Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  Or maybe it was that Chris reminded him of himself. Nick had started out as a gofer for his grandpa, learning the craft little by little, doing the easy stuff first, graduating to more difficult tasks, eventually building his first canoe from start to finish when he was seventeen. He was still using that canoe. Nothing tracked as well even in three-foot waves or glided through the water as smoothly or paddled as easily. If he needed religion, that was it—him alone on a lake somewhere in that old canoe.

  Picking up the hammer with the curved handle Frank had designed to get into corners, Chris shot a look at Nick. “Your new neighbor in her Porsche convertible turned into her driveway just ahead of me. She’s definitely sweet—so’s her ride. Where’s she from?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Chris grinned. “Someone like that—it might pay to find out.”

  “She’s all yours.”

  “As if I want to piss off Dee Dee. Besides, the lady’s too big-city for me.”

  “And not eighteen either,” Nick said, drily.

  “Okay, that, too. Although you know what they say about older women.”

  “To anyone but you, she’s not an older woman.”

  “At least you noticed.” Chris couldn’t understand why Nick didn’t take advantage of all the women who were after him.

  “She’s hard not to notice.”

  “So invite her over for a drink.”

  “If only I was looking for female company.”

  “You’re crazy not to—oops—sorry, but you know what I mean.”

  Chris always treaded lightly when it came to Nick’s reclusive lifestyle. “Yeah, kid, I know what you mean. Look, maybe I’ll invite her over sometime,” he added to assuage Chris’s embarrassment. “You and Dee Dee come over, too.”

  “How about Saturday? We’re not doing anything.”

  Nick smiled at Chris’s youthful enthusiasm. “I’ll let you know.” Not that he had any intention of inviting the blonde next door over for a drink. As if he needed more problems in his life; for all he knew she was married anyway. Yeah, right— practiced at noticing details, he’d seen that she’d worn neither a wedding nor engagement ring. And she had come on to him— not overtly, but she would have kept talking if he had. “What say we break early and see how the fishing is in the north bay?” Nick suggested, wanting to change the subject, not wanting to think about the good-looking blonde next door.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Let’s try those old Forselius lures. We had good luck with them last time.” Back on safe ground, Nick wiped the glue off his hands with a turpentine rag. “Five bucks says I catch the first bass.”

  Chris grinned. “No way.”

  While the men in Frank’s workshop had been discussing her, Zoe had been busy composing an e-mail to her source in the Tutela Patrimonio Culturale (TPC), the arm of the carabinieri charged with protecting Italy’s cultural heritage. She was hoping to corroborate some of Joe’s new findings. Roberto Fiorilli was willing to exchange information with her in a mutual quid pro quo so long as she didn’t publish anything that might jeopardize the TPC’s ongoing operations.

  In the case of the book she was currently working on, he was more than willing to cooperate since the major American collection she was investigating consisted almost exclusively of looted artifacts from Italy. Museums could be persuaded to return illicit objects in exchange for long-term loans of equal rarity. In the case of an individual collector, however, the Italian government couldn’t offer anything more to the collector than the satisfaction that he’d acted ethically in returning the items.

  As if that was a good argument for people who had a reputation for dubious purchases in the art market. Like the billionaire couple she was investigating, for instance.

  Zoe sent Roberto a list of the items Joe’s intelligence had unearthed. At least a dozen pieces from the Adriatic site matched ones in the Willerby collection.

  She always felt a real thrill of elation at times like this, when a trail of assumptions and deductions finally brought conclusive results.

  Not that she could do her work without Joe. He was her man on the ground who could disappear into a crowd without anyone recalling him. Joe was middle-size, middle-weight, of indeterminate age with a face as malleable as rubber. That he’d started out as an actor off-Broadway was a definite advantage in his line of work.

  Zoe’s disadvantage was that people remembered her. A tall blonde didn’t melt into a crowd with the same anonymity. On the other hand, she knew the gallery scene inside out, not to mention her previous exposés of the underbelly of the art market were advantageous. She had a multitude of contacts in the art world: with law enforcement, for instance, if she needed entrée into custom manifests or IRS documents, or with private collectors, who were an incestuous, jealous lot. She was often the recipient of sniping comments apropos of a rival’s new acquisition that may or may not have a legitimate provenance.

  Closing her e-mail with thanks and best wishes to Roberto on the birth of his first child, she hit the Send key and sat back with a contented smile.

  Really, this investigation was falling into place without a hitch.

  Maybe she’d been doing this so long now that she’d finally gotten the hang of it. Or maybe Joe had just lucked out in Trieste.

  She quickly crossed her fingers, just in case. She never willingly pissed off Lady Luck. Call her irrational, but those childhood impulses were tough to break.

  Five

  At the same time Zoe was congratulating herself on her smoothly running research effort, a woman with enough diamonds on her fingers to illuminate Times Square at midnight was tapping her bloodred nails on the arm of a white brocade sofa. Seated beside her was an elderly man who appeared to be perfectly composed. Opposite the couple dressed in casual elegance was an attorney from a prominent New York law firm nervously perched on the edge of an azure silk settee. He looked out of place in the Hamptons in his pin-stripes and polished wing tips. But then visitors often did in this world of wealth and privilege.

  Or perhaps he appeared out of his element for other reasons.

  In contrast to the summer sun sparkling off the ocean outside, the mood in the lavish drawing room was decidedly un-sunny.

  “You aren’t required to return any of your collection,” the attorney reiterated, smiling in an attempt to mitigate the obvious displeasure of his client’s trophy wife. “The Italian government can’t do more than ask. They have no leverage. None at all.”

  “We understand all of that, George,” the woman snapped, waving her be-ringed fingers in a dismissive gesture. “We’re not novices in this field.” Her voice rose in anger. “We have the largest collection of ancient artifacts in the world for heaven’s sake!”

  “What Gwyneth means,” the elderly man interposed, reaching over to place his hand on his wife’s in either affection or deterrence, “is that we don’t wish to be the object of scandal. As you know, Zoe Chandler is investigating this matter. As you also know, since you defended Letitia Rankle, Miss Chandler’s last book embarrassed Bothwell’s immeasurably. If not for her, the world would have been ignorant of those behind-the-scenes machinations at the auction house. I need not tell you how much we abhor the thought of being the subject of scrutiny. I expect you to do something to stop this probe. Is that clear?” He spoke with the authority that a ten-billion-dollar fortune conferred.

  “Yes, of course.” George Harmon hesitated. Dare he ask what the parameters might be in terms of stopping Zoe Chandler?

  Bill Willerby had not amassed his wealth without a formidable intellect. “Pay any price. I’m sure she has one.” He smiled tightly. “Certainly, the sum Miss Chandler realizes from a book like this is manageable.”

  “For my part, I wouldn’t give her a dime!” his wife heatedly countered, tossing her head in a little dramatic gesture that flaunted her black tresses as well as her umbrage. “That Chandler bitch is nothing but a scandalmonger! It’s time someone informs her in no
uncertain terms that her meddling is unwelcome!”

  Bill Willerby held his attorney’s gaze for a telling moment. “Why don’t we begin politely.” Turning to his wife, he touched her flushed cheek. “George will take care of everything, darling. Don’t worry your little head another minute.”

  Gwyneth Willerby, who had once been the celebrated face of Estée Lauder, pursed her lips in a sultry pout. “If you’re sure she won’t say terrible things about us.”

  “I’m sure.” The CEO of numerous international corporations glanced at his attorney. “Tell her you’re sure, George.”

  “Yes, absolutely, Mrs. Willerby. You needn’t worry.”

  “Thank you for coming out.” Bill Willerby nodded at his attorney. “Keep us posted.”

  Rising from his chair, George Harmon took his dismissal with good grace. The Willerby account was not only worth the journey to the Hamptons, but worth a certain degree of subservience. “I’ll let you know as soon as I make contact with Miss Chandler.”

  “With all speed if you will,” Bill Willerby gruffly noted.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I don’t wish for this—er—matter to be left hanging.”

  “I understand.” Since the large drawing room had been designed to display a number of their classical sculptures, Willerby’s meaning was plain. Nevertheless, George Harmon swallowed hard as he exited the sumptuous room. Zoe Chandler was known for her dogged investigative skills. She might very well be a woman of principle—an old-fashioned concept in his estimation, but one not to be underestimated.

  She could present problems.

  He grimaced, understanding his plans to spend the weekend sailing were ruined.

  It wouldn’t be wise to delegate responsibility for this matter to a subordinate.

  He would have to deal with Miss Chandler himself.

  Six

  Two days later, Nick was eating breakfast and reading the paper, the morning TV news playing softly in the background. At the sound of the name Harry Miller, his gaze shot up, his full attention suddenly focused on the small TV sitting on top of the fridge. “This is breaking news from the White House. We’ll give more details on the short list for CIA director as they reach us.”

  Reaching for the remote, Nick began flipping through channels, hoping to hear more information on the possible appointment of the man who most likely had a hand in his near-death experience in Kosovo. If Harry was picked for CIA director that meant congressional hearings, and that meant Harry would be covering his tracks any way he could. So much for his current life of relative peace and quiet.

  Not finding anything more about the CIA directorship on the other channels, Nick pushed away from the table, came to his feet, and moved toward his office. Alan Levaro kept up with the Washington rumor mill. If Harry was about to become a problem, he’d know it.

  Turning on his computer, Nick quickly pulled up his e-mail and scrolled past the inevitable spam that got through no matter how much security was in place. He wasn’t expecting much correspondence; very few people had his e-mail address. Oh, crap—there it was . . . just when he’d thought he was home free. Clicking on Alan’s acronym, snafu, he opened the encrypted message based on the Croatian alphabet, a language they both spoke. Nick swiftly translated: Watch your back, buddy. Harry’s gonna be cleaning up his resume if his name is put forward for CIA director. I’m in Vegas. Which didn’t actually mean he was in Vegas. Alan, an ex-CIA agent, didn’t even trust encryptions. “Vegas” meant he was holed up at his place near Vancouver. Sending a brief reply, Nick thanked Alan for the heads-up, and asked him to keep him current on Harry’s progress toward big-time status. Then, shutting down his computer, Nick leaned back in his chair and swore a blue streak.

  He should have squared the scales of justice with Harry years ago. Not that being laid up in the hospital for sixteen months after that incident with friendly fire on his last day in Kosovo hadn’t forestalled his more lethal instincts. But still, he could have offed Harry that day in that basement outside Pristina. The world would have been a better place—not to mention, his life wouldn’t be at risk now.

  Nick knew too much about Harry Miller’s penchant for torture. And while it might not have mattered before—after all, CIA covert activities were not white-glove affairs—if distasteful details about torture were to emerge in a congressional hearing, it wouldn’t be good for either Harry’s or America’s image.

  On the other hand, maybe there was no need to get all bent out of shape right now. Harry was just on the short list for CIA director. He might not make the cut. If he did, though, Harry was sure to look him up. Nick knew too much about all those accidental deaths in Kosovo.

  Calm down; take it easy. Nothing’s a done deal yet. Time enough to sharpen his survival skills. Right now, after checking his man traps, he was going to head out on the lake. Being alone on the water always helped to clear his mind; the solitude made it easier for him to put things into perspective. For instance, he probably shouldn’t do anything rash.

  Although, if Harry came after him—well, then, that was another matter. Killing him would be justifiable self-defense. Nick smiled faintly at the prospect. Finally, he might have payback for being dragged into Harry’s circle of hell. A further bonus would be the satisfaction of settling the score for all his fucked-up years since Kosovo.

  After finding all his trip wires intact, Nick walked toward the dock, his thoughts focused on how to best counter or neutralize Harry. Not that getting out of Dodge might not be a temporary alternative. If Harry sent out hit men, he’d prefer they come to him somewhere less populated.

  A few moments later as Nick entered his boathouse to pick up his canoe paddles, he heard his neighbor’s voice echoing crystal clear across the stretch of water separating their docks.

  “Who the hell do you think you are coming out here and threatening me!”

  That was definitely a pissed-off tone. The answering male voice was less clear; it was low, controlled, mildly insistent with that don’t-fuck-with-me false courtesy he’d heard many times before. From intelligence agents.

  His adrenaline kicked in big-time, his pulse picked up speed, and quickly moving to the other side of the boathouse, he stopped at the door that faced Skubic’s dock. Silently easing it open a crack, he surveyed the scene on the neighboring dock.

  “Go back from wherever you came from and leave me alone! Go, dammit!”

  “Be sensible. We can talk about it, come to some agreement,” the shorter of the two overdressed men said.

  No way those guys are tourists in those sport coats, slacks, and shiny leather shoes, Nick thought, his paranoia spiking. Law enforcement, he decided, or CIA. They had the look.

  The tall blonde was standing with her back to the water, facing the men with the same bold assertion as her uncompromising statements. That courageous posture only added to Nick’s unease. Most women would be intimidated by two good-sized men who apparently had threatened her. Not her, though. She looked about ready to fling her coffee cup at them.

  “I’m telling you my answer won’t change—not tomorrow, or the next day, or ever! There’s no agreement to come to! Now get the hell out or I’ll call the sheriff!”

  One of the men took a step toward her and Nick saw the woman draw in a deep breath. But she stood her ground. Either she didn’t scare easily or she was seriously naive. A third possibility leaped into Nick’s mind: Could Harry have staged this event? Is the gorgeous blonde a plant, he cynically wondered?

  Was this a setup?

  She couldn’t have seen him enter his boathouse from the opposite dock, but it didn’t matter. She was visible from his cabin and her voice was loud enough to carry up the hill to his place.

  Harry could have arranged this little scene—having the beautiful blonde move in next door in order to get close to him. Harry had to have known that he was being considered for CIA director. After all, he’d spent his entire career kissing ass and covering up his mistakes for exactly
this moment.

  Unfortunately, Nick could confirm a number of those mistakes in bloody detail—including the one that nearly killed him the day he’d left Harry’s employ. On that last mission for NATO, he and his driver had been en route to Macedonia to deliver instructions to an observer team in the mountains. The shoulder-fired missile that had struck the Hummer, killed his driver, and tore him to shreds was American. There was never any doubt in Nick’s mind who had ordered the hit.

  So bottom line, he wasn’t going to get involved in the scene next door.

  Unless the lady was seriously threatened.

  And even then, he’d debate his options.

  Since Kosovo, he’d developed a healthy cynicism when it came to trusting anyone and anything. And that was especially true today with the news about Harry Miller.

  The two well-dressed men abruptly turned and walked away, and Nick exhaled a sigh of relief. He supposed it would have been neighborly to go over and see if the lady was okay. In another lifetime, he might have.

  Instead, he waited until she walked up the stairs to her cabin and disappeared inside.

  Closing the door, he moved to pick up his paddles and exited the boathouse on the opposite side. Walking down the dock, he stepped into his canoe, loosened the moorings, and pushed away from the dock.

  As he paddled out to the middle of the lake, he contemplated his vulnerabilities and risks.

  Harry had contacts who would dispose of anyone for a price.

  Not that he was the only person on Harry’s enemy’s list.

  But he was up there, he figured, after threatening to expose Harry for his ruthless, cold-blooded killings during the Kosovo operations. The day he’d left for the Macedonian assignment, he’d told Harry he was done with interrogations; he hadn’t signed on for that kind of shit. He’d told Harry he could shove it all up his ass and anyone else’s clear up the line who didn’t like him bailing. And if they had any questions about why he was leaving, he’d be glad to explain.