"That's the sticky part, isn't it?"
"It usually is," Sheridan said dryly.
Richard nodded. His hair was tousled, blacker than ever, as were his eyes, deep and endless, mesmerizing. The bandaged cut above his right eye had drawn looks from fellow club members, but no questions. He didn't invite idle chatter or look as though he would tolerate nosy questions. Sheridan was impressed—not that she was deterred. From the beginning Richard St. Charles hadn't intimidated her. She would always ask him anything she wanted to ask, and he could answer her or not.
Perhaps that was one reason they were drawn to each other: she was no more threatened by him than he was by her. She loved him for who he was. He didn't have to change to suit some arbitrary list of do's and don'ts for the perfect man.
Leaning over the table, Richard outlined the bare bones of his plan. Sheridan listened, offered suggestions, arguments. They batted their ideas back and forth, compromised on some points, stood fast on others, until finally they reached a consensus: they had a plan, and it was worth a shot.
It was Richard who slipped his coins into the pay phone and called Vincent D'Amours. Sheridan paced in front of him, forward two steps, backward two steps. Forward, backward. And listened intently.
"Ah, Mr. D'Amours, I see you're answering your own phone today. Expecting an important call, are you? Well, my man, this is it. Richard St. Charles here. Are you paying attention? Good. I'll only say this once. I have in my possession two necklaces from the Livingston collection…" He paused and winked at Sheridan: he'd hit a nerve. "Please don't waste my time with arguments. I've made the connection between you and that nasty episode twenty-five years ago, but it means nothing to me. Ancient history. Oh, is that so? Well, I might be willing to believe you didn't kill that poor girl. I have two necklaces, however, that undoubtedly could tie you to a felony murder charge."
Forward, backward. Sheridan kept moving; she had to.
"Yes, I've heard you have J.B. Weaver, but I'm not interested in an even trade. Here's what I propose. We'll play poker tonight, at your estate. I'll come with no cash, just the two necklaces. You have J.B. If he goes free, I'll play the necklaces. But first he walks out of there— Wait, that's not all. The genuine necklace is worth three hundred thousand dollars, and I'm not sure we can place a dollar value on the fake. What's your freedom worth, Vincent? I'll tell you what it's worth to me: a million dollars. That's what you'll have to put into the pot before I'm willing to throw in either of the necklaces." He paused, reaching out and snatching Sheridan by the waist, pulling her close. "Well? Good. I'll see you tonight, nine o'clock."
He hung up and kissed Sheridan once, hard, on the mouth. "Sweetheart, either that man's a compulsive gambler or he's working on a plan of his own."
"Or both."
"Did I sound convincing?"
"Absolutely. After seeing you put up a hundred grand for the fake to begin with, I wouldn't be surprised if Vinnie believed you—not that it matters, remember? According to our plan, you shouldn't have to go through with that game."
"Of course… but it would be fun to beat that bastard at his own game."
"Richard!"
"Don't think I'm a match for him, love?"
"Not at the poker table. He'd skin you alive."
"You could give me pointers…"
"In five hours? Even you're not that slick, St. Charles." She hooked her arm through his. "Besides, we've got work to do."
Dressed in a loose-fitting black judogi, her dark hair knotted tightly at the back of her head, Sheridan crawled into the rear well of Richard's Porsche. It was a tight fit for her long body. She glanced at her watch: eight-thirty.
"You look like a damned maniac in that outfit," he told her.
"Good, maybe it'll scare them off if they come after me."
But they both knew the main purpose of the garment was to permit her to move quickly and silently through the estate, without, she hoped, being seen. While Richard was dealing with Vincent D'Amours, she would be looking for her father. Neither she nor Richard believed for a moment that Vinnie would just turn J.B. loose.
Richard arranged a blanket over her, then tossed a few paperbacks, files and a box of tissues on top of that.
"What do I look like?" she asked from the claustrophobic confines of the blanket.
"The back of a car." She could sense his grin.
"St. Charles…"
"Have a fun ride. You're sure you want to go through with this?"
She didn't hesitate. "Of course."
They had been over every conceivable detail, discussed everything that could possibly go wrong and planned their reactions. But no matter what happened, Lieutenant Davis had agreed to give them one hour, no more, no less. At ten o'clock the police would present a warrant to search the estate of Vincent D'Amours. If no one had located J.B. by then, they would.
It was only a hunch he was even there. As Sheridan had explained to Davis, D'Amours hadn't been a model of efficiency and logic thus far.
Davis himself had been less than thrilled to hear her story. "I knew you were acting weird," he had muttered. But he had dug out the file on the Livingston case, listened and contributed his thoughts on the evening's escapade. "It's a damned harebrained scheme. Sounds like something J.B. would come up with."
In the end he had agreed to help.
The Porsche started and, with the smell of mothballs in her nostrils, Sheridan curled herself up and felt the car negotiate its first curve on the way into the Marin hills.
"While you're stuffed back there and don't dare move," Richard said cheerfully, "I'm going to tell you something, Sher."
"Richard, you're not being fair!"
"No, but you know the saying: all's fair in love and war."
Her heart pounded. "And what's this?"
"Love, Sheridan. Sweet unending love. I'm in love with you. I think I have been since I saw you frowning over those printouts—damn, it seems like months ago. But no matter. I've always known it would be like that, with the right woman. We're both stubborn and independent, but with each other we don't have to pretend to be anything else."
"But, Richard…"
He didn't hear her. "There's time, Sheridan. I'm not asking you how you feel about me. I'm telling you how I feel about you." The car dropped down a gear as it sped up a hill. "And I'm in love with you."
"With me, Richard? Or with the P.I. Sheridan Weaver you've gotten to know during the past few days? What will you think when I turn back into a financial analyst?"
But most of her words were lost in the blanket and the sounds of the engine, and they finished the trip in silence.
The car slid to a smooth halt, and a male voice said, "Just have to make sure you came alone, Mr. St. Charles."
"As you wish." Richard's tone was even, noncommittal. "But you won't need that gun."
Sheridan appreciated the warning, although it was no surprise to her that Vinnie's men were armed. Scrunched up in the well of a Porsche, she was at a distinct disadvantage. She remained very still and, using her years of training, breathed slowly, steadily and silently. Her eyes were open. Even through the thick blanket she could see the beam of the high-powered flashlight.
"Satisfied?" Richard said, the light still on her.
"What's this junk back here?"
"You answered your own question."
Sheridan admired Richard's cool. She and Davis hadn't been convinced that Richard had the experience to pull off his scam but, as the lieutenant had said, three hundred thousand dollars and his hide at stake would help, "not to mention his ladylove." But Sheridan hoped Richard wouldn't jeopardize himself on her account. His "ladylove" could take care of herself!
"Okay, go on in," the guard said. "Park out front and use the front door."
Without responding Richard edged the Porsche along the smooth driveway. Sheridan had drawn a diagram of the estate, but couldn't vouch for its accuracy. As much as she had never liked Vinnie, this she had never planned for.
The engine stopped. In the silence Richard whispered, "We're parked directly in front of the main entrance of the house, but on the other side of the driveway, under a tree. If you get out on the driver's side, you won't be seen. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Richard…" She swallowed, unable to bring herself to say she loved him. She did. It was that simple, yet there were so many complications, so many uncertainties. "Be careful."
"I will."
"Remember: Vinnie goes for a straight whenever he can."
"I hope the game won't get that far, but it's too late for any coaching, darlin'. We're on."
With a click of the door he was gone.
Sheridan closed her eyes and, mentally removing herself from her surroundings, counted slowly to one hundred. Richard would be inside now, greeting Vinnie, showing him the five-hundred-dollar necklace Vinnie had deemed worthy of so much ugliness. And why not? It linked him to a murder.
That was number one on Davis's list of things they should remember. Richard had touched his wounded forehead and said he wouldn't forget. He'd already sacrificed three hundred thousand dollars to find the killers of that young woman.
When she reached two hundred, Sheridan pulled off the blanket and rolled into the driver's seat, ducking under the windows. She refused to let her imagination run riot. It was a cool, clear evening. The shadows of the trees danced eerily in the light from the house.
Sheridan cracked the door open, slithered out into the dark shadow of an oak and, crouched down, crept alongside the car. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see D'Amours, in a formal black suit, pouring liquor from a crystal decanter. He was a small, slim, mean man who dyed his hair black and wore rings. J.B. had never trusted men who wore rings.
Richard stepped forward, accepting the drink. Even from a distance Sheridan could see that his movements were measured. His fluid body and expensive casual clothes radiated self-confidence and a certain fearlessness. Vinnie just tried too hard. Beside Richard, D'Amours looked incompetent, even ridiculous.
Which, of course, he wasn't.
As Richard and Sheridan had anticipated, D Amours wasn't immediately forthcoming with one Jorgensen Beaumont Weaver. Until he had the fake necklace— and, knowing Vinnie, the genuine version, too—Sheridan knew he wasn't going to let J.B. go free. This wasn't Vinnie's style, not in poker, not in life.
Compulsive gambler that he was, he would play Richard's game. But there wasn't a chance in the world that he was going to let Richard St. Charles walk out of there with a million dollars and both necklaces. In Vinnie's mind the only question would be whether or not Richard would need some arm-twisting to cooperate. Once Vinnie had the copy safely in his hands, he would destroy it and any evidence of his role in the unhappy events of twenty-five years ago.
Then he might consider releasing J.B.
In the big house the two men sat at a polished round table, and Richard, giving in with a show of frustration, laid the necklaces on the table. Sheridan could recall every detail of their timeless design: diamonds alternating with emeralds, all set in gold, until, at the center, they met in a cluster dominated by a single exquisite emerald.
Vinnie examined the pieces. Then he pushed a deck of cards toward Richard, and Richard cut them. He was buying Sheridan some time.
One hour.
She bit her lip. If I were D’Amours, where would I stash someone like J.B.?
Without a sound she slunk through the shadows along the perimeter of the driveway, avoiding another look at the gaming table. Sheridan made her way to a side entrance of the house. The door was locked, but down the hill and perhaps thirty yards from the house were a garden house and a smaller toolshed. She almost grinned. Of course. D'Amours wouldn't keep J.B. in the house if he could possibly avoid it.
There was a sidewalk, but she skirted it and, resisting the urge to run, moved silently among the uneven shadows cast over the lawn. The blond heavy from earlier that day was standing guard in front of the toolshed. Hesitating only a few seconds, Sheridan appraised the situation.
Then she sprang out from behind an oak. The man swore in surprise as he saw the streak of black coming at him, but Sheridan disarmed him with a slicing blow and, when he came at her, flipped him and landed a kick that would render him unconscious for the minutes she needed to free her father.
She grabbed the stray gun, fished some keys out of the thug's pocket and opened the door.
"Hey, kid," J.B. grinned wanly, "I've been expecting you."
"Oh, J.B." She hugged him and quickly explained what was happening.
"St. Charles is in there with Vinnie? Vinnie'll chew him up and spit him out. Hell's bells, you two are impossible."
"He can handle the situation, J.B."
J.B. grunted doubtfully. "It didn't occur to you that Vinnie might have plans of his own?"
"Of course he does, but Davis will be here at ten. That only gives Richard another…" She glanced at her watch and winced. "Another forty-five minutes."
"St. Charles could be shark meat by then," J.B. muttered, straightening. "Sounds like it's going to be a hell of a game, if Vinnie hasn't cleaned him out already."
"I gave Richard a few pointers before we left. He may not be a great poker player, but he has other strengths."
J.B. eyed her. "Yeah, I'll bet."
"You know about the Livingston collection?" Sheridan asked sharply, turning away from J.B.'s probing look.
He was disgusted. "What do you think I've been doing the past week, sitting on my hands?" He swooped down, grabbed the stray gun and gave Sheridan an encouraging hug. "Come on, let's go see if we can mess up Vinnie's life some more."
In his T-shirt and jeans and with no apparent damage to his person, J.B. strutted off toward the house, Sheridan caught up with him. At the side door they tried the keys on the key chain; the third one worked. The door opened into a spacious den. Down a hall they could see lights and hear voices.
"Has he got any goons in the room?" J.B. whispered.
"Not that I saw. Richard wouldn't have agreed to play until the room was cleared."
"Good thinking. How long did you put the guy outside down for?"
"Ten minutes tops."
"You're too kind, Sher."
They headed off down the hall, Sheridan feeling like her old self again, J.B. Weaver's partner. It was both unsettling and comforting. She and J.B. needed to work together now, think alike, trust each other. But where would that leave her tomorrow? She had worked so hard to be able not to think like J.B. Weaver.
The casual, sandpapery voice of Richard St. Charles reached to where they stood in the hall. "I'll take two cards," he said.
It was an innocuous statement that meant nothing, but nevertheless, Sheridan found herself catching her breath. Richard was still all right; he was hanging on.
"I favor the direct approach," J.B. whispered. "You?"
She nodded and together they walked into the dining room. "Hello, Vinnie," J.B. said cheerfully, the borrowed gun pointed at D'Amours. "Playing fair, I hope?"
Richard grinned broadly and blew Sheridan a kiss.
It occurred to her that he was having a grand time for himself.
Of the stone-faced school of poker players, Vinnie registered neither surprise nor indignation. "J.B.," he said, as if greeting a guest. His eyes fastened on Sheridan. "I told the boys they should have grabbed you when they had the chance."
"I think they knew better," Sheridan said cockily.
"Dumb move on my part, not nabbing you instead of J.B. St. Charles would've been more likely to make an even trade for his ladylove."
"Egad, Pop," Sheridan said, "Vinnie even talks like you."
"He was on the wrong side of the aisle at the same school," J.B. said.
Richard slowly fanned the cards in his hand. "You're wrong, Mr. D'Amours," he said, not raising his voice. "I wouldn't have traded even if Sheridan had been involved. I would have tom this place apart piece by piece. And you with it."
>
J.B. grinned. "I like a man with a sense of romance. By the way, you winning?"
"This is the decisive hand," Richard said.
"Well, don't let us stop you." J.B. waved his gun. "Play fair, now, Vinnie."
"Why? You're not going to let me walk away with that necklace," Vinnie hissed.
"Not the fake, no, but it looks to me like St. Charles here is betting one damned beauty of a genuine necklace. You wouldn't want to deny him a chance of winning a few hundred grand off you, would you? Go on, Vinnie. Play."
Sheridan groaned. "J.B., why are you encouraging them?"
"Why not? We've got time."
Thirty minutes, to be exact. Sheridan nodded; he had a point. If they could keep D'Amours occupied, there was less of a chance of his coming up with some way of extricating himself from his present predicament. J.B. kept the gun pointed in Vinnie's general direction, but Sheridan didn't think her father could shoot him.
"Dealer takes one," Vinnie said, and the game proceeded.
From the betting and the smug look on Richard's face, Sheridan guessed he had a hell of a hand. She wandered over and stood behind him, but he wouldn't let her see his cards. "Mustn't cheat," he said, a gleam in his black eyes.
Finally Richard saw Vinnie's bet and called.
But Vinnie refused to show his hand right away. "I didn't kill that girl," he said, almost in a whine. "I was outside, in the car. I was desperate for money. You remember, J.B. I'd been on a losing streak for weeks back then. I had to have cash."
"Someone else's?" Richard said coldly.
"At the time it didn't matter. I was hooked on gambling, lots worse than now, had a load of bad debts, the wrong people crawling all over me for money. That didn't change, even after that fiasco at the Livingston house. All I had was that stupid bogus necklace. I wasn't supposed to even have that. The guy who masterminded the heist—"
"Bernard?" J.B. asked.
So he knew that, too, Sheridan thought.
"Yeah," Vinnie said, his voice sharp with bitterness, "Bernard. He got rid of the junk, but I'd snatched that fake necklace out from under his nose. I was a gambler. I knew what I could do with a piece like that on a poker table. I never figured on losing it, though."
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