Inheritance (80 page)

*True," said Colby sadly.

"But it's an interesting set of circumstances."

"Exactly what I said to myself."

"And you've questioned these executives?"

"No, no. I thought about it, but I don't want to alert them."

"Have them followed."

"I thought of that, too. But it could take months."

"Search their homes. Maybe they kept some of the stolen art."

"Could be. But if they didn't, and I don't find anything, they'd know I'm after them and lie low, and I'd be nowhere."

"Or on the wrong track."

*That could be, too. But I trust my instincts."

There was a silence. A new drink had appeared at Colby's elbow, and he picked it up, feeling mellow but suddenly gloomy about his case. "Sam," Paul said, "who are the two executives?"

He looked up. "Why?"

"Why not? What's the big secret? I'm not going to advertise your hypothesis. I'm not a spy from an enemy camp. I'm your fiiend, and maybe I can help you decide what to do next."

"You are a friend," Colby said, nodding. "A good friend. But I can't tell you. It's too . . . tricky."

Paul scrutinized his worried face. "I know them," he hazarded. "Is that it? It's someone I know, and you think I wouldn't be happy to hear it."

Colby took a long drink. What a pleasure to talk to a smart guy. He probably could tell Paul anything; smart guys understand how complicated life can be. 'That's close."

"What the hell, Sam, if they're innocent there's no prob-

Inheritance

lem—we'll wait until you find the guilty ones—but if they really are pulling off these robberies I'd like to know it. It's always nice to know if one's friends are moonlighting as thieves."

"That's true, but it's a little more complicated than that. Life always is, isn't it? You aren't close to them anymore—^I doubt you cared about both of them, anyway; it was just one of them, and her I guess you don't see anymore . . ." He paused, wondering if he should have gotten into this discussion.

But it was too late. "My God," Paul said. He was very pjile. "You're talking about Laura Fairchild."

"And her brother," Colby added. He was feeling less mellow.

"You're out of your mind. She wouldn't—my God, do you know what you're saying? She's one of the most respected businesswomen in America, she owns an important group of hotels. . . ."He stopped. "They all stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel, is that it? That's your hypothesis? For Christ's sake, Sam, those people stay at every damned hotel in the worid; they spend more time in hotels than in their own homes; that's not anything to connect them!"

Colby wavered, but then he sat up and looked at Paul. *The only thing I've found that those people have in conunon is that they all stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel within six months of being robbed. All six of them stayed in lots of other hotels in that time but not the same ones. Whoever robbed them had keys and security codes. How would they get them? They'd go into a hotel room and make wax molds of keys and find security codes in notebooks or checkbooks or whatever crazy places people write them. That's all they'd have to do. They'd leave die room; nothing would be gone; nobody would be suspicious. And a few weeks or months later there's a robbery thousands of miles away. You think that's such a crazy hypothesis?"

Paul was silent. "It's a good hypothesis," he said at last. "But it doesn't point to Laura. She's not a thief. But even if she were, she wouldn't rob her own guests; she wouldn't jeopardize everything she's got—for what? For a few dollars?"

"For hundreds of thousands, and you know it. You know

Judith Michael

what's been stolen. And she's in debt up to her ears from her hotels. Her brother likes to gamble, too, big-time, not penny-ante stuff, and he's been spending like he wins all the time. And he's in charge of quality control, which means he's all over those hotels. Listen." He hesitated. "You just said she's not a thief. How do you know? She was once, wasn't she? And there was a time when you weren't so sure of her, right? I mean, how come you're so positive now—^"

Paul was out of his chair. "You've been talking to Felix."

"Sure I have. What the hell, Paul, I knew this would happen; you don't like the evidence so you blame me for it. I was only doing my job!" Heads turned in the hushed room and frowns were aimed at Colby. Embarrassed, he lowered his voice. "Could you sit down so we can talk like friends?" When Paul was again in his chair, he said, "She lived with them, she worked for them, why wouldn't I talk to Felix?"

"Because he doesn't know a danm thing about Laura. Why didn't you ask me? I know her better than he does."

*Then why aren't you married to her?"

Paul was silent.

"Because you thought she was a thief—right?—and conned Owen Salinger out of his money and went after yours. So why are you getting mad at me if I think the same thing?"

"Because I was wrong." It was the first time Paul had ever said it, and as he did, he knew it was the truth. It was as if a window had opened, letting in a blast of fresh air: he felt a sense of freedom, a lifting of an enormous weight. Whatever Laura had said that day, and for whatever reason, she wasn't a thief or a fortune hunter. She loved Owen and he loved her, and even though he was a sick man, he knew exactly what he was doing when he added that codicil to his will.

And she loved me, Paul thought.

"I was wrong," he said again. "We all were. And so are you, damn it. You're wasting your time."

Colby shook his head. "I don't know that. I can't just drop the whole idea because you say so. I would if I could, honest to God, I like working with you and talking to you, and we're going to have a terrific movie—we are going to have a movie, aren't we?"

It hit Paul then. He'd forgotten the fihn. "I don't know. I'll

Inheritance

have to think about it." But he akeady knew the answer. "Whatever we do, we won't use this investigation unless you come up with another solution."

"/ haven't got one. Don't you understand? Everything points to her, or her brother, or the two of them working together, and I can't just make up something else out of my head! Shit, I knew this would happen, I knew it, I knew it. You wouldn't drop the movie; we've got months in it. And the TV! The network! They want it, right? They've paid for part of it! You have to make it! You can't just drop it and let everybody down!"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't do, Sam." Paul's voice was like steel. Colby had never heard him talk like that. "You have no proof, you said yourself it was only a hypothesis, and I'm not filming you while you hound Laura or put together circumstantial evidence to trap her. If you come up with another solution, call me. If you're given another case to work on, call me. I like you, and I think we'd have one hell of a good film, but it won't be this one, not the way it's going."

"Television ..." Colby said feebly.

"That's my problem, not yours." He looked at his watch. "My wife is waiting for me." He turned and strode out of the room.

Colby felt exposed and clumsy. He'd done everything wrong; he'd even forgotten that he had a job to do. Paul had said he should have asked him about Laura; why hadn't he done that? He needed all the information he could get; why the hell hadn't he asked Paul to give him some?

He looked at his watch. Shit, there was almost an hour before Paul had to meet his wife; maybe he could catch him and calm him down, and then they could talk like civilized men. He ran down the marble stairs to the entrance and saw Paul just going out the door. "Paul! We have time to talk!" But Paul did not pause; Colby watched as he turned toward Fifth Avenue and was swallowed up by the crowds. He didn't hear me, he thought, didn't even slow down.

In fact, Paul had heard his shout, but nothing would have made him turn back. He was going to see Laura.

Her hotel was less than three blocks away. If she was in the city, if she was in her office, if she would see him . . .

Judith Michael

He had not been in the Beacon Hill, and he was aware of the feeling of warmth and luxury that surrounded him the moment he entered the lobby, but he did not stop to look around; he walked to the antique desk in the comer and told the concierge he wanted to see Miss Fairchild. "It's urgent," he said. He took one of his cards from his wallet and wrote on the back, Please. "If you'd take this to her . . ."

"One moment," the concierge said, and a few moments later was holding a nearby door open for Paul. "Miss Fair-child's office is the last on the right."

It was a large room in light colors, with a sofa along one wall, a round table with four chairs, and an oval rosewood table piled with papers and books. There was no desk. Laura stood behind the oval table. She wore a blue business suit and a silk blouse, her head was high, and her face showed no emotion at all. Paul paused in the doorway. She was stunningly beautiful and almost formidable: he had nev^ seen her in a setting where the power was hers.

"Please come in," she said, and it was her low voice that broke the spell; everything else about her was different, but not that voice that had once told him she loved him.

She gestured toward the couch, and they sat on it together. "You told the concierge it was urgent."

"Yes." He paused, and Laura wondered what it could be that made him so reluctant to begin. Waiting for him, she sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, trying to adjust to the sight erf Paul Janssen in her office, lliis was a part of her life so separate from him that it was the only place she could go for long periods without thinking of him; she had never even tried to imagine him here. Now she looked at him—this tall, lean man in dark trousers and a gray sport jacket of raw silk—and she wished him gone. He seemed to fill her office, taking more space than he deserved; he filled her vision and her thoughts, bringing back noemories. "What is it that is so urgent?"

He leaned toward her. "I'm working on a film about an investigator for insurance companies; his specialty is stolen art and he's working on a case. . . ."He paused briefly. 'There have been six major art thefts in the past three years, identical in the way they were carried out, so it seems one person or

Inheritance

persons did them. The people who were robbed were Flavia Guameri, Britt Farley, Sid and Amelia Laughton, Carlos Serrano, Leni and Felix Salinger, and Daniel Inouti.*'

Laura looked stunned. "I know them all. They've all been guests in my hotels. Not Felix, of course, but Leni . . . They've all been robbed? But that's incredible."

"That's why I'm here." Rapidly, bluntly, he told her about Colby's investigation. "He has no proof, but I don't know what he's going to do next, and I had to tell you—you had to know that he suspects you or Clay, or both of you."

She was sitting very still, her eyes far away. The color had drained fix)m her face. "No," she said. It was almost a whisper. "No, no, no."

Paul moved toward her, to take her in his arms, to shield her from pain—^I'm always causing her pain, he thought with something like despair—but then he pulled back. He knew he couldn't, not yet. "I'd like to help if I can," he said quietly.

She looked at him, her face like stone. "Why? You thought I was guilty once; why should you help me this time? Maybe your investigator is right: once a thief always a thief. Why wouldn't he be right? I masterminded the whole thing— '*

"No, you didn't. You didn't mastermind anything. Not now and not before. I know that—"

"Know it? Now that someone says I committed another crime, you suddenly know I didn't do the first?"

Involuntarily, he smiled. "It doesn't sound logical, and I can't explain it, but, yes, I know it. I should have trusted you then, I should have believed in you enough to know you wouldn't lie to me, and now I do believe it. I'm seven years older; is that reason enough? I think I've changed in those years. I've thought a lot about us, and about myself: what kind of person I am, what's really important to me, what I've done wrong in the past . . . Danm it, I can't put it all in one neat package; do I have to?"

She was staring at him. "I don't know. It might help me understand. You think I should just believe you— "

"It goes two ways," he shot back. "You didn't trust me or believe me either, when we were together. You didn't tell me anything about your past or why you and Clay chose our family to work for, and you didn't stand up to Felix when he made

Judith Michael

that row over Owen*s will. If you'd told me the truth, told all of us the truth, and believed in us, we might have gotten past that; we might not have lost all these years. . . .**

Laura was silent, thinking of Ben. She still hadn't told all the truth.

"You can't believe that?" Paul asked, his voice bleak.

"Yes." Her voice was low. "I should have told you. I didn't know how. I was so afraid of losing you, losing all of you—^I couldn't do it." She lifted her hands and let them fall. *There always seemed to be good reasons for secrecy. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I wish I had." The last words were barely audible. "But the rest of it," she said more clearly. "Your believing in mc ... I don't know. I don't even know how to think about it. How can I, when you've just told me about this man, this investigation? If you're right and he's going to accuse me— "

"I'm not sure he is. I don't know what Sam will do next; he did admit he might be on the wrong track. I just wanted you to be on your guard— ''

"I don't know what that means!" It was a cry for help, and this time Paul could not hold back; he took her in his arms and cradled her to him. She clung for a moment, then tried to break away. "No, this doesn't help ... it just makes things worse— **

"It makes things right," he said and kissed her. His arms tightened around her as if he would bring her inside him if he could, his mouth opened hers, his tongue entwined with hers as he had dreamed of more times than he ever had let himself acknowledge.

Laura let herself go. She held him to her and her body opened to his, fitting itself to his, close, closer, bringing him into the empty space that had been there, the dry patch in her heart, since she had walked out of Owen's house. She had missed him, and longed for him, and now she held him with all her strength and let herself admit that whatever she did with her life, Paul was part of her and always would be. Owen had given her pride and confidence and helped her grow up and turn away from her past; Paul had given her die love that made her feel complete, and a woman. She knew it now; she did not shrink from it or try to deny it. She let herself want