"Well, it’s clear that Rothschild had a thing for expensive jewelry, particularly platinum.She was photographed wearing it constantly.Charity galas, fundraisers, corporate events.The woman loved to be seen."
In his laptop, Miles pulled up the links Sarah was sending.Photographs loaded on his screen, many showing Rothschild at big social events—museum openings, parties and galas, benefit dinners, and on and on.And in every single one, the woman practically sparkled from all the jewelry she was wearing.
"She wasn't shy about her wealth, that’s for sure," Miles said.
"Not even a little.I've found at least thirty photographs from the past year alone where she's prominently displaying platinum jewelry.High-end stuff, too.We're talking pieces worth tens of thousands each."
Vic leaned closer to the laptop."So, she made herself a target."
"Looks that way," Sarah said."If someone's selecting victims based on platinum jewelry, Rothschild would have been easy to identify.She's all over the society pages and the social media feeds of the NYC elite."
Miles clicked through more photographs.Rothschild at a wine tasting.At a fashion show.At a private auction preview.And she was always dressed elegantly, always wearing something that gleamed platinum-white under the camera flashes.
"What about her social circle?"Miles asked."Who did she spend time with?"
"I'm cross-referencing guest lists from events she attended.Give me a few more minutes on that.But it's mostly other people in finance, a few artists and gallery owners, some philanthropic types.The usual Manhattan elite."
"Any connection to jewelry stores or auction houses?"Vic asked.
"Funny you should ask."Kim’s keyboard clattered in the background."I just found something right before I called.Rothschild had a collection of her jewelry appraised two weeks ago."
"Where was this?"Miles asked.
"Whitmore Auction House.It's one of the prestige places in Manhattan.They handle estate sales, high-end jewelry, art, that kind of thing."
"Why was she getting an appraisal?"
"Not clear yet.Could be for insurance purposes, or maybe she was thinking of selling some pieces.I'm trying to get more details, but their client information is pretty locked down.If you’re there in town, maybe it would be a worth a visit."
“Makes sense,” Vic said.“They would have had open, full access to the jewelry the killer took such an interest in.”
"Sounds like our first real lead," Miles said."Thanks, Sarah."
Miles ended the call and looked at Vic."For all we know, the killerworks atthe auction house.Or maybe simply somehow got access to their client records."
"It's a connection," Vic agreed."First one we've got."
Miles pulled up a search for Whitmore Auction House.Their website was elegant but understated.Established 1923, they specialized in fine jewelry, art, and estate collections.In neat and bold script, a simple statement appeared a few times on the home screen:Appraisals by appointment only.
"Do you think they'll cooperate?"
"They will when we show up with a warrant."Miles checked his watch and saw that it was nearly 3:30 already."But we can start with a conversation first.See what they're willing to tell us voluntarily.Maybe it’ll go smooth enough where a warrant won’t even be necessary.”
“Let’s go find out.”
They hurried out of the conference room less than half an hour after getting set up.And as Miles felt the urgency of the case starting to build he tasted something like venom in the back of his throat when he thought of Kane, sitting in prison, comfortable and out of harm’s way…with his plan still being carried out.
CHAPTER NINE
The Whitmore Auction House occupied a five-story townhouse on East 67th Street, wedged between a private art gallery and a brownstone that had been converted into luxury apartments.The building's facade was limestone, weathered to a soft gray that spoke of age and establishment.Brass fixtures gleamed at the entrance, and the windows on each floor were tall and narrow, the kind that predated modern construction standards.
Miles and Vic climbed the short flight of steps to the front door.A discreet bronze plaque beside it read simply:Whitmore.Est.1923.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.The entry hall was small but meticulously maintained, with dark wood paneling and a Persian rug that looked older than Miles.A crystal chandelier hung overhead, and oil paintings in gilded frames lined the walls.Everything whispered old money and careful curation.
A receptionist sat at an antique desk, her posture perfect.She wore a black dress and pearls that probably cost more than Miles’s car.When she saw their badges, her professional smile didn't waver.
“How can I help you?”she asked.
