Moving Target (25 page)

“But—”

Wallace was talking to himself. The client had already hung up. Nor could Wallace call back. He had tried tracing the number the first time the client hired him two years ago. He hadn’t succeeded then. He hadn’t succeeded at any time since.

But the money came in on time, and for some jobs it came from overseas, untraceable even for the IRS.

He didn’t know if his client was male, female, or walked on all fours; voice distorters had come a long way since the first ones. These days it took a pro to tell when one was being used. Wallace was a pro. So he stayed with the odds and thought of his client as a man. If it had been a divorce case, he would have gone with a woman.

Wallace stuck a lump of chewing tobacco into his cheek and drove toward the freeway. He and his partner were getting triple time plus expenses. If the mysterious client wanted them to baby-sit at those rates, they would baby-sit. When it got down to the real job, the rates would go up. That was when he would earn every dime of whatever fee he negotiated.

He was looking forward to it. Something about blood had always given him a hard-on like nothing else—even sex. He didn’t know why. He didn’t care. The rush was worth all the boredom that came in between.

N
iall could have watched the transaction from one of the plush “viewing rooms” on the ground floor, which featured a one-way window into each clean room for those who didn’t trust anything except their own eyes. He preferred watching from his office. The view was much better. There were two walls of flat-screen color monitors that gave him a look at everything on Rarities Unlimited’s grounds except Dana’s private quarters. So far, she had refused to allow any fiber-optic cameras into her small home, saying that if he couldn’t protect her without spying on her, then she would bloody well just live dangerously.

At the moment, she was quite safe. She was with Risa Sheridan in the clean room, explaining to a client why the gold necklace his wife had picked up at Quartzite, Arizona’s huge annual outdoor flea market was not only quite valuable but was probably part of a museum collection that had been stolen three years ago.

Niall dialed up the audio and settled in to listen. And watch. Risa, like Dana, was always worth watching. It was like seeing two wolves in drag stroll through a field of lambs, picking out the next meal.

“. . . technique is old, yes,” the unhappy client said, “but today’s jewelers often imitate ancient techniques, don’t they?”

“They’re called replicas,” Risa drawled. “Some of them are quite well done. If they’re sold as ancient goods, then we call them forgeries. This isn’t one of them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dana knew Risa well enough to understand the meaning of the casual flick of her hand through her short black hair. Risa was getting tired of telling the stubborn man with the Hollywood haircut what he had already suspected: his wife’s flea market coup wasn’t legally theirs, so it wasn’t going to make them rich.

“McCoy,” Dana murmured into the nearly invisible lapel mike she always wore into a clean room for just these awkward moments.

“Coming up,” Niall answered. He swiveled, hit an intercom button, and said, “Factoid. Now.”

“Yo,” came the puffing answer.

“You sound like you just ran upstairs.”

McCoy made a guilty sound. “I was just, uh, checking around the departments.”

“How’s Gretchen?”

“Hot, man.
Hot.
”

“Tie it in a knot. Dana’s in the number two clean room. She needs you.”

“I’m there.”

Niall watched Dana touch her left ear lightly and knew that McCoy had gotten through on her ear bug. He heard her request the Buyer Beware database, reference stolen gold jewelry, around fourth-century
B.C
., Asia Minor or more probably Greece, quite possibly the site known as Patikapaion. While she spelled out the last for McCoy, Niall switched his attention back to Risa.

She was closing in for the kill.

“. . . the silk cord holding the gold beads is almost certainly more recent than my tentative date of fourth century
B.C
.,” Risa’s low voice continued. “The terminals on the necklace, what you call the fastenings, are a later addition. Though some attempt was made to match gold alloys, it wasn’t entirely successful. If you doubt me, we’ll test the fastenings and the beads, and tell you where the gold for each likely originated. It won’t be the same place.”

The man gave her a look that suggested he wasn’t interested in testing anything.

“The beads,” she said, “aren’t modern but are, except for the fourth from the left, all of the same age and origin. If you’ll look at the screen to your left again, I’ll show you how I reached this conclusion. Under magnification”—she zoomed in on the piece with the computer-cum-camera that was part of the clean room’s services—“you can see the wear pattern quite clearly, especially on the alternating decorated beads. The filigree is almost smooth. These beads are made of a soft, nearly pure gold and have rubbed against each other for a long, long time.”

He grunted.

“Whoever added that one bead was probably the same person who added the fastenings,” she continued. “The gold alloy looks quite similar. Again, there are tests to determine if the gold came from the same mine as the rest of the beads. We don’t have a way to determine the age of gold, as I explained earlier. At this point, I’m confident that you have valid beads, except for one, and terminals—fastenings—of frankly dubious quality.”

The man said something unpleasant under his breath. “For as much as you’re charging for the appraisal, I’d expected something more, uh . . .”

“Sympathetic?” she supplied in a smoky drawl.

He shrugged and tucked his tie into his charcoal wool suit coat with the automatic gesture of a man who has spent a lot of time dressed for success. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Rarities sets the fees,” Risa said. “I’m merely an outside consultant. I have no financial interest whatsoever in anything but the truth.”

“Yeah, well, you get a fucking gold star in your file for this one, and I get hosed.”

“That’s the nature of flea markets.” Risa’s smile told him that she no more believed the flea market story than he did. “People get hosed regularly in those places. I’m sorry you were one of them.”

Neither one of them believed that, either.

“Ah, there we are,” Dana said, pointing to another of the flat screens that circled the room. “This is Rarities Unlimited’s own compilation of all stolen art and artifacts, both private and public.”

The picture changed dizzyingly as it cycled through a series of necklaces made up only of gold beads. Each photo was numbered in the lower right-hand corner. Risa watched closely.

“Seventeen,” she said.

“Zoom in,” Dana said softly. “Split screen to show Mr. Morrison’s necklace as well.”

As McCoy manipulated the electronics, a picture of a string of golden beads filled half the screen. When Morrison’s necklace was added to the other side, it was nearly a mirror image.

Even in the security room, Niall’s untrained eye could see that the beads in the necklace in the clean room and the necklace in the database matched. Well, almost matched. One bead was a clinker.

“Startling similarity, wouldn’t you say?” Dana asked mildly.

“That necklace doesn’t have fastenings,” Morrison pointed out.

“And it’s missing a bead,” Risa said. “Remove the later additions from your necklace and you have identity, not similarity.”

“Data,” Dana said into her mike.

Factoid talked into her ear.

“The necklace on the left used to be in the Hermitage,” Dana said, listening as she talked. “When they were updating their catalogues recently, they discovered it was missing.”

“Are you suggesting I stole it?” Morrison asked angrily.

“No. I am suggesting that you are in possession of a piece of stolen art whose rightful owner is one of Russia’s foremost national museums.” Dana’s voice was an even alto that could be soothing or acid, whichever she thought would get the job done. Right now she was going for soothing. “If you would like Rarities to broker the return of the necklace, we will waive our appraisal fee. You will owe us nothing. In return, you will undoubtedly get a letter of appreciation from several international art organizations. A gold star, as you put it.”

“No thanks.” He reached for the necklace. “I’ll try my luck somewhere else.”

Risa smiled cynically. She had expected his reaction. Once you got beyond the ivory towers of universities, the art market was just that: a market.

“Your privilege,” Dana said. “Naturally, it is our obligation to report to the proper authorities the presence of what we believe to be a stolen cultural treasure in the United States.”

“Wait just a fucking minute!” he snarled. “You promised me confidentiality. I paid a fucking fortune to get you to—”

Niall didn’t wait to hear any more. He was out of his office and opening the door to the clean room in twenty seconds.

“. . . unless we discovered that the goods were listed as stolen, yes,” Dana was saying when Niall opened the door. She wasn’t surprised at his sudden appearance. Niall’s rule of thumb was “Three fucks and you’re out.” Morrison had used up his quota, and a few more before Niall walked in. Dana had no objection to the language itself, but it was a good indicator of a frayed temper. “The policy of Rarities Unlimited was spelled out quite clearly in the contract you signed before we agreed to appraise your piece. If you need to refresh your memory, we’ll give you another copy on your way out.”

“But it’s just a fucking necklace!”

“You’re confusing this with the golden bells and jade rings the ancient Chinese used,” Risa said blandly. “As an aid to sexual intercourse, they were quite valued.”

“What are you talking about?” Morrison yelped.

“Jewelry used to enhance a man’s erectile function,” Dana said in an acid tone. “Fucking jewelry, as you described it.”

Niall bit the inside of his cheeks so that he wouldn’t laugh out loud. “Do we have a problem here, Ms. Gaynor?” he asked.

“I don’t believe so. Mr. Morrison was just leaving with his necklace.”

“I’ll stop payment on my check!”

Dana shrugged. “Whatever you wish. We have lawyers on retainer. They might as well do something to earn their money.” She looked at Niall. “Did the Louis XIV cabinet arrive?”

“We’re uncrating it in the number four clean room right now.”

“Excellent.” She turned to Risa. “As always, a pleasure. I’d appreciate having your written appraisal as soon as possible. Whenever you want to review the tapes and select individual frames to include as photos in your report, let—”

“Tapes? Photos?” Morrison asked loudly. “What the hell are—”

“It’s in the contract you signed,” Niall cut in. “No images taken by Rarities will be used for publication without your written permission. The appraisal isn’t for publication. It’s for our files and yours. It will be a four-color beauty worthy of framing.”

Morrison looked at the necklace like it was a snake. He held a losing hand and knew it. He might possibly sell the necklace before bureaucratic wheels turned him into roadkill, but he doubted it. Time to cut his losses and find another game.

“Fuck it,” he said. “Keep the necklace. You want the name of the guy that sold it to me?”

“We’re always interested in provenance,” Dana said, her voice creamy again.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you are. Any chance of a finder’s fee for me on this one?”

“We’ll do our best to secure one. My office is free at the moment. Would you care for coffee or something stronger?”

With a muttered curse, Morrison followed Dana out of the clean room. His voice floated back, telling about a high-stakes poker game where cash, gems, and fancy jewelry were all part of the pot. The words
flea market
and
wife
weren’t part of the conversation.

Risa watched Morrison stalk out of sight, enjoying every bit of it. Dana was one of the few people on earth Risa really respected. Niall was another.

Niall saw her X-rated lips turn up in a small smile. “What?” he said. “You’ve seen Dana in action before.”

“Always a pleasure, but that’s not why I’m smiling.”

“Oh?”

“I thought I recognized Morrison. He’s a regular at the Golden Fleece’s version of your clean rooms.”

Niall thought of Shane Tannahill’s very private, very secure rooms on the top floor of the Golden Fleece. The rooms were rented out to people who didn’t want to gamble in the noisy fishbowl of the casino’s public rooms. “High roller?”

“Yes. Shane even plays poker with him occasionally.”

“Morrison sure wasn’t wearing his poker face today.”

“He didn’t know Dana was playing.”

Niall’s smile flashed wolfishly. “Live and learn.”

S
erena stood in a guest room on the second floor of Erik North’s bemusing castle. The view of the street was partially blocked by a blazing riot of bougainvillea, but she could see enough. Too much, actually.

“He’s still out there,” she said unhappily.

Erik didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know what she was talking about. The green baby pickup had indeed followed them off the freeway, up the sand-scoured four-lane highway to the edge of the city, through the illogical maze of residential streets in old Palm Springs, and right up to the gate of his home.

“You want a different room?” he asked.

“One without a view of the street?”

“Yeah.”

“If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

He grabbed her bag off the bed. “Follow me.”

She walked behind him, trying not to admire the flexed strength of his bare forearm holding her bag, his easy stride, and the fit of his faded jeans. Something about him made her palms tingle, and that made her feel like rubbing something—or biting it. It wasn’t a feeling she liked or knew how to handle, because she had never had it before she met Erik.

When Picky began to wind around her feet, more than a little edgy and demanding in his new surroundings, she was glad of the excuse to pick him up. He allowed her seventeen seconds of adoration, then leaped out of her arms to continue exploring the house.