Gold of Kings (6 page)

S
TORM WOKE HIM WITH A
mug of coffee and “The bathroom is through the bedroom. We need to hurry.”

In the middle of the night, Harry had awakened to find a blanket on top of him and a sofa spring digging into his hip. He had stretched the blanket on the floor, rolled himself up, and slept well. Harry was still dressed in the shorts he had purchased from the hotel boutique. He raised himself onto the sofa, sipped from the mug, and took stock. His body was sore, but nothing hurt too much. Harry drained the mug, set it aside, and pushed himself upright. When Storm reached over to help, Harry said, “I'm okay.”

“Your shirt was a goner. Stained and torn and ugly to start.” She handed him an oversized Gators T-shirt. “This should fit. Our first stop will be for some new clothes.”

He showered and inspected his bruises and decided he would live to fight another day. He slipped the T-shirt over his head and was enveloped by a distinctly feminine fragrance, one pleasant enough to stifle the groan from raising his arms. When he came out, Storm met him with a recharged mug and a breakfast of toast and fruit. Harry downed another two Advil, sat at the counter, then ate in silence. He liked the lady's calm intensity, the way she was comfortable both with silence and his presence, giving him space, treating him like a friend.

Finally he set down his mug and said, “I was in jail.”

She gave that a slow nod. “When?”

“Until four days ago. Seventeen months. Barbados. Sentenced to four years for stealing treasure out of Barbadian waters. Which I didn't do. But that's for another time.”

“Sean got you out?”

“His pal did. Don't ask me how.” Harry spun his mug and debated whether he should give her the other barrel, describe what Pinter had discovered.

She answered that one for him with, “Do you mind if we hold the rest of this talk for later? I've got…things.”

Harry slipped from the stool. “What can I do to help?”

“I don't know. I mean, I don't even know…”

“Storm, I'll only say this once.” Harry took a big breath. “I've given this a lot of thought. Sean didn't bust me out of prison because then I'd owe him one. He did it because he trusted me. He can't be here to help you. I can.”

Storm just stood and stared at him with that darkly fractured gaze. “Was he murdered?”

“You want my take on it, I'd say, absolutely.”

She tied her fingers in a knot, a strong and lovely woman trying hard to hold on. “I don't understand any of this.”

“That's why I'm here. To help find out what we need to know.”

 

STORM WROTE OUT THE ADDRESS
where he was to meet her, and sent him off with instructions precise as military orders. Harry's first stop was the fanciest barbershop he had ever visited. The old guy was seriously displeased with Harry's state. Harry used the time to give himself a long inspection. He found a few deeper lines and some he hadn't seen before. The biggest difference was his eyes, which had gone prison flat. Something a fancy haircut couldn't disguise.

He returned to Worth Avenue and entered Saks. He bought gabardine slacks and knit shirts to match, a couple of cotton sweaters, belt, shoes, and a midnight blue Armani suit. Harry had not worn a suit since his last court appearance and could not remember the last tie he'd owned. Not to mention a dress shirt with studs and a bow tie, which
Storm had insisted on. He managed the entire process without once looking at the prices. Harry waited while they hemmed his pants, then dressed in slacks and a sports shirt. The woman rang him up on Storm's credit card.

He used Storm's key to let himself into the upstairs apartment and dropped off the purchases he wasn't wearing. Harry took a long moment to study the empty chamber. Sean's absence compressed the air. Harry said to no one in particular, “I won't let you down.”

Harry took a taxi to the church and retrieved his rental car. He followed Storm's instructions across the southern causeway to the convention center, a new structure in a redone region of West Palm Beach. A huge marquee over the front entrance announced the annual art and treasures fair.

The convention center was Palm Beach elegant, with plush carpeting and walls of glass overlooking the obligatory palms and oleander borders. Chandeliers hung from a pine ceiling stained to look like teak. The people spoke in polished tones that suggested they were born to handle treasure other people sweated over. Storm had left him a merchant's badge at the front desk. A woman who managed to look casual in silk and pearls directed him down the proper aisle.

When Harry found Storm, he said, “I'll never complain again over paying you folks your cut.”

Harry helped Storm unpack a variety of items from crates, all of which bore pink tags marked
Vetted.
In the terse manner of someone chewing over a lot more than the work at hand, Storm described the honor of being invited to join as one of only 212 exhibitors allowed to rent space. Other vendors passing their booth scouted the terrain like vultures hovering above an almost-dead body.

When Storm went quiet, he said softly, “The loss just keeps on growing with each breath.”

She gave him what Harry could only call a look straight from Sean. Layers of meaning, intent as a drill. Storm said, “There's something I need to tell you.”

Harry let her draw him to the back of the booth, where a clever little corner held a trio of chairs and an Italian Renaissance secretary, for those moments of discreet negotiation. Like now.

Harry was so touched by Storm trusting him it took a moment for her words to sink in. “Sean orders you to New York,” he summarized, “where he fires you in the back of a limo, then drops dead half an hour later. Then the day after you get back, this so-called lawyer you've never met waltzes into the shop.”

“Less than an hour after I opened up.”

“And takes you to a bank vault where you find his
notebook
?”

Storm gave her head a tight shake. Not in denial. Tamping down on a sudden surge of grief. “Sean knew what was about to happen to him. He knew, and still he went on with it.”

“I've been wondering about that very same thing.”

“Why didn't he just
stop
?”

“It was important.”

Her eyes glittered so bright it hurt Harry to meet her gaze. “More important than Syrrell's?”

Harry heard the real question, the one Sean's granddaughter would never ask—more important than being there for her? He saw the yearning for what the old man had probably never offered: a kind word, an embrace, an affirmation. Harry said, “Let's look at what we know. Sean cared for you enough to set you apart. You've got the tools and the space to operate. If you want to.”

“What I
want
—”

“Listen to what I'm saying. Getting angry with the old man now, when he's gone, won't get you any further than while he was alive.” Harry gave her time to blink, to breathe, to refocus. “Sean had something in his sights that was bigger to him than his company, than his
life
. What could that possibly have been?”

A droll voice filled the empty moment. “Storm, finally. I've been looking all over.”

Storm did not look up. “Curtis, now isn't a good time.”

“I won't keep you long. It's only the matter of that Grecian vase.” A foppish gentleman stepped into the booth. The gold insignia on his navy blazer caught the light as he pointed. “I have a buyer, you see.”

“The price is the same as last week.”

“Do be reasonable. I'm offering cash on the silver palaver, as it were. Take it while you can claim it as your own, that's my advice. Next week,
who knows, your money could well go straight into some banker's purse.” He used his nose as a lofty pointer. “Shall we say a hundred and fifty thousand?”

“My bottom price is two-ten.”

“You are a tough nut. But I do want that for my client. Two hundred even, but only if you throw in that little stand.”

“This happens to be a Napoleonic commode with its original ormolu facade. The price on that is eighty thousand.”

“Oh, all right. Two-twenty for the both of them.”

When Emma Webb appeared at the entrance, Storm reluctantly rose to her feet. “Two-fifty for the pair. Banker's draft or cash. I'll redtag it until tomorrow only. Don't even think of arguing, Curtis. You'll have to excuse us.”

Emma slipped past the departing dealer. The federal agent wore a suit the color of desert khaki, only in silk. The short skirt revealed shapely legs in matching tights. Heels, gold Rolex and choker, diamond studs. Everything distinctly feminine except the expression. And the metallic tint to her voice. “I need to speak privately with you.”

“Not a chance.”

“Are you aware that Harry Bennett is a convicted felon?”

Harry said, “There's no such thing in the Barbados legal system as a felon. Besides which, I was framed.”

“Oh. Excuse me. An innocent con. How novel.”

Harry told Storm, “I'll go walk the halls.”

Storm stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Harry Bennett is here because my grandfather asked him to come. I'm still trying to work out exactly what role you play.”

Emma said, “We have a suspicious death tied directly to Harry Bennett, not to mention the attack on you.”

“Which Harry foiled. And don't forget you only know about the London attack because he told you.”

Harry said to Storm, “I forgot to ask. Did you call your aunt?”

“Last night.”

“Excuse me, I'm talking here,” Emma said. “My superiors are concerned Harry Bennett might be part of some plot.”

“You're suggesting Harry had something to do with my grandfather's death? That's insane.”

“Not directly, no. He couldn't have. We checked. Harry Bennett wasn't in the country when Sean Syrrell died. But we don't know who he works for. Or why precisely he's here at all.”

Storm crossed her arms. “Funny. I was just going to say the same thing about you.”

Emma punched a hand into her purse and came out with a leather case. She flipped it open and held it out.

Storm inspected it carefully. “At least you didn't lie about your name.”

“I told you. Everything I said was the truth.”

Harry read off the badge. “Treasury?”

“On temporary assignment to a Homeland Security task force. I also act as liaison between the task force and Interpol.”

Harry asked, “Interpol was investigating Sean?”

Storm said, “Sean was the most honest man I've ever known.”

Harry said, “I'd give that a big ten four.”

“Imagine my surprise when Sean Syrrell showed up in my law office, a setup that was supposedly top secret, and asked me to represent him.”

Harry liked that one. “He broke your cover. That sounds like Sean.”

“You're missing the point,” Storm said, her gaze locked on Emma. “He knew there was nothing he could say to stop your investigation.”

“Sean Syrrell showed up and said, ‘Do this in the case of my death,'” Emma said.

Harry was nodding now. “Any warning he might have passed on would only have heightened your suspicions. But this…”

Storm's voice almost broke over the weight of saying, “He knew
everything
.”

Harry asked, “What do you want from Storm?”

“My superior would like to have a word.”

“Your Interpol guy?”

“No. Homeland Security.”

“Not a chance,” Storm replied. “In case you haven't noticed, we're a little busy around here.”

“Fine. Give it half an hour and I'll be back with a warrant.” Emma Webb stowed her badge back in her purse. “Now how do you want your eggs?”

 

TWO BRIDGES SPANNED THE INTRACOASTAL
Waterway connecting Palm Beach Island to the real world. Nobody who worked on PBI and lived on the mainland called them causeways. They were simply the roads to work, as in, take the south road because the north is jammed with the tourist brigade. A block east of the north bridge, the road divided and broadened and slowed where the frenetic tide of mainland energy met the barrier of serious wealth. A palm-lined park split the east and west lanes. The northern side facing the park held the Palm Beach equivalent of a strip mall—Kobe-beef burger joints and beach shops selling thousand-dollar thongs. Emma led Storm into the café and stopped at a table by the rear wall. “Storm Syrrell, Jack Dauer.”

Dauer was the only guy in the place wearing a suit. When he waved Storm into a chair, the motion opened his jacket so his gun and his badge gleamed in the sunlight. Storm was fairly certain he did it on purpose. “Have a seat, Ms. Syrrell.”

Emma asked, “Coffee?”

“Cappuccino. Thanks.”

“I don't know if our budget will stretch that far.” Dauer watched Emma step to the counter. “These prices, man, I haven't seen anything like this place since I chased down a suspect in Istanbul. You know Istanbul, Ms. Syrrell?”

“No.”

“You sure? Your grandfather did a lot of business around the Med.” Jack Dauer was so lean as to suggest all human kindness had been leeched away. He tapped a large class ring on the back of the empty chair beside him as he inspected her. When Emma Webb returned, he said, “So you don't know about your grandfather's Istanbul dealings. What portion of his illegal activities did you handle?”

Storm sipped from her cup and licked the froth from her upper lip. She remained caught between her conversation with Harry and the thought that all this, even the guy seated across from her, worked off a script of her grandfather's making. “If you thought I actually knew about unlawful activities, we'd be having this conversation in your offices.”