Hidden Riches (30 page)

“You don't want to,” she corrected. “And considering the role models in your life, it's certainly logical. The problem is, Skimmerhorn, emotions just aren't logical. Mine aren't.” She tilted her head and the sun creamed over her skin, warming it, as her voice was warm, as the room was warm with her in it. “I told you I love you, and you'd probably have preferred a slap in the face, but there it is. I didn't mean to say it—or maybe I did.”

In a vulnerable and weary gesture, she brushed a hand through her hair. “Maybe I did,” she repeated softly. “Because even though I understood how you might react, I'm just not used to bottling my feelings inside. But they are my feelings, Jed. They don't ask you for anything.”

“When a woman tells a man she loves him, she's asking for everything.”

“Is that how you see it?” She smiled a little, but her eyes were dulled with sadness. “Let me tell you how I see it. Love's a gift, and can certainly be refused. Refusing doesn't destroy the gift, it simply puts it aside. You're free to do that. I'm not asking for a gift in return. It's not that I don't want it, but I don't expect it.”

She rose then and, crossing the room, took his face gently in her hands. Her eyes were still sad, but there was a bottomless compassion in them that humbled him. “Take what's offered, Jed, especially when it's offered generously and without expectations. I won't keep throwing it in your face. That would only embarrass us both.”

“You're leaving yourself open, Dora.”

“I know. It feels right to me.” She kissed him, one cheek, the other, then his mouth. “Relax and enjoy, Skimmerhorn. I intend to.”

“I'm not what you need.” But he gathered her close and held on. Because she was what he needed. She was so exactly what he needed.

“You're wrong.” She closed her eyes and willed the threatening tears away. “You're wrong about the house, too. You're both just waiting.”

 

He kept losing his train of thought. Jed knew the details he and Brent discussed were vital, but he kept seeing Dora sitting on the window seat of his old, hated room, with sunlight pooling around her.

And he kept remembering the way her hands had felt against his face when she'd smiled and asked him to accept love.

“Jed, you're making me feel like a boring history teacher.”

Jed blinked, focused. “What?”

“Exactly.” Blowing out a breath, Brent leaned back in his desk chair. “You want to tell me what's on your mind?”

“It's nothing.” He washed the mood away with some of the station house's atomic coffee. “What you've picked up on Winesap makes it look like he's another underling. I still think the best way to handle this is to approach the top man, Finley. Not directly. The longer we can keep the smuggled painting under wraps, the better.”

“What I can gather on the guy wouldn't fill a teacup,” Brent complained. “He's rich—rich enough to make you look like a piker, pal—successful, single, obsessively private.”

“And as the head of a large import-export firm, would be the perfect warehouse for smuggled goods.”

“If wishing only made it so,” Brent murmured. “We've got no hard evidence on Finley. Sure, the shipment was addressed to his assistant, and DiCarlo works for him.”

“DiCarlo's small-time, a hustler. You've only got to look at his rap sheet.”

“And Finley has no rap sheet. He's the American ideal, a modest self-made man and a solid citizen.”

“Then a little digging shouldn't hurt him,” Jed pointed out. “I want to take a trip to LA.”

“I thought that was where this was leading.” Uncomfortable, Brent shifted. “Listen, Jed, I know you've got a personal investment in this. The department wouldn't have diddly without you.”

“But,” Jed interrupted, “I'm not with the department.”

Feeling miserable, Brent pushed at his glasses, fiddled with papers on his desk. “Goldman's asking questions.”

“Maybe it's time you answered them.”

“The commissioner thinks so.”

“I'm a civilian, Brent. There's nothing to stop me from taking a trip to the coast—at my own expense, on my own time.”

“Why don't you cut the crap?” Brent blurted out. “I know you've got a meeting with the commissioner in an hour, and we both know what he's going to say. You can't keep straddling this. Make my life easier and tell me you're coming back on the job.”

“I can't tell you that. I
can
tell you I'm thinking about it.”

The oath dried up on Brent's tongue. “Seriously?”

“More seriously than I ever thought I would.” Jed rose and paced to the frosted glass door, to the scarred file cabinets, to the coffeepot thick with dregs. “Goddamn, I miss this place.” Nearly amused at himself, Jed turned back. “Isn't that some shit? I miss it—every minute of the tedium, the fucking reports, the candy-assed rookies. Nine mornings out of ten I reach for my shoulder harness before I remember it's not there. I even thought about buying one of those frigging police scanners so I'd know what the hell's going on.”

“Hallelujah.” Brent folded his hands, prayerlike. “Let me tell Goldman. Please, let me be the one.”

“I didn't say I was coming back.”

“Yeah, you did.” On impulse Brent leaped up, grabbed Jed by the shoulders and kissed him.

“Christ, Chapman. Get a grip.”

“The men are going to welcome you back like a god. What does Dora think about it?”

Jed's foolish grin faded. “She doesn't think anything. We haven't talked about it. It doesn't concern her.”

“Oh.” Brent tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Uh-huh. Mary Pat and I have a bet. She says I'll be renting a tux as best man by the end of the school year. I say Easter vacation. We tend to mark time by the school calendar.”

The quick flutter of panic in Jed's stomach staggered him. “You're off base.”

“Come on, Captain, you're crazy about her. Ten minutes ago you were staring into space daydreaming. And if she wasn't the star of the show, I'll kiss Goldman on the mouth.”

“You're awful free with your affections these days. Drop it, will you?”

He knew that tone of voice—the verbal equivalent of a brick wall. “Okay, but I've got dinner for two at the Chart House riding on you.” Brent leaned back on the edge of his desk. “I'd appreciate a rundown of what you and the commissioner come up with. Whether you go to LA officially or not, I can arrange some backup.”

“We'll touch base tomorrow.”

“And, Captain,” Brent added before Jed made it to the door. “Do me a favor and let them bribe you back, okay? I can make you a list of the things we could use around here.”

Brent grinned and settled down to fantasize about breaking the news to Goldman.

 

It was nearly midnight when Dora gave up the attempt to sleep and bundled into her robe. An ordinary case of insomnia. It wasn't because Jed hadn't come home, or called.

And things were really bad, she admitted, when she started lying to herself.

She switched on the stereo, but Bonnie Raitt's sultry blues seemed entirely too appropriate, so she turned it off again. Wandering into the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil.

How could she have blown it like this? she wondered as she debated without interest between Lemon Lift and chamomile. Hadn't she known that a man would head for the hills when he heard those three fateful words? Nope. She tossed a tea bag into a cup. She hadn't known because she'd never said them before. And now that she was in the real show, she'd rushed her cue.

Well, it couldn't be taken back, she decided. And she was sorry she and Jed hadn't read the same script.

He hadn't echoed the words back, or swept her up in delight. He had systematically and subtly withdrawn, inch by inch, since that fateful moment some thirty-six hours earlier. And she was very much afraid he would continue to withdraw until he had faded completely away.

Couldn't be helped. She poured the hot water into the cup and let the tea steep while she rummaged for cookies. She couldn't force him to let her show him what it could be like to give and take love. She could only keep her promise and not throw it in his face again. However much that hurt.

And she had some pride left—Bonnie Raitt was wrong about that, she thought. Love
did
have pride. She was going to pull herself together and get on with her life—with him, she hoped. Without him, if necessary. She figured she could start now by going downstairs and putting her wide-awake brain to work.

Carrying her tea, she headed out, remembering at the last minute to slip her keys into her robe pocket and lock the door behind her. She hated that, that sensation of not being completely safe in her own home. Because of it, she felt compelled to switch on lights as she went.

Once settled in the storeroom, she picked up the tedious task of continuing the reorganization of the files DiCarlo had upended.

As always, the steady work and the quiet relaxed and absorbed her. She enjoyed putting the proper thing in the proper place, and pausing occasionally to study a receipt and remember the thrill of the sale.

A paperweight commemorating the New York World's Fair, at $40. A marquetry toilet mirror, at $3,000. Three advertising signs, Brasso, Olympic ale and Players cigarettes, at $190, $27 and $185, respectively.

Jed stood midway down the stairs watching her. She'd set all the lights burning, like a child left home alone at night. She was wearing the green robe and an enormous pair of purple socks. Each time she leaned down to read a piece of paper, her hair fell softly over her cheek and curtained her face. Then she would push it back, the movement fluid and unstudied, before she filed the paper away and reached for another.

His heart rate, which had spiked when he'd seen the hallway door open, settled comfortably. Even with the desire that seemed to nag him whenever she was close, he was always comfortable looking at her.

He'd already settled his weapon back under his jacket when she turned.

She caught a glimpse of a figure and stumbled back. Papers went flying as she choked on a scream.

“What are you doing?” she said furiously. “Trying to scare me to death?”

“No.” He came down to the base of the steps. “What the hell are you doing, Conroy? It's after midnight.”

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm practicing the minuet.” Humiliated by her reaction, she crouched down to pick up scattered papers.

“You were very graceful.” He bent down, placed a hand over hers. “I'm sorry I scared you. I guess you were too involved to hear me.”

“Never mind.”

“You should be in bed.” He tilted her face up toward the light. “You look tired.”

“Thanks so much.”

“And you're bitchy, too.”

“I am not bitchy.” She sucked in an insulted breath. “I resent that term both as a feminist and as a dog lover.”

Patiently, he tucked her hair behind her ear. She'd managed to cover it remarkably quickly, he mused. But her eyes had been worried and wary after the first fright had faded. He'd hurt her already, and was very likely to do so again.

“Come on upstairs, baby.”

“I haven't finished yet.”

He lifted a brow. There was the faintest edge of resentment in her tone. It made him feel small and incredibly stupid.

“You're pissed at me.”

“I'm not.” She straightened, drew a deep breath and, with an effort of will, made the statement the truth. “I am not,” she repeated, calm again. “If I'm out of sorts it's because I feel useless having to keep the shop closed, and deceitful because I'm lying to my family.”

“You don't have to do either of those things. There's no reason not to open tomorrow, and you'd feel better if you came clean with your family.”

She considered it. “I will open,” she decided, “but I'm not telling my family. Not yet. It's for me to deal with.”

He started to argue and found he couldn't. Wasn't that the same rationale he was using to ease his conscience? He wasn't going to tell her about his meeting with the commissioner or his decision to pick up his badge. Not yet.

“Come upstairs,” he repeated. “I'll give you a back rub.”

“Why?”

“Because you're tense,” he said between his teeth. “Damn, Conroy, why do you care why? All you have to do is lie there and enjoy it.”

Eyes narrowed, she stepped back. “You're being nice to me. Why? You're setting me up for something, Skimmerhorn. You're planning on doing something you know I won't like.” She raced up the steps after him.

“Don't keep things from me.” She laid a hand on his arm as he unlocked his door. “Please. It's something about DiCarlo, isn't it? About the painting, the whole mess.”

It was more than that. And less. He wondered if it was
the coward's way out to give her that one part.

“I'm going to LA to have a talk with DiCarlo's boss.”

“Winesap?” Her brow creased as she concentrated. “That's who the shipment was supposed to go to, wasn't it?”

“The top man's name is Finley, Edmund G.,” Jed told her. “I'll start with him.”

“And you think he—Finley—was expecting the shipment, that he arranged for the smuggling?”

“Yeah.” He poured whiskey, for both of them. “That's what I think.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Enough to buy a ticket for LA.” He handed her the glass, then offered a brief rundown.

“Import-export,” she mused when he'd finished. “Then he's probably a collector. They almost always are. It's possible that he was unaware of DiCarlo's sideline—after all, you said it was a big company. But if he isn't . . .”

He caught the gleam in her eye and bit back a sigh. “Don't think, Conroy. You can be dangerous when you think.”