“I’ll do for you what I would have done for him. Anything I can. He thought of you as his,” Kerinov said again. “So I’ll do everything I can. You’ve actually seen it. Touched it.”

Saying nothing, Ash took his phone out of his pocket, brought up the pictures he’d taken.

“God. My God. It’s beyond exquisite. You have, as far as I know, the only clear photograph of this work of art. A museum, the Metropolitan. It must not be shut away again.”

“When it’s done, it won’t be shut away. The people who want this killed two members of my family. It’s not only a work of art, a piece of history, but it’s my leverage. And now, there’s another. I want to find it before they do. To do that, we need to find Antonio Bastone, or more likely his heirs. If he’s still alive, he’d be easily in his nineties, so odds are slim on that.”

“Odds aren’t that slim he sold it again, or lost it in another poker game, or gave it to some woman.” Lila lifted her hands. “But I don’t think, even for rich men’s sons—if he was one like Hard Luck Jonnie—winning a really shiny trinket in a poker game was an everyday thing. So maybe the story got passed down, and with that, what happened to the prize. It’s a good springboard anyway.”

“Harvard Law, 1946. They might’ve gone to school together. And maybe Miranda Swanson knows something about the story. I can push those buttons,” Ash decided.

“I’ll do more research. I have some work, but I can pass it on. I’ll focus on this. I’m grateful to be a part of this, a part of history.” After another long look, Kerinov handed Ash back his phone.

“Give me a minute.” Lila rose, moved off.

“This has to be kept confidential,” Ash began.

“Understood. You have my word.”

“Even from your family.”

“Even from them,” Kerinov agreed. “I know some collectors, know of others who’d know more. With my contacts, I can find out who might have a particular interest in Fabergé, or in Russian antiquities.”

“Ask carefully. They’ve killed three times. They won’t hesitate to kill again.”

“It’s my business to ask questions, to gather information on collectors and collections. I won’t ask anything that would arouse suspicion.”

Lila came back with three shot glasses and a frosty bottle of Ketel One on a tray.

Kerinov looked at her with soft eyes. “You’re very kind.”

“I think the moment calls for it.” She poured three shots of ice cold vodka, lifted her own. “To Vinnie.”

“To Vinnie,” Kerinov murmured, and tossed back the shot.

“And one more.” Lila poured again. “To the endurance of art. What’s Russian for ‘Cheers,’ Alexi?”

“If I drink to your health, I say Za vashe zdorovye.”

“Okay. Za vashe zdorovye.”

“You have a good ear. To the endurance of art, to our health and to success.”

They touched glasses, three bright notes blending to one.

And that, Lila thought as she knocked back the vodka, signaled the next step.

Eighteen

Lila put her work aside for the rest of the day and considered the advantages of technology. While Ash made his calls to Harvard contacts, she tried the social media.

Maybe a man—if he still lived—who’d nearly hit the century mark wouldn’t have a Facebook page, but she figured the odds were good some of his descendants would.

A grandson maybe, named for his grandfather. A granddaughter—Antonia? She thought it worth a shot to dig into Google and Facebook, using the little they knew.

Add Jonas Martin, she considered, dig down further to see if she could find a connection of mutual friends linking each name.

She signaled Ash to come ahead when he hesitated at the wide archway of the dining room.

“I’m not writing. I’m doing my version of research. Did you have any luck?”

“A friend asking a friend for a favor, and a link to the Harvard Law yearbook. None published in 1943 to 1945, but there’s one for 1946, no pictures. I’m going to get access to it, and given Martin’s age, to the couple years after.”

She sat back. “That’s a good one.”

“I could hire an investigator to do all this.”

“And take away our fun and satisfaction? I’m trolling Facebook.”

“Facebook?”

“You have a Facebook page,” she pointed out. “I just put in a friend request, by the way. In fact it appears you have two, one personal, one professional. You haven’t updated your professional page in over two months.”

“You sound like my agent,” he muttered. “I put new art up when I think about it. Why are you trolling Facebook?”

“Why do you have a personal page?”

“It helps, when I think of it again, to see what the family’s up to.”

“Exactly. I bet some in the Bastone and Martin families do the same. Bastone—Italian name. I bet you didn’t know Italy is ninth in Facebook users worldwide.”

“I can’t say I did.”

“There are also sixty-three Antonio Bastones on Facebook, and three Antonias. I’m playing with Tony and Toni with an i now. Then there’s Anthony, if they went there. I’m going to go through them, see if I can access their friends list. If I find a Martin on it, or a Swanson, as that’s the Martin heir’s name, it could be pay dirt.”

“Facebook,” he said again, and made her laugh.

“You didn’t think of it because you can’t even keep your page up-to-date.”

He sat across from her. “Lila.”

She nudged her laptop aside, folded her hands on the table. “Ashton.”

“What are you going to do with these sixty-six Facebook names?”

“I think we’ll have more with the Tony/Toni deal. The friends list, as I said. With or without that connection, I’ll start contacting, via Facebook, asking if they’re a descendant of the Antonio Bastone who attended Harvard in the 1940s. We’re not positive he did—hell, they could’ve met in a strip club for all we know, but it’s using the springboard for a considered leap. I could get lucky, especially cross-referencing with Google.”

“That’s pretty creative.”