Hidden Riches (36 page)

“That's a given,” Mary Pat agreed. “But this was major. And this was cold. Lea, I've known Jed a long time,
and he's not cold. Careful, but not cold.”

“Maybe he forgot the difference.”

 

Odd things happen to the mind at two o'clock in the morning. Particularly to a man who's waiting for a woman. He begins to speculate, to project, to worry and to sweat. Jed paced his living room, strode through the door he'd propped open and paced the corridor.

As he had numerous times over the last four hours, he strode to the back door and stared out at the gravel lot. His car was as alone out there as he was alone inside. There was no sign of Dora.

Where the hell was she? He strode back to his apartment to look at the clock, to check its time with his watch. Two-oh-one. If she wasn't home in ten minutes, he promised himself, he would call in all his markers and put out an APB.

He stared at the phone. It wasn't until he'd picked up the receiver that he realized his hand was sweating. Swearing, he slammed the phone back on the cradle. No, he wasn't going to call the hospitals. He wasn't even going to let himself think that way.

But where the hell was she? What the hell could she have to do at two in the morning?

He started to reach for the phone again and stopped as a fresh idea sharpened in his brain. Unless she was paying him back. It was a safe, even a comforting thought, so he played with it. Was this how she'd felt when he'd come in late without leaving any word? Was she doing this to show him how it was to agonize over silence when the person who mattered was out of reach?

She wasn't going to get away with it, he decided. She damn well was going to pay for it. But he was reaching for the phone again when he heard her key in the outside lock.

He was out in the hall and at the door before she'd opened it.

“Where the hell have you been?” The demand burst out
of him, ripe with worried fury. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yes.” Very deliberately she closed the door and locked it. “Sorry. I didn't realize I had a curfew.”

She walked past him only because he was too stunned to stop her. But he recovered quickly. He caught up with her at the door of her apartment and spun her around.

“Just a Goddamn minute, Conroy. We'll forget the personal stuff for now. The fact is you're a prime target, and it was incredibly irresponsible of you to be out of contact for half the night.”

“I'm responsible to and for myself.” She jammed the key in the lock and shoved the door open. “And as you can see, I'm perfectly fine.”

He slapped a hand against the door before she could close it. “You had no right—”

“Don't tell me about rights,” she interrupted, very cool, very calm. “I spent the evening as I chose to spend it.”

Anger and resentment bubbled inside him. “And how was that?”

“Alone.” She took off her coat and hung it in the closet.

“You did this to get under my skin, didn't you?”

“No.” She walked past him toward the kitchen to pour a glass of water. “I did it because I wanted to. I'm sorry if you were worried. It didn't occur to me that you would be.”

“It didn't occur to you.” Incensed, he grabbed the glass out of her hand and tossed it into the sink. It shattered effectively. “Fuck that, Conroy. You knew damn well I'd be half crazy. I was about to call out a Goddamn APB.”

“Interesting, isn't it, the way those police terms slide right off your tongue? It's a good thing you're going back on, Skimmerhorn. You make a lousy civilian.” Her eyes were as dull as her voice. “Are congratulations in order, Captain, or just best wishes?” When he didn't respond, she nodded. “Well, you can have both.”

“It's not official until next week.” He spoke carefully, studying her. He'd never seen her eyes that cold, or that detached. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter? It's more to the point that I didn't find out from you. Excuse me.” She brushed past him and into the living room.

He closed his eyes a moment and cursed himself for a fool. “So you're pissed. Okay. But that—”

“No,” she interrupted. “It's not okay. And I'm not pissed.” Because she was tired, unbearably so, she gave in and sat on the arm of a chair. “You could say I've been illuminated. You could even say that I'm devastated, but no, Jed, I'm not angry.”

The quiet resignation in her voice reached him. “Dora, I didn't do it to hurt you.”

“I know that. That's why I'm illuminated. You didn't tell me because you didn't think it was any of my concern. You didn't want it to be any of my concern is probably more accurate. It was a major decision in your life. Your life,” she repeated with stinging emphasis. “Not mine. So why should you bother to tell me?”

She was slipping away from him. He was standing two feet away from her and watching the distance grow by leaps and bounds. It terrified him. “You make it sound as though I was keeping it from you. I needed to work it out, that's all. I didn't think you'd understand.”

“You didn't give me the chance, Jed,” she said quietly. “Did you think I could have felt the way I did about you and not understand how important your work was to you?”

Her use of the past tense had a quick skidder of panic sprinting up his spine. “It had nothing to do with you.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were ill chosen. Her eyes remained dry, but hurt filled them. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“I think you did. I wish I didn't blame you for it, but I do. I know you had it rough, but you've been making your own choices for a long time. You chose not to accept my feelings for you, and you chose not to let yourself feel anything back. And I do blame you for that, Jed.”

Her voice didn't waver, her eyes remained steady, but
the hands in her lap were clenched tight. “I blame you very much for that, and for hurting me. I told you I don't handle pain very well, and I don't pretend it's not there when it is. Since you're the first man who's ever broken my heart, I think you should know it.”

“For Christ's sake, Dora.” He started toward her, but the way she jumped up and stepped back unmanned him.

“I don't want you to touch me now.” She spoke very quietly, clinging to the slippery edge of control. “I really don't. It's humiliating for me to finally understand that's all we had.”

“That's not true.” He fisted his hands at his sides, but already knew he couldn't beat his way through the wall he'd thrown up between them. “You're blowing this out of proportion, Dora. It's just a job.”

“I wish it were. But we both know it's not. It's the most important part of your life. You gave it up to punish yourself, and you're taking it back because you can't be happy without it—and maybe not even whole without it. I'm glad for you, Jed. I truly am.”

“I don't need the analysis. I need you to stop this and be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable, believe me. So reasonable I'm going to make it easy for both of us. The day after tomorrow you should be able to tie up the loose ends about the painting. Or most of them. You shouldn't need me after that.”

“Goddamn it, you know I need you.”

Her eyes filled then, and she fought back tears like bitter enemies. “You can't imagine what I would have given to hear you say that before. Just once, for you to have been able to look at me and say that you needed me. But I'm not a courageous woman, Jed, and I have to protect myself.”

No, he couldn't break through the wall she'd put between them, but her hurt could. It snuck through the cracks and battered at him. “What do you want, Dora?”

“When we're finished on Thursday, I intend to close the shop for a couple of weeks, take a trip someplace
warm. That should give you plenty of time to find other accommodations and move out.”

“That's no way to handle this.”

“It's my way. And I figure I'm in the position of calling the shots. I'm sorry, but I don't want you here when I get back.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He had his pride. He'd been rejected before. If it burned a hole in him this time, he'd find something to fill it with. But he wouldn't beg. He'd be damned if he'd beg. “I'll go as soon as things are wrapped up.” Because it hurt, it hurt unbelievably, he covered the wounds with a professional shield. “There'll be a team in tomorrow after closing. They'll set up the wires. We'll go over procedure when they're done.”

“All right. I'm very tired. I'd like you to go now.” She walked to the door, held it open. “Please.”

It wasn't until he'd reached her that he realized his hands were unsteady. When he heard the door close behind him he had the sick and certain feeling that he'd just been shut out of the best part of his life.

“W
hat's with you two?” Brent asked as Jed climbed into the surveillance van.

Ignoring the question, Jed pulled out a cigarette. “How's the sound?”

“Loud and clear.” Though Brent offered the headphones, he was far from finished. “Loud enough and clear enough to hear the two of you talking in there like polite strangers. Don't you think she could have used a little morale boost instead of a lecture on procedure?”

“Drop it.” Jed slipped on the headphones and checked the rear window of the van to be sure he had a clear view of the shop. “Everybody in place?”

“We're set,” Brent assured him. “Look, maybe you'd feel better if you were on the inside.”

“She'll be more comfortable if I'm not. Look, I'll handle
my end.” Jed drew deeply on the cigarette. “You handle yours.”

“You're not running the show yet, Captain.” The edge of anger in Brent's voice sent off an answering ripple in Jed's blood. Before he could respond, the radio crackled.

“Base, this is Unit One. A man answering subject's description just got out of a cab on the corner of South and Front streets. He's walking west.”

“Looks like it's show time,” Brent murmured, but Jed was already reaching for the portable phone. Dora answered on the first ring.

“Good afternoon, Dora's Parlor.”

“He's half a block away,” Jed said flatly. “I've got him in view.”

“All right. Everything's ready here.”

“Keep loose, Conroy.”

“Sure.”

“Dora—” But she'd already broken the connection. “Fuck.” He said it softly, finally, helplessly.

“She can handle it, Jed.”

“Yeah. But I don't know if I can.” He watched Winesap mince hurriedly down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the wind. “I just figured out I'm in love with her.” Ignoring the throbbing at the back of his neck, he slipped on the headphones in time to hear the bells jingle as Winesap opened the shop door.

“Good afternoon.” Dora stepped away from the counter and offered her best new-customer smile. “May I help you?”

“Miss Conroy? I'm Francis Petroy.”

She let the smile broaden. “Yes, Mr. Petroy. I was expecting you.” She walked to the door to flip the Closed sign around. Her eyes slashed to the van, then away. “I'm so glad you could make it. Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”

“I wouldn't want to trouble you.”

“Not at all. I always keep both on hand for customers. It makes business so much more pleasant.”

“I'd love some tea, then.” It might soothe his stomach more than the Alka-Seltzer he'd downed an hour before. “Your shop is very impressive.”

“Thank you.” She saw, with satisfaction, that her hand was rock steady on the teapot. “I like to surround myself with beautiful things. But you'd understand that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Being an art collector.” She offered him a cup of tea and a smile. “Cream? Lemon?”

“No, no, nothing, thank you.”

“You said you specialize in abstract, but you might find some of my nostalgia prints interesting.” She gestured to a car manufacturer's sign for a Bugatti, which hung beside a Vargas girl.

“Yes, ah, very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“I also have several good
Vanity Fair
caricatures in the other room.” Watching him, she sipped her own tea. “But as an abstract buff, you'd be more interested in say, a Bothby or a Klippingdale,” she said, making up names.

“Yes, of course. Exceptional talents.” The tea soured like vinegar in Winesap's stomach. He'd tried, really tried to be thorough by studying book after book on the subject of abstract art. But all the names and pictures swam through his head. “My collection isn't extensive, you see. Which is why I concentrate on the emerging artist.”

“Such as Billingsly.”

“Exactly,” he said on a sigh of relief. “I'm very anxious to see the work, Miss Conroy.”

“Then, by all means.” She led the way into the side room. Jed's artist friend had worked overtime to reproduce the painting. Now it stood, like a gaudy stripper among prim Victorian ladies, in the pretty sitting room.

“Ah.” The sense of satisfaction was so great Winesap nearly wept with it. It was horrid, of course, he thought. Absolutely horrid, but it matched the description.

“Such a bold, arrogant style,” Dora commented. “I was really taken with it.”

“Yes, of course. It's everything I'd hoped for.” He made a show of examining the brush strokes. “I'd very much like to add this to my collection.”

“I'm sure you would.” She let a touch of amusement color her voice. “Did you have an offer in mind, Mr. Petroy?”

“In mind, naturally,” he said, trying to be coy. “I'd prefer if you'd set a price, for negotiation.”

“I'd be happy to.” Dora sat in a tufted-back chair and crossed her legs. “Why don't we start at two hundred and fifty thousand?”

Winesap's prim mouth fell open. He made a choked sound in the back of his throat before he managed to find his voice. “Miss Conroy, Miss Conroy, you can't be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You look as though you need to sit down, Mr. Petroy.” She gestured to a petit-point stool. “Now, let's be frank,” she began when he'd sunk onto the seat. “You don't know diddly about art, do you?”

“Well, really.” He tugged at his strangling tie. “As I told you, I have a small collection.”

“But you lied, Mr. Petroy,” she said gently. “You haven't a clue about abstract. Wouldn't it be simpler, and more friendly, if we admitted that we're both more interested, at the moment, in Impressionism rather than Expressionism?”

For a moment he didn't follow her. Then his pasty face blanched. “You know about the painting.”

“I bought it, didn't I?”

“Yes, but, that was a mistake.” His frantic eyes widened. “No? You knew—knew all along about the Monet? You were working with DiCarlo? You—you cheated,” he accused, miserably.

Dora merely chuckled and leaned forward. “You needn't sound so offended. After all, you sent DiCarlo here, didn't you?”

“It's been his fault.” Disgusted, Winesap threw up his hands. “All this confusion is his fault. I can't imagine why I was sorry he died so badly.”

The image in the police photo flashed obscenely in her mind. “So you killed him,” she murmured. “For this.”

But Winesap wasn't listening. “Now I have to clean up the entire mess, again. I'm not happy about the two hundred and fifty thousand, Miss Conroy. Not happy at all.”

He rose. So did Dora. Even as he reached under his coat, two officers were bursting through the rear door.

“Freeze.”

Winesap took one look at the guns pointing at him and fainted dead away. His checkbook slipped out of his hand and flapped onto the floor.

 

“He was going to pay me for it,” Dora said dully. She watched, light-headed, as two officers escorted a babbling and cuffed Winesap out of the shop. She hadn't needed to lower her head between her knees, but she remained sitting. It was an even bet as to whether or not her legs would support her. “He was going to write me a check.” A laugh bubbled out, lightly tinted with hysteria. “Jesus Christ, I wonder if I'd have asked him for two forms of ID.”

“Here.” Jed shoved a cup into her hands.

“What is it?”

“That tea you drink—with a little brandy.”

“Good idea.” She knocked it back like water and felt it warm her jittery stomach. “I guess you guys got all you needed.”

“We got plenty.” He wanted to touch his fingertips to her hair, but he was afraid she'd cringe away. “You did good, Nancy.”

“Yeah, I did.” She lifted her eyes then, made herself meet his. “I guess on some level we didn't make such a bad team.”

He stared down at her for a long time. “It's been hard on you.”

“I come from pretty tough stock, Skimmerhorn. Conroys don't fold easily.”

“You were brilliant.” Brent swept in to lift Dora out of the chair by her elbows. He kissed her, hard. “A stand-up job, Dora. You want a job on the force, you've got my recommendation.”

“Thanks. But I'm putting my magnifying glass and coupe in mothballs.”

“Come again?”

“Nancy Drew,” Jed muttered, and felt his heart sag. “I'm going down to Interrogation with Brent. Are you going to be all right?”

“I'm going to be fine. Terrific, in fact.” Her smile was blinding, but she lowered herself carefully to the arm of the chair. “It's still tough for me to believe that pathetic little man engineered all this, and killed DiCarlo.”

Brent opened his mouth, then shut it again at a swift, warning look from Jed. “We have enough on the tape to pry the rest out of him.” Because they felt useless, Jed jammed his hands in his pockets. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“I said I would. Go be a cop.” She softened the words with a smile. “It looks good on you.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Jed watched as the strands fell beautifully back into place. “I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call, let me know what the result of the interrogation is.”

“You'll get a full report,” Brent promised her.

“In the morning.” Steadier, she rose again. “I'm going upstairs and sleep around the clock. If you're finished in here, I'll lock up behind you.”

She followed them to the door. When he reached it Jed turned, closed his hand over hers on the knob. He couldn't help it. “I'd like to talk to you tomorrow, when you're feeling up to it.”

She nearly gave in. Very nearly. There was as much hurt in his eyes as she was holding inside her. But a fast break was a clean one. “My schedule's a little tight, Jed. I've booked an early-morning flight to Aruba. I've got to pack.”

There was nothing in her voice, nothing in her face that offered the slightest opening. “You move fast.”

“It seemed best all around. I'll send you a postcard.” Because she hated the bitter aftertaste of the statement, she turned her hand under his and gave it a quick squeeze. “Give 'em hell, Captain.”

She closed the door quickly and turned the lock.

 

“Why didn't you tell her we've asked LAPD to move on Finley?” Brent demanded when Jed stood on the sidewalk.

He hurt, all over, as if someone had pounded him ruthlessly and methodically with foam-covered fists. “Do you think that would have made her sleep any better?”

“No,” Brent murmured to Jed's retreating back. “Guess not.”

 

And she was telling herself that sleep was exactly what she needed. She hadn't had a decent night of it in more than a week. Dora pulled the shade on the front door, then drummed up the energy to lift the coffee-and-tea tray.

Once she got to Aruba, she promised herself, she'd do nothing but sleep. She'd sleep in bed, on the beach, in the ocean. She'd bake this aching depression out of her body and mind with the Caribbean sunshine, beat those midwinter blues and come back tanned and revitalized.

She set the tray on her desk to carefully lock the storeroom door and engage the security alarm before heading up to her apartment.

It was habit more than desire that had her taking the tray into the kitchen to wash. When she turned from the sink, she was standing face-to-face with Finley.

He smiled and took her nerveless hand in his. “I've taken you up on your offer of hospitality, Isadora. And may I say you have a charming home.”

 

“I really don't think I should make any sort of statement without a lawyer.” Winesap chewed on his ragged nails and
glanced fitfully at Brent and Jed. “I really don't.”

“Suit yourself.” Brent shrugged and straddled a chair. “We've got plenty of time. Do you want to call one, or do you want a PD?”

“A public defender?” That pricked the pride enough to have his sagging shoulders lift. “Oh no, I can afford counsel. I have a very good position.” But his lawyer was in Los Angeles, he thought. “Perhaps if you could explain again why I'm here, we could dispense with the formality of an attorney.”

“You're here on suspicion of theft, smuggling, conspiracy to murder a police officer and murder, among other things,” Brent added.

“That's really absurd.” Pride deflated again, Winesap hunched down in his seat. “I don't know where you could have gotten such a ridiculous idea.”

“Maybe you'd like to listen to the tape of your conversation with Miss Conroy.” Jed made the suggestion as he crossed to the recorder.

“That was a simple transaction—and a private one.” Winesap tried to lever some indignation through the fear in his voice. But when Jed switched on the recorder, he said nothing at all. It was painfully clear after only a few moments that he hadn't been thorough at all—and that he'd been remarkably stupid.

While his mind worked, he began to suck on his knuckles. He didn't think he would care for prison. No indeed. Winesap thought of Finley and knew he would like his employer's brand of punishment a good deal less.

“Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Might I have a cup of water, please?”

“Sure.” Agreeably, Brent went to the water cooler and pumped out a paper cupful.

“Thank you.” Winesap sipped it slowly while he considered his options. “I think I would like immunity, and a place in the witness-protection program. I think that would suit me very well.”

“I think it would suit me very well to see you rot in a cell for the next fifty years,” Jed said pleasantly.

“Captain.” Brent fell into the classic interrogation rhythm. “Let's give the guy a chance. Maybe he's got something to trade.”

“I promise you, I do. If I have assurance that my cooperation will be rewarded, I'll give you everything you need to make a very big arrest.” Loyalty, a chain around his neck for eight long years, slipped easily off. “A very big one,” he repeated.