The Doll Brokers (35 page)

Her first delivery of two hundred thousand pieces of Baby Talk N Glow was set to arrive at the beginning of June. She'd spread the rest of her inventory commitment out into the early fall, ending in October.

Dora's voice piped through the intercom. “Michael Scott at American Freight Forwarders is on line three.”

Ann reached for the phone. “Michael, hi. What can I do for you?”

His hesitation immediately alarmed her.

“We've got a problem here, Ann,” he said. “I've been trying to bring these dolls in for you, but I'm hitting a wall.”

“What kind of a wall?” She was amazed at how level her voice sounded.

“A collusion kind of wall.”

“Which means?”

“Remember some twelve, thirteen years ago, when all the major shipping companies had locked hands? The economy was depressed. Ships traveling to America with full containers were returning home empty. Schedules were reduced and many ships taken out of service.”

Ann remembered it all too well. Containers had been diverted to Europe instead of America, and the cost of freight had risen dramatically. “And?” she said.

“It's happening again. Not on account of the economy this time, but for the opposite reason. Things are going so well, the containers that
are
coming to the States are filling up with TV's and stereos. After all, the freight rate for these products is higher than it is for toys, so why not take advantage?”

No
, she thought,
no, this isn't possible
. This sort of news usually traveled fast, yet she had heard no rumors of any kind. Ann rested her forehead against the heel of her hand. One last snag. Everything else had worked out, and now she couldn't get her hands on the damned dolls. Air freight? she wondered. No, that would be prohibitive. Her stomach started to twist into a knot.

“If you don't believe me, come on down here,” Scott said. “I can show you online what's available to us—a big goose egg. There just aren't any free containers.”

Ann's head reeled. There was something missing here, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. “That won't be necessary,” she
said. “Look, Michael, I'll have to get back to you.” She disconnected and leaned forward in her chair, started to stare out the window. Then her intercom buzzed again.

“Now it's Jonathan,” Dora said.

Ann picked up. “Hi. What's going on?”

“Are you planning to leave the office at about the same time today?”

“As far as I know.”

“Okay. I'm going to settle in and do some work. I just wanted to know how many hours I had left.”

Displeasure and an old fear crowded Ann's heart. “Jonathan, you really don't have to babysit me like this.”

“Humor me.”

She always did, Ann thought. Somehow, lately, she always ended up doing just that. “All right.”

“Are you okay? You sound funny.”

Ann hesitated. There would be time enough at home to fill him in on this latest snafu. “Everything's fine.”

She hung up, her thoughts veering off him as soon as she did. Was this real, she wondered, this shipping problem? Or was someone trying to knock her back a step again? There had been a time, before Baby Talk N Glow, when she would have accepted Michael Scott's word as gospel. But that had been before Edmund Chow had deceived her, and her life had been threatened on the streets of Hong Kong, before Tom Carlisle had told her someone else was positioning himself as the doll's distributor.

And, Ann thought suddenly, it was almost as though Michael Scott had expected just this reaction from her—that she
wouldn't
accept what he was telling her as gospel. Why else would he invite her to look for herself at the freight bookings? What was that all about?

Ann picked up the phone to dial Sidney Greenspan's office and was told he was out. She tried Alvin Pelletier next, who
greeted her in his usual boisterous manner. No, he hadn't heard of any shipping problem. As a matter of fact, he had two forty-foot containers filled with his goods on the water as they spoke. This bit of news did not help Ann's anxiety. By the time she was through speaking with Hasbro, Mattel, and half a dozen others, she was reaching for her antacid tablets.

“One last-ditch effort, you assholes?” she muttered aloud, to faces she couldn't see and couldn't even begin to imagine. She chewed hard and swallowed. What Michael Scott had told her was a lie. There was no shortage of containers. No one else was having a shipping problem.

Ann surged to her feet. Her heart began to race. She would not take this lying down. No way. She got to her office door before she remembered her shoes and went back for them.

“What's going on?” Dora asked, clearly surprised when Ann hopped past her desk, trying to get her heels back on.

“Got to go out for a bit.”

“Where?”

But Ann was already halfway up the hall.

She took the elevator down and jogged onto the street to find a cab. It was warm and breezy out, the wind flipping her hair into her eyes. She was in such a state that she had forgotten her purse. She should return to the office and get it. She should also stop and take a deep breath before rushing off to prove someone wrong. But the adrenaline was pumping through her veins. And she was furious. She couldn't turn back. She had to see for herself what was happening. She had to question Michael Scott and make him tell her everything he knew. A cab stopped. She realized that her cell phone and wallet were also in her purse upstairs. She checked the pocket of her slacks. She had some cash—that was good enough.

She gave the driver the location of her freight forwarder's office. Yes, she'd take Michael Scott up on his offer to look at his bookings online. She'd get to the bottom of this face-to-face.
She settled into the cab and slowed down her breathing. She told herself she wasn't crazy; she wasn't rushing off like a madwoman. There was just no more room for error.

When the taxi dropped her off near the docks, Ann was momentarily confused by the offices and warehouses around her. She'd been here before, but it was too many years ago. She thought she remembered that Michael Scott's location was in the farthest building to the south, so she headed in that direction.

He was at his desk when she found him—a tall, skinny guy, who in some ways reminded her of Charles Ling. But where Ling's eyes were sincere—a transparent window to his feelings—there had always been a certain shiftiness to Scott. Through all the time that Hart Toy had done business with him, whenever something went wrong, it was never his fault. He always had someone or something to blame.

“Ann.” Scott looked up, surprised.

“I changed my mind,” she said. “Show me exactly why you can't get me any containers.”

“Uh, actually, I might be able to get ten released by the time you need them.”

It occurred to her that he didn't seem all that keen on showing her his computer screen, after all. Ann leaned forward. Her temper was pumping little shots of pain into her temples. “You're lying, Michael.”

“Oh, come on…”

“I talked to almost a dozen people between the time I got off the phone with you and now. They're getting containers, as many as they need.”

“That's not possible.”

“What are you trying to pull on me here? No … wait … I have a better question. Who put you up to this?”

Scott avoided her eyes. Abruptly, he stood, told her he'd be right back, and fled his office.

Ann was about to go after him, when a familiar voice caused her to freeze in mid-step.

“Hello, Ann,” the man said with the utmost calm.

“Wh…what are you doing here? she asked. Then, suddenly, she noticed his New York accent, and it all became clear.

J
onathan began cleaning up the studio corner of his loft at half past four, dipping brushes, snapping up drop cloths. He changed the angle of the painting he was working on so he could see it as he moved around the room.

It was time to head out to meet Ann. He waited for the twinge of resentment that usually came when he was forced to stop work, the grim itch that began under his skin and ended with the tightening of his jaw. But nothing happened.

He found himself curious about how it would feel if Ann intruded on one of his truly feverish spells, when his art was erupting from him, passing from his mind to the canvas so furiously that his forearm cramped and his senses stopped working. Those were the times he didn't hear the phone ring or smell a pot burning in the kitchen. Would he resent her then, if she pulled him away from that?

He punched his arms into his jacket and realized he couldn't imagine any scenario where Ann would make an unwelcome claim on his time. In fact, she never made demands on him, and frequently bucked if he made any on her. She seemed to accept as fact that he would show up each day before she left the office, but did so in a way that let him know that she understood it was useless to try to dissuade him.

He stepped outside, locked the door and started walking, his hands shoved into his pockets, humming to himself.

He was at Ann's office within twenty minutes. When he reached her floor he strolled into the reception area and waved to her secretary, who happened to be on the phone. Without stopping or waiting for Dora to return his greeting, he casually walked into Ann's office, expecting to find her there.

Not only was she absent, her desk was a mess, with reams of paper spread out in no particular order. This wasn't like Ann, he thought, as he noted that her computer was on, her briefcase open on the floor with files spilling from it.

Jonathan pivoted and headed back out to speak with Dora. “Hey,” he said once she was off the phone. “Where's your fearless leader?”

“I thought she was with you.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Well, she rushed out of here around two-thirty, just after she spoke with you.”

Jonathan felt a swish of unease. “Okay. I'll try her cell phone.” He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, stepped back into Ann's office and dialed.

His thoughts fractured when he realized that Ann's purse was ringing at his feet. He bent over and reached for the purse, shoving his hand into each compartment until his fingers closed over her cell phone. His unease mushroomed. She never went anywhere without her phone.

Jonathan rocketed into motion. He approached Dora one more time and asked what Ann's exact words were when she left.

She blinked at him. “That she had to go out.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. I asked where, but she didn't answer. So I thought—”

“Yes, I know. That she was going to meet me.” Jonathan took a step back. What the hell was going on here? They had agreed
that he would pick her up at the normal time, so something had obviously come up. Okay, he thought. Where—and when—had it become carved in stone that she had to report her every move to him?

Well, she did. Under the circumstances, she damned well better. Jonathan realized he was angry. Extremely angry. Angry enough to want to holler at her, pick her up off her feet and give her a good shake, until she got it into her thick head that he loved her…

Whoa.

He pulled his thoughts up short. That was something he was going to have to consider later, after he found her. He headed for the elevator, took it down and grabbed a cab. He went to the Savannah.

He told the driver to wait and he jogged into the lobby. The concierge recognized him.

“Hey, do me a favor and save me a trip upstairs,” Jonathan said. “Could you call and see if Ms. Lesage is in?”

“Of course. Shall I tell her to come down?”

“No. If she's there, I'll go up.”

The guy stood with the phone pressed to his ear for thirty seconds, a minute; not speaking, waiting. “Nothing, sir,” he finally said, hanging up. “No answer.”

“Damn it.” Jonathan looked at the man and all but shouted, “Have you seen her today at all?”

“No, sir.”

“What time did you come on duty?”

“Eight this morning.”

She'd left his place around the same time, Jonathan thought. That covered this base, then. He returned to the cab.

Now where? She didn't regularly go to a gym—sporadically, she used the one in her building. She hadn't had an appointment, or Dora would have known about it. Had something especially
exciting happened with the doll? If it had, she would have called Felicia.

“Where to?” the driver asked him.

“Hold on.” He yanked his cell phone free and called his mother.

Cal answered. Jonathan realized he was diving ahead with no particular plan. Damn it, Felicia didn't need another worry.

“Cal, a quick question,” he said. “Just answer with a yes or a no.”

“Yes, she is right here, on the divan.”

Smart man, Jonathan thought. “Have you seen Ann today? Have you heard from her?”

“No and no.”

Damn!
“Have you been there all day?”

“I was gone from noon until three. I stopped in at my office to see a few patients.” Cal was nearly retired, but he wouldn't take the last step.

Jonathan felt his emotions spiraling out of control. He had to stay calm. He had to think, figure out what was going on and where Ann could be. Dora had said that she had taken off at about 2:30, so it was conceivable that Cal might have missed her. “Can you ask Francesca?” The housekeeper never went anywhere these days, had barely left the apartment since his mother became ill.

“Why don't you give me your number and I'll get back to you,” Cal said.

“My cell.”

Jonathan disconnected. He had one last thought. He gave the driver his own address. Maybe she'd rushed off somewhere, then figured it was easiest to just head home rather than return to the office for her briefcase and purse.