“So you’re giving me ten days? After ten years?”
“Technically you’ve already had two days.”
“That was the weekend. You might have let me know how close time was to expiring when you first called me.”
“I was afraid you’d turn me down if I did.” He cleared his throat. “And the museum board—my board—suddenly remembered after ten years that we should have been pushing all along to find the armor and swords, and now it’s my fault that we haven’t, even though I was working for the Guggenheim back when this happened.”
“So it’s not just winning the exhibit that you’re worried about,” she said. It would have been nice if he’d mentioned his job would be on the line before he’d sent her the information, not to mention the damn deadline. Christ. She’d spent most of Saturday looking for Anatomy Man, and yesterday making lists of plants. Okay, she’d eliminated a few potential suspects, but still.
“None of that is your problem, Sam,” Viscanti returned. “I just wanted to know if you’d—”
“You just made it my problem, Joseph. That’s why you called. Next time, I’d appreciate having all the information up front.”
“Sam, are you—”
“I’ll keep in touch.” She hung up the phone. “Dammit.” Pushing to her feet, she headed for the back of the reception area. Rick was trying to widen the number of suspects rather than narrowing it, Stoney couldn’t or wouldn’t come up with the files she wanted, and now she had a deadline. “Aubrey, you’re a man about town,” she said, leaning on a credenza.
He spun in his chair to face her. “Indeed I am, honeybee.”
“Do you know Gabriel Toombs?”
“Wild Bill? Yes, I do.”
Wild Bill? Obviously this was going to take a few minutes. She hopped up to sit on the oak credenza. Last week’s furniture had been black Masonite. “Okay, ‘Wild Bill’?”
“Toombs. Tombstone. Wild Bill Hickok.”
“Is that like the six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon thing? Does he really call himself Wild Bill?”
“He started it, and insisted that the rest of us go along.” He took off his telephone earpiece. “Might one ask why you’re suddenly making inquiries about Wild Bill Toombs?”
Samantha regarded him for a minute. She generally figured people out pretty fast, and she liked and trusted Aubrey as much as she did anyone. He’d known the upper-crust residents of Palm Beach a lot longer than she had, though, and a lot longer than he’d known her. Still, he seemed almost as cynical about them as she was—maybe because they’d both been in the position of working for them and walking among them as equals.
“Have you ever seen his collection of Japanese artifacts?” she asked.
“He loves to show them off. Rumor has it that he had a custom set of samurai armor and swords made for himself.”
Hm. Made, or stolen? “Does he wear it?” she asked aloud.
“At the annual masked ball for the past two years. In private, I don’t really know.”
Which would put its debut right about when the statute of limitations on the Morimoto armor expired. Would a collector really wear nine-hundred-year-old armor, though? Maybe one who made everyone call him Wild Bill Toombs would. “If I showed you a photo of some armor, could you tell me if it’s a match?”
“Are we embarking on a caper?” Aubrey asked with a grin, sitting forward.
“We might be.”
He clapped his hands together. “I do love your capers, Miss Samantha.”
She loved them, too, which she supposed was part of what made Rick nervous—except that in a way he got off on the danger stuff just as much as she did. At least he’d let her case the school unaccompanied. “I’ll get the photos.”
When she returned from her office to reception, Aubrey had cleared all of the messages and mail off the reception desk, and he’d produced a magnifying glass from a drawer. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Boy, you don’t do anything halfway,” Samantha noted, grinning as she flicked a finger at the rounded glass. “Where did you get that, from the Sherlock Holmes Investigation Kit?”
“I’ll have you know that on occasion some of the gifts I receive from my lady friends are best viewed through a magnifying lens. Though I have recently acquired a pair of night vision binoculars and a black ski mask, just in case. A gentleman does try to be prepared.”
Next he’d want to come along on a B and E. “Here you go,” she said, spreading out the half-dozen photos Viscanti had provided for her. “Does it look familiar?”
He looked at each photo, then swung the glass over and examined them again. Samantha resisted the urge to tap her foot; at least he was taking it seriously.
Finally he straightened. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, his drawl deepening. “The colors look right, but I haven’t seen Wild Bill’s in person since the party in January.”
“But the colors are the same.”
“I think so. I couldn’t in all honesty swear to it, Miss Samantha.”
Damn. “Okay. Thanks for looking.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.” He pursed his lips. “You know, maybe there is something I can do for you.” He picked up his earpiece again and dialed the phone.
“Aubrey, what are you—”
“Wild Bill? Howdy, sir. It’s Aubrey. You wouldn’t happen to be free for lunch, would you? I still owe you a meal at the Sailfish Club. Care to collect?” He paused, then gave Samantha a broad grin and a thumbs-up. “Noon? And do you mind if I bring along a friend?” Another pause. “Yes, a female friend, and definitely easy on the eyes.”
Samantha blew out her breath. Under the circumstances she would have preferred breaking into Toombs’s house to having lunch with him, but Rick wanted her to do this legally. She supposed this kind of qualified. And maybe she could find out enough to make a B and E go more efficiently—or at best she supposed it could clear him. With eight days to solve this, the fewer suspects, the better.
Aubrey clicked off the call and faced her again. “We’re on, Miss Samantha. He does like the ladies, so perhaps that peach-colored Halston, if I might suggest? Oh, wait, what in the world am I thinking? You can’t wear peach to the Sailfish Club in October. What about that amethyst chiffon Vera Wang you have?”
“You are not supposed to know my wardrobe better than I do,” she joked, hopping to the floor. “Are you going to drive?”
“Are you going to let me drive the Bentley?”
“Sure.”
“Then be back here at about eleven-thirty. I’ll call for reservations.”
“It’s a date, Aubrey. Thanks.”
“Anything for you, Miss Samantha.”
She went back to her office to retrieve her purse and the rest of the Met file, then headed out to the elevator and down to the parking garage. As she climbed into the Bentley, her cell phone rang in the James Bond theme. Samantha smiled as she flipped it open. “Hello, Bond.”
“You know, I thought once they premiered a blonde Bond you’d stop calling me that,” Rick returned, his voice amused.
“Not a chance. You’re way more Bondy than Bond, anyway.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know, the cool cars, the suave clothes, the women fawning all over you, the—”
“I don’t have women fawning all over me.”
“All over your photos and your fan website, then. And there’s me, of course. Oh, and weren’t you Britain’s Sexiest Bachelor two years ago?”
“Who the devil told you that? No one’s ever supposed to mention that to me again.”
Samantha laughed. “I ordered a back issue of the magazine on eBay.”
“Bloody wonderful.”
“It cost me eighteen dollars. What’s up?” she asked, starting the car.
“I’m at Tom’s office. I just wanted to let you know that Katie’s probably going to call and invite you to lunch.”
Dammit. “Today?”
“Yes. Is that a p
roblem?”
Now she had to do a quick debate with herself and decide how much she wanted Rick to know about what she was doing. On the surface there was nothing wrong with having lunch with anybody, but he knew she suspected Toombs, and he would think the worst and try to invite himself along, and that would just be awkward. “Aubrey’s taking me to lunch today,” she said by way of compromise. “It’s for Boss’s Day or something.”
“That’s next week.”
Wow. There was actually a Boss’s Day? “Maybe I can get him and Stoney to take me out twice, then,” she returned. “If Katie calls I’ll see if I can schedule lunch for tomorrow or something.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“‘Thanks’?” she repeated. “Why are you thanking me? Why am I going to lunch with Katie Donner?”
“Because we’ve been back in Palm Beach for three weeks and she likes you. And she’s my best friend’s wife. So thank you for making an effort to get to know her better.”
“As long as Donner’s not joining us, I have no problem in the world with Katie. She’s nice. And maybe she has a theory about Anatomy Man.”
“I’ll call you later,” he said. “Have a good lunch, boss.”
“You, too.”
Tom Donner’s office was right across the street from hers, and she had to restrain herself from waving out the Bentley’s window as she drove by. While it felt like Rick had at least half an eye on her all the time, he was probably too busy with his mega-empire to accomplish that. And she supposed that she couldn’t blame him for trying to keep track of her—and at least he cared enough to annoy her with his concern.
She agreed with Aubrey’s suggestion that she wear the Vera Wang dress. Blending in was always key when she worked, not being noticed as she cased a house or a party. She couldn’t wear jeans to the Sailfish Club and expect to blend in. The clothes were the easy part, though. She had to figure out how to approach Gabriel “Wild Bill” Toombs, and how to make the most of this little encounter.
Maybe she should wear a kimono; that would be a good way to start up a conversation about all things Japanese. She could order sushi, she supposed, though raw fish was something for which she’d never developed a fondness.
Technically she could flat out ask Toombs if he had the armor and the swords, and he could show them to her, because the statute of limitations had run out. He could host a party for Joseph Viscanti and wear the armor and nobody could do anything about it.
And therefore she wouldn’t be asking for the return of Minamoto’s armor. He had no incentive to give it to her. On the other hand, if it went missing from his house, he’d be an idiot to call the cops and let everybody know he’d been robbed of his stolen property. All she needed was confirmation that he had the Met items. After that, she had until next Wednesday to figure out how to get them back to Viscanti.
“So she doesn’t suspect anything?”
Richard returned to his seat across from Tom Donner’s desk. “No. And I don’t want her to, so watch your mouth.”
“Okay, don’t shoot me, but are you keeping this a secret because you’re afraid she’ll freak, or because you might come to your senses and change your mind?”
“Fuck you, Tom.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
No, it wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to grace it with one. “All I’m going to say is that you were one hundred percent behind my asking Patricia to marry me, and we all know how that turned out,” he said stiffly, picking up his copy of the contract they’d been reviewing and flipping the page.
“And yet your odds were better then. What does that say?”
Richard dropped the contract onto the desk again and stood. “As I recall,” he snapped, “you were included in this only after you agreed to keep your bloody opinion to yourself. E-mail me your recommendations for the buyout clause, and the property value assessments for Ridgemont.” Reining in his fraying temper as best he could, Rick went to the door and pulled it open. “Otherwise, don’t bother me.” Because every tense muscle wanted to slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows, he closed it quietly.
He did value Tom’s friendship. Greatly. And being in a position where everyone agreed with everything he said and did, having someone he could count on to give him an honest opinion was vital. But whatever happened between him and Samantha was going to be because of Rick Addison and Sam Jellicoe—not because someone else stepped into the middle of the mess and frigged about with it.
In the elevator he pulled out his BlackBerry and checked his schedule. Because of the anniversary of Sam’s acquaintance he’d intentionally made this a light week, though now he was beginning to regret that. He needed to call John Stillwell in Los Angeles, and his secretary at the main office in London. The Tokyo meeting wasn’t for two and a half weeks, but he had several reports to look over before then
He paused as the elevator opened into the lobby. Tokyo. However he privately felt about Samantha working for the Met, the more safely she could conclude the venture, the better. Richard paged through his list of local phone numbers. Gabriel Toombs wasn’t there, but the Picaults were.
Before he could take the time to reconsider, he dialed their number. “August?” he asked as a deep male voice answered the phone. “This is Rick Addison.”
“Ah, Rick. Bonjour.”
“Bonjour, August. Comment allez vous?”
“Bien, bien. What can I do for you?”
“I am looking for a good set of Hina dolls for the daughter of a friend,” he improvised. Olivia Donner did collect dolls, so the tale even made sense. “The ones made during the 1920s, preferably. I was wondering if you and Yvette would join me for lunch and tell me what you know about the market.”
“Hold on for a moment.”
As he waited, Richard accessed the BlackBerry’s list of local restaurant phone numbers. There wasn’t one where he couldn’t get a table on very short notice, but he knew Yvette Picault had a weakness for seafood.
“Rick, what did you have in mind?”
“How about the Sailfish Club?”
He waited while August relayed that information. “Yvette and I would be delighted. What time should we meet you?”
“Does noon work for you?”
“Might we make it half past?”
“Certainly. I’ll see you there.”
As soon as he clicked off the phone call he dialed again, this time the Sailfish Club. In two minutes he had a table with a view overlooking Lake Worth and set for twelve-thirty sharp. That had been easy enough. Now all he needed to do was come up with a reasonable way to mention samurai armor and Minamoto Yoritomo. Perhaps he could claim to be hosting a charity dinner with an ancient Japan theme.
Samantha wouldn’t like it very much if he suddenly sprang the idea of a party on her, but she would probably go along with it. In addition, a party might be a good place to make a certain public announcement.
His palms abruptly sweaty, he blew out his breath as he made his way to the parking garage and his Barracuda. The whole scenario shouldn’t have been difficult; he loved Samantha, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and he wanted to give her the security of knowing all of that, and knowing that he would always have her back, as it were.
Because he was the Marquis of Rawley, a member of the British aristocracy, matters became a little more complicated. Inheritance rules were sticky, and approvals of a marriage had to come from traditional places and required official decrees. If she only trusted him enough to say yes, he would take care of the rest of it.
He wasn’t afraid of taking chances; some of his most lucrative deals had been made because of pure bravado. The thought of making a mistake and because of that losing Samantha, however, frightened the shit out of him. Probably because, unlike a business deal, this one mattered.
Chapter 7
Monday, 11:59 a.m.
“Is that him?” Samantha asked, angling her chin toward the double open doors of the Sailfish Club’s
restaurant.
“That’s him.” Aubrey straightened his tasteful gray tie—a conservative choice for him. “So for the caper you’re a Japanese antiques aficionado?”
“Shh. Yes. And it’s not a caper. It’s an investigation.”
Technically this wasn’t even an investigation as much as it was a poor excuse for a lunch. But Aubrey could call it whatever he wanted as long as he kept offering his help. She wished she’d had a little more time to prepare for meeting Gabriel Toombs, but hey, she worked off-the-cuff often enough to be pretty comfortable with it. At this moment, Toombs was nothing more than a potential mark. All she needed to discover was whether this mark had her target items in his possession.
Gabriel Toombs wore a black silk jacket and a string tie, the cut probably as Steven Seagal as he could get and still pass the jacket and tie dress code of the Club. As he stopped in front of them Aubrey didn’t offer his hand. Instead he clamped his hands to his sides and bowed deeply while Toombs mirrored the gesture.
“Wild Bill, please allow me to introduce the exceedingly charming Samantha Jellicoe,” Aubrey drawled, gesturing at her. “Miss Samantha, Wild Bill Toombs.”
Samantha inclined her head in a more conservative version of a bow of respect. “Mr. Toombs,” she said with a slight smile, lowering her head just a little. If Toombs was being the stereotypical American being a Japanese guy, she’d be the demure female he would probably feel the most comfortable around.
“Please call me Wild Bill,” he said, gazing at her, and gestured for the maitre d’.
No smile, no display of emotion at all. Samantha kept an eye on him as they were led to their table in the middle of the large room. For the first time she wondered if he had any idea who she was—and then she had to stifle a laugh, because before she’d met Rick, nobody knew who she was unless she wanted them to. Now she was in magazines and featured on nightly entertainment shows, photographed leaving restaurants and entering movie premieres.
Aubrey held out her chair for her, and she sat. Already she was receiving looks from other diners; whether Wild Bill knew she and Rick Addison were an item or not, most of Palm Beach’s elite did by now.
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