photograph you dropped at my café,” Grace said quietly.
Dmitry nodded. “Three months ago, a jeweler in the US posted on an online forum, asking about a possible Fabergé egg.”
“My jeweler.” Her hand tightened in mine.
The jeweler? If that was how Dmitry had found her, was that how the other man had found her, as well? Was Brandon Caulfield—the authenticator in London—not the source of the leak? If so, how did the other man know about London? How did he know to follow her and search her bag for the egg? I had to point the team at the online forum where the jeweler had posted and check if there had been any leaks about London.
“I have Internet alerts set up for all of my active cases. The jeweler provided sufficient detail that I suspected it was about the second Imperial Egg, and I was able to trace the post to yourhometown, to the jeweler, and then to you.” Dmitry spread his hands. “When I walked in and saw the photograph on your wall, I knew I’d finally found Delphine. And I lost my composure. For this, I apologize most profoundly.”
“Why didn’t you just explain?” Grace asked. “Instead of grabbing me and demanding answers?”
“Because I’m an idiot.” Dmitry’s mouth twisted. “Eight years, and suddenly she was right there. I panicked. And…” He gestured toward me and shrugged.
Sure, blame me, buddy.
Jean returned with coffee, setting cups on the low table. He sat next to Grace, and the two men took their drinks.
“So Jean called you,” I said, bringing the room back to the Russian’s story. “After we arrived.”
“Yes. He knew I often take contracts to find Russian artifacts, so he thought I might be able to help.” Dmitry looked at Jean. “It was a surprise to both of us, because I’ve been searching for this egg for so long.”
Jean shook his head. “If I’d known you already met, I would have given you more details about him.”
Grace let go of my hand, clearly growing too comfortable. She stood and told me, “I’m going to get the egg and the letter.”
She didn’t move. Was she asking me if it was all right? Or was it a warning not to attack the man while she was gone?
I gave her a short nod, regardless of which question she was silently asking.
Once she was out of the room, Dmitry spoke to me in Russian. “I’m not a threat. I can provide my credentials, and I invite you to check my background.”
Without letting go of the fireplace poker, I said, “Show me.”
He stood, reached into a pocket—I shifted my balance in preparation—and pulled out a card from his wallet. “Here’s my ASIS certification.”
Rather than accepting it, I pulled out my phone and sent Arthur a photo with a voice memo: “Check this guy out for me.”
The thumbs-up emoji was his immediate response. Maybe he’d look at it, maybe he’d use Merlin or Morganna again. Either way, I wasn’t relaxing until I had the information, and Dmitry knew it.
Grace returned, the earlier stress gone from her face. The smile was back, whether genuine or the mask she wore to hide things. She placed the disassembled egg on the table.
Dmitry’s eyes lit up. He reached for the hen, but stopped. “May I?”
Grace nodded.
He didn’t pick it up with his fingertips. He cupped his palm under it and let it rest there, turning it slowly, his eyes moving across the surface. It was more scientific than I’d expected. He murmured in Russian, “I’ve found you.”
Jean watched him with a small smile. “Dmitry was a curator in Saint Petersburg, before he was a man who finds things.”
“Inventory rooms only.” Dmitry continued studying the hen. “I was very junior.”
“You’ve handled other eggs in the past, yes?” Jean asked him.
“Two.” Dmitry set the hen down with infinite care. “And for a long time, none.”
