Don't Look Down (22 page)

“I know. And as my attorney, I’m asking you to carry out my orders.” He drew a breath. “As my friend, I’m asking you to do what you can to help me.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I told you she was trouble. But did you listen to me? No, you went right ahead just like you always do and—”

“Before you say another word, you might want to consider it very carefully, Tom. You need to find a different song. That one’s getting old.”

Donner inflated like a puffer fish, then abruptly blew out his breath. “I’ve got five phone calls out, to the watch commander, the chief of detectives, the chief of police, the district attorney, and Judge William Bryson. This time, you will owe somebody a favor.”

“I can live with that.”

“Okay.” Tom nodded. “Go home, Rick. I’m working on finding out exactly what Barstone was arrested for, and what the D.A. is going to charge him with. I will call you as soon as I know anything. I promise.”

Every part of Richard rebelled against simply retreating somewhere and waiting for someone else to take action. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by invading the Donners’ house and glowering. Uttering a quiet expletive, he brushed past the attorney and headed downstairs again. “As soon as you know anything,” he repeated.

Sam sat in a metal chair behind a glass partition and waited. It was past visiting hours, but she’d stepped on every toe and charmed every ass she needed to in order to get a seat on that chair. Castillo would probably be pissed at the freedom with which she’d thrown his name around, but at heart she was a thief—and she would steal whatever she needed to, including the detective’s name, to get what she wanted.

The door at the far end of the room opened and a sheriff emerged, Stoney beside him. Her throat tightened. He still wore his street clothes, but the belt with the loops was new,
as were the two sets of handcuffs running through it. The sheriff guided him to the chair on the opposite side of the partition, then retreated to the doorway again.

“Did you set me up?” Stoney asked quietly, dark eyes on hers.

“What? No!” The words ripped from her throat. “How could you think that?”

“What am I supposed to think?” he hissed back. “You give me a job, cops bust down my door, evidence planted in my damned closet, how—”

“Stop!” she began, lowering her voice when the cop by the door stirred. “Stop. First, you weren’t supposed to buy the sculpture; I just wanted to know who was selling. Second, th—”

“I didn’t buy it. I went to the meet and nobody was there. So I went home to eat a sandwich.”

“But the cops found the sculpture.”

“Yeah, in my damned front closet.”

She gazed at him, a half-dozen scenarios crowding through her skull. “You were set up.”

“No shit. If it wasn’t you—”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

He took a more even breath. “I really didn’t think so, but I’m kinda pissed off right now. What about your boyfriend? I know he doesn’t like me very much.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. It wasn’t Rick.”

“But you know who did it, so spill.”

“I think it was Daniel Kunz. Getting you accused would definitely take any heat off him. And it might be a warning to me, to back off.”

“So I’m just the scapegoat. Great.” He leaned forward an inch or so. “In that case, get me the fuck out of here, Sam.”

She could see it in his eyes, behind the anger. He’d fenced
every job she and Martin had ever pulled. Even with just one year for every caper, he was looking at forty plus years in prison. And he knew it, and he was scared. “I’m trying,” she muttered back, “but they’ve got a seventy-two hour hold on you.”

“I can’t do this, Sam. Please, honey.”

For a heartbeat she thought of the Glock in the car. She could do it, but it wouldn’t help. It might even be what Daniel was hoping for, that she’d break Stoney out. Then the cops would have their suspects. “Stoney, I’ll come up with a plan. I promise. But right now you’re probably safer here.”

“Bullshit.”

“There’s something going on, and at least now I know
you’re
not going to end up with a bullet in your chest.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you leave me here, dammit. I told you we should have gone to Venice. But no, you had to stay here with your pretty boy and play detective. So help me, I—”

She stood, backing away. Another second of this and she was either going to cry or jump the partition and hit him. “You’re just going to have to trust me, Stoney. I’m sorry.”

He rose as well, and the sheriff immediately approached. “Sam—”

“I’ll get you out as soon as I can, Stoney, but you have to trust me. I love you.”

When she returned to the safety of the SLR, she did cry. This was what her lame attempt to go straight had gotten her—her only family in jail. And they wouldn’t even confirm the charges, which to her said they were still trying to pile them on. She didn’t doubt that by Monday one of them would be the murder of Charles Kunz.

This had to be Daniel’s doing. Threats behind her back,
and offers of seduction to her face. Okay, she couldn’t confront him without something to back up her suspicions, but she could talk to someone with whom he was well acquainted. “Patricia,” she murmured, putting the car into gear again. Rick’s ex, Peter’s ex, Patricia Addison-Wallis seemed to have a knack for associating with the wrong men. And the two of them needed to have a little chat.

Rick sat in the Donners’ driveway, the Bentley idling. This was the crux of the conflict between himself and Samantha. He’d gone through legal channels—every channel possible—while she was off somewhere using her own methods of detection. He couldn’t guess how she felt at the moment, but he knew quite well what he was feeling: useless. And that simply wasn’t acceptable.

Samantha hadn’t told him much, but he was good at paying attention. Walter had been arrested with a Giacometti. And it happened that he’d seen one on Charles’s desk when he’d gone to find Daniel trying to maul Samantha there. If he confronted Daniel, dearly as he would love to beat the shit out of him, he might jeopardize both what Samantha was trying to do, and whatever Castillo was investigating.

He paused, his inconclusive but very interesting conversation with Laurie Kunz running through his head. Picking up his cell, he rang Tom again.

“What? I know you’re still in my damned driveway.”

“Paradise Realty. I want all their paperwork.”

“What the hell for?”

“And whatever you can get of Kunz family wills and trusts,” Richard continued, ignoring the commentary. “I’ll want them right after the Kingdom meeting tomorrow.”

“You’re going to have to pay for my therapy, after this.”

“I’ll pay for you and Kate and the kids to spend a week in Cancun.”

“Deal.”

He hung up the phone. It so happened that Laurie had given him another direction to consider, as well. Apparently Patricia and Daniel had some kind of relationship. And Patricia owed him at least one favor.

Against her better judgment, Samantha let a valet park the SLR at The Breakers. She didn’t have time to be squeamish tonight. In the lobby she found a house phone and dialed reception.

“Good evening, how may I direct your call?”

“Guest Patricia Addison-Wallis, please.”

“Just a moment.”

The phone rattled and answered after the third ring. “Yes?” Patricia’s scratchy voice came.

Apparently Patricia had nothing better to do on a Friday night than go to bed early. Which meant Daniel was elsewhere, and could have been up to anything. “Miss Addison-Wallis?” she drawled. “The hotel would like to gift you with a complementary bottle of champagne.”

“Well, thank you,” Patty said, her voice perkier.

“Certainly. I have your room number as 816. We’ll send—”

“I’m in 401,” she interrupted.

“Oh, yes. My apologies. Eight sixteen is the time the order request came in. Your champagne will be up momentarily.”

“Thank you.”

Sam hung up. “Schmuck,” she muttered, heading for the bar to swipe a champagne bottle.

That done, she took an elevator to the fourth floor. Patricia
had the floor’s suite—an odd choice for someone trying to live on a budget, but she couldn’t begin to figure out the workings of the Ex’s mind. She knocked, holding the bottle up in front of the peephole.

“You might at least have put it on ice,” Patricia said, pulling open the door. “I expected more from—Oh, it’s you. Get out of here.”

“Thanks,” Samantha answered, pushing past Patricia and closing the door behind her, then tossing the bottle onto a chair. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy. Go away.”

Samantha glanced through the open bedroom door. It belatedly occurred to her that Daniel might have been in bed with her and that was the reason Patricia had made it an early night, but only one side of the bed was turned down, and the television was on. “I can see you’re busy,” she returned. “You and Jay Leno.”

Patricia pulled the monogrammed Breakers bathrobe closer around herself. “What do you want, then?”

“I want to have a little chat about Daniel.”

“Why, Richard isn’t enough? You have to steal every man away from me?”

“Excuse me?” Sam lifted an eyebrow. “One, you and Rick have been divorced for like three years. Two, as far as Daniel is concerned, yuck.”

“You kissed him. And don’t try to deny it, because I saw you.”

Great. This was not the conversation Sam wanted to have, and it wasn’t one she had time for, either. “If you want to get technical,
he
kissed
me
, but trust me, he’s all yours. Now have a seat.”

Patricia went to the coffee table for a cigarette. “You are
not going to order me about, and we are not going to have a chat. Get out before I call security.”

“Then call security, and I’ll ask them if they can verify where you were this evening, and on the night Charles Kunz was killed.”

“
What
?” Patricia’s ivory-colored skin went a shade lighter. “I did not—Oh, no, you don’t. You are not going to do this to me again. My life was ruined—
ruined
—after Peter went to jail. I’m still paying for it. This is not going to—”

“Hey, Patty. Peter tried to blow me up, and then he fractured my skull. Quit screwing criminals who’re trying to hurt me and mine, and I’ll stay out of your life.”

“Sod off, Jellicoe. If you think Daniel is trying to hurt Richard, you’re mad.”

“Not Rick. When’s the last time you saw Daniel?”

“I’m not going to answer anything. You’re trespassing, and I want you to leave.”

“I don’t care what you w—”

The door rattled with the force of a knock, and both women jumped. “Now what?” Patricia sniffed, going to the door.

Rick strode into the room. “Patricia, we need to talk,” he snapped, then saw Samantha and stopped dead. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment Samantha just looked at him. They’d obviously come to the same conclusion, and he’d elected not to remain at home and wait for someone else’s report. He’d come because he thought she might need help saving Stoney. And he had so much more to lose than she did if he let himself get entangled in this mess. But he would know that, too.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I called Patricia and pretended to be room service to find out her room number,” Sam commented, tilting her head to watch him approach. “How did you find her?”

“I asked the front desk.”

“Show-off.”

“They like me here,” he continued, his expression easing as he walked toward her.

“Obviously.”

“I presume you’re here to ask some questions about Daniel,” he said, brushing her hand as he passed her and sank onto the couch. “Anything interesting?”

“We’re still at the hostile greetings stage. Have you heard anything new?”

“No. Tom’s working on it.” He turned his attention to his ex-wife. “So, Patricia, where’s Daniel?”

“Daniel?” Patricia stammered, lighting her cigarette. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She jabbed the glowing tip in Samantha’s direction. “And she’s a bloody liar, anyway.”

“This isn’t about Sam. It’s about Daniel. When is the last time you saw him?”

“Richard—”

“Sit down and answer the question, Patricia. I don’t want to have to resort to threats. It’s not dignified.”

Satisfying as it was for her to see Rick finally letting loose on the Ex, she knew that ganging up on Patricia was likely to leave her feeling the persecuted martyr. Once Patricia decided it was her lot in life to suffer, they’d never get anything out of her. And if she’d been in Patricia’s shoes, she’d rather go to jail than confess her new errors to the ex-husband on whom she hadn’t quite given up.

She sat down beside him. “Rick, leave this to me,” she
murmured, while Patricia continued to aim disparaging remarks at her.

“She’s
my
ex-wife,” he returned. “I’m involved, too.”

“I know you are. And you coming here…We’ll talk about that later. But she won’t confess anything to you. She might to me.”

Rick looked at her. “Don’t shut me out of this.”

Samantha kissed him on the cheek. She couldn’t help herself. “I’m not. But she’s not going to admit to you that she’s sleeping with Daniel, and you know it. This is a girl thing.”

For a long moment she thought he wouldn’t move. Finally, though, he blew out his breath and stood. “I’m going to find Castillo,” he muttered, gripping her fingers. “And I’m going to see if I can find out where Daniel is.”

She frowned. “I don’t want him to know why—”

“He won’t know why I’m asking.” Rick planted a kiss on her lips. “We have a polo match on Monday, and it can’t hurt to go over strategy. See? I learn things about subterfuge from you every day.” Placing his hands on both her shoulders, he held her there for a moment. “Just be careful, Samantha,” he whispered. “I mean it.”

“I will be.” The honest concern in his face was almost too much to take. Jeez. Who would have thought that nearly getting blown up with a guy three months ago would have turned into this, where he’d become so…precious to her? “And I’m sorry I took off like that. I couldn’t think.”