The Doll Brokers (33 page)

Chow
, she answered herself, as she sagged one shoulder against the nearest wall.

“Good luck,” Carlisle said as he opened the door to her competitor's showroom. “That doll is the best thing I've seen in a long time. Under normal circumstances, I would have given you twice the commitment I did. But we all thought it was risky with this other guy involved.”

“Tom, please. You've got to give me more.” Ann knew she was begging, but she didn't care. Edmund Chow hadn't just sold her a bogus deal. He hadn't just tried to frame Patrick. He hadn't just tried to kill her. He'd been one move ahead all the way.

Carlisle stepped halfway inside.

For a moment, Ann thought of pulling him back. “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “He's Chinese, right?”

The buyer's face slackened briefly with surprise.

“No.”

“No?”

“Hardly. He's from New York. Now, Ann, that's all I'm going to say.” He headed inside the showroom and closed the door behind him.

Ann jerked back. Chow didn't have a New York accent, she thought, not even close. Someone else, then. Someone
else
had sabotaged her buyers?

She should have known all along that there was a great deal more at play. Chow's behavior alone just didn't make sense. But
what
? What did this mean?

J
onathan was stuck. After Ann left the showroom, Gerry McGuire went through the presentation and asked questions he didn't know the answers to. Then Byron Young of Walmart turned up with his merchandising manager in tow.

Where was Ann? He started to get that pressured feeling in his chest again, the one he first felt after visiting Verna in the hospital. There were too many people around here. Any one of them could grab her, hurt her.

When she finally burst through the door of the showroom, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Her face was near white, with too much pink just under the surface. She had that smile on that could cut glass. He watched her press a hand to her stomach.

Jonathan tried to push his way through the crowd to reach her, but by the time he got to her side she had hooked up with Byron Young.
Later
, her eyes told him.

“Sorry about missing my appointment,” Young was saying. “I should have called with our change of plans.”

“It's fine,” Ann replied. “We can squeeze you in now.”

Lisette launched herself into the demonstration. As Ann stepped back to observe, Jonathan caught her arm and pulled
her a little closer to his side. “What's going on?” he asked in an undertone.

She shook her head fretfully, then pushed her hair back from her cheek. “I'll fill you in afterwards. But I'll bet you dollars to donuts that Byron Young ends up giving us a firm commitment today.”

That surprised him. From the looks of her, he'd thought something bad had happened, that something else had come undone. “How do you know that?”

“He brought that other guy with him,” she said. “The merchandise manager of Walmart only turns up if a company has something unique to offer.”

When the presentation was over, Young and the other man approached them. Ann rocked back on her heels a little as she waited, then she caught sight of Linda Figgures from Target out in the hallway. She wasn't scheduled until later in the week, but she was trying to get Ann's attention now.

Whoever their competitor was, Ann thought, whatever he had promised the buyers, the doll was hers. And the buyers from the major retailers were anxious to meet with her. She'd won a huge battle without even understanding the terms and conditions.

But who the hell was he, if not Chow?
Her thoughts moved to Patrick. He grew up in New York. Had he crawled into bed with Chow, somehow? Had he tried to wiggle out of a deal they'd made—or had he become too much of a liability—so Chow tried to get him out of the picture?

She had to put it out of her mind for now, Ann thought. The Walmart merchandise manager was talking to her, telling her that he and his buyer felt her doll was revolutionary. “Are your legal problems are all cleared up?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Ann said. “We were able to purchase the rights to the doll directly from the inventor.”

“If you can provide a notarized letter to that effect, then we're prepared to commit.”

“I will,” Ann replied.

“We want to feature her on the cover of our December Tab,” Byron Young added quickly.

Ann felt herself fighting for balance. “How many pieces?”

“You suggested what? Two hundred and fifty thousand?”

Ann merely nodded, not wanting to rock the boat.

“We'll up that by another fifty thousand,” the merchandise manager said.

Ann held out her hand to shake on it. “Great. This is fabulous. Welcome on board.” She was fluttering inside.

“Ann, excuse me, can I have a word with you?”

She looked around quickly. It was Linda Figgures, pressing in from her right.

Ann held up one finger to urge her to wait and promised Young she would be in touch.

The Target buyer approached her with great energy and enthusiasm. Instead of threatening to narrow Target's vendor base and cut Hart Toy out, she wanted to run the doll in more than one ad during the upcoming fall season.

Ann didn't have to force her smile. She thanked the buyer and watched her leave, then she motioned to Jonathan and headed back to her office.

“What's happening?” he demanded as soon as the door closed.

Ann groaned a little and dropped into her chair. Her shoes came off. “Remember our trip to the American retailers?”

“Arkansas, Chicago, all that? Yeah.” He began to nervously shift his legs, as if he were uncomfortable.

“I couldn't understand why it went so badly,” she said.

He nodded. “I remember.”

“Jonathan, things went so badly because someone was after us.”

He stopped fidgeting. “What?”

“Someone else had already been in touch with the buyers, had told them we wouldn't be able to hold on to the doll. He offered them a better deal—with God knows what incentives—if they committed directly to him.”

“At that point we didn't know what Chow was up to, so we never suspected.”

“It wasn't Chow.”

Jonathan made a low sound of disbelief in his throat. “Not Chow? Who else could have known that we were going to have problems?”

“I don't know. But he isn't Chinese. Tom Carlisle told me he was a native New Yorker. Tom's reliable and I trust him.” Her neck began to hurt and she started to rub it. “They pushed Carlisle out,” she said. “Upper management. He was the first of the buyers to come around and give us a commitment. Do you remember? I would guess that he told our anonymous competitor to get lost. Now he's being forced into early retirement.”

“Management there still thinks they can get our doll on better terms from the other guy?” Jonathan asked.

“Maybe. I don't know. Maybe somebody just pulled a few strings to punish Carlisle. We'll find out when Tom brings the new buyer around tomorrow.”

“Kmart—they're Kmart, right?—can't afford to be the only chain that's not carrying the doll.”

He'd learned a lot these last months, Ann realized.

Abruptly, Jonathan said, “Turn around.”

He had read her mind. His hands came down on her neck and gently massaged. Vibrations of pleasure sizzled inside. “Don't stop, please don't stop.”

He leaned forward to talk into her ear. “I could do even better without that sweater you're wearing.”

She was tempted. “Later,” she breathed.

“How long do we have to hang around here?”

“A while yet.” She eased away from his touch reluctantly. “I have to call Felicia.”

“You're going to tell her about this other guy trying to shoot in beneath us?”

Ann dropped into the chair. “God, no. Just about Target and Walmart. I want her to sleep well tonight.”

“Ann?”

She looked up at him questioningly. He seemed to want to say something, but then he changed his mind.

Jonathan wasn't sure what he wanted to say. How much he appreciated her genuine love for his mother? That her grit and strength and determination got to him in a place he wasn't sure he could identify? That the image of himself on the hunt for some unknown villain from New York, in a city as large as New York, overwhelmed him?

Instead of speaking, he kept his thoughts to himself.

T
he crowds were beginning to thin at the Javits Center and Vincent knew it was time for him to leave. The fact that he had nailed down a spot with a bird's eye view into Hart Toy's showroom might raise a brow or two, especially since he had taken up the post more than thirty minutes ago and had barely budged since.

Watching Ann say goodbye to a couple of men, how she tossed back that mane of blond hair and laughed at something one of them said. Then she frowned in Vincent's direction as though sensing him standing there. He turned away and pretended to speak to a stranger behind him.

Yes, he thought, it was time to go.

But he was reluctant. Observing her made him feel powerful. Like God. Briefly, a sweet thought insinuated itself into his head. Could he take her out here? Right now? Simply walk up and plunge a knife into her spine? What a stir that would create: Ann Lesage found dead during Toy Fair. He could see the headlines, hear the newscasts. A lovely fantasy, but one that would have to remain so, he was afraid. He hadn't prepared for such a plan and had no weapon with him. Besides, ending her life that quickly would not give him the satisfaction he was seeking. Not anywhere close.

But he was running out of patience. He'd lost most of the buyers back to Hart Toy's corner when Ann had succeeded in grabbing the doll from Ling in time for Toy Fair. Not that it mattered all that much. The doll was only a diversionary tactic.

Vincent was keeping an eye on all the players in this little drama, including Patrick Morhardt. Patrick had left the rehab clinic and was wandering around somewhere like a loose cannon. Vincent was certain he would either self-destruct or be helped towards that goal.

For now, too many people remained standing. It was bad enough that Verna Sallinger was still alive. Just thinking about it made him cringe. He'd dropped the ball there, too. He'd enjoyed it too much, hurting her. He'd left her apartment on a fierce, hungry high. Exhilarated. Stupidly, he'd never checked her pulse. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Verna was recovering in the hospital. There were too many doctors and nurses around for him to make his move now, but he would have to act eventually, before she had the opportunity to identify him. And then he'd get it right. Verna Sallinger first, then Ann Lesage. There would be a certain balance in killing them. And Felicia and Jonathan Morhardt, too, if necessary. But Ann was the real prize. He would save the best for last and relish every moment of it.

I
t was ten after four in the afternoon when Patrick decided that he needed to go to the bank. Unfortunately, this was going to involve getting up from his chair.

He heaved himself to his feet, putting too much effort into it. He staggered across the den before he cracked his knee against the coffee table. He swore and tried to kick it. But he missed, lost his equilibrium and went down hard.

The bottle of Courvoisier wobbled on the table, yet remained upright. “Good, that's good,” Patrick muttered. He was almost out of cognac. This might be his last bottle. He had to buy more.

“Gotta take a shower,” he decided.

He crawled back to the chair, leaned against it and pulled himself up. Then he took hold of the cognac bottle, wheeled his way out of the den, stopping halfway to take a swig. The liquor hit the back of his throat and went down warm and comforting.
Life is good
, he thought. Then he frowned.

No, it wasn't.

After a moment and a bit more Courvoisier, he remembered that life really wasn't … good. Irene was gone, which was a plus, because their marriage from early on had never worked. But he missed his kids terribly.

Irene had left him with only a few hundred dollars in their joint checking account, and that was spent. He'd also plowed through most of his severance pay. Patrick wasn't actually sure where the money went. He couldn't fathom having drunk it away. But perhaps that was possible.

He shook his head, which made him woozy. He approached the stairs and tried to focus on how he was going to make it to the second floor. The stairs climbed forever, like Jack's beanstalk. Articles of clothing were strewn over them. The whole house was a pigsty.

Screw the shower
, he decided. Navigating those stairs would be more trouble than it was worth.

Patrick pushed himself away, got his legs under him, and moved for the front door. He remembered to leave the bottle on the entry table. Walking around in public with it would not be a good idea, he thought.

He was in perfect control. He staggered outside, hit the street, turned left, and started moving. By the time he got to the bank, it was closed.

“Son-bitch.” Patrick rattled the door before stumbling backward.

“Somethin' can go wrong, it sure as hell will,” he said aloud.

He wobbled around in a circle until he spotted the ATM machine.
There
was his answer.

He stuck his bank card in and waited an interminable time for something to happen. Finally, he leaned forward to peer closely at the screen. He closed one eye to read the message.

Rejected.

But shouldn't his severance pay be in there—what was left of it?

No matter. Patrick took the card back. He had good, trusty American Express on his side. No credit limit. He fished in his wallet for the platinum card and poked that into the slot instead. Still, nothing happened.