by J. D. Robb
There were black plastic chairs, a couple of cheap tables and a few magazines—Field and Stream, Sports Illustrated, People —all months out of date.
The air smelled like coffee and Lysol.
Jack, now Peter, tapped his fingers nervously at his tie and nudged up his glasses as he approached the counter.
"Can I help you?"
Jack blinked myopically at the deputy, cleared his throat. "I'm not entirely sure, Officer . . . ah, Russ. You see, I was supposed to meet an associate this afternoon. One P.M., at the Wayfarer Hotel dining room. A lunch meeting, you see. But my appointment never arrived and I've been unable to reach him. When I inquired at the hotel desk, I was informed he never checked in. I'm quite concerned, really. He was very specific about the time and place, and I've come here all the way from Boston for this appointment."
"You looking to file a missing persons report on a guy who's only been gone, what, eight hours?"
"Yes, but you see, I've been unable to reach him, and this was an important appointment. I'm concerned something may have happened to him on his trip from New York."
"Name?"
"Pinkerton. Peter P." Jack reached inside his suit jacket as if to produce a card.
"The name of the man you're looking for."
"Oh yes, of course. Peterson, Jasper R. Peterson. He's a rare-book dealer, and was to acquire a particular volume my employer is most interested in."
"Jasper Peterson?" For the first time, the deputy's eyes sharpened.
"Yes, that's right. He was traveling from New York, into Baltimore, I believe, and through D.C. before taking some appointments in this area. I realize I may seem to be overreacting, but in all my dealings with Mr. Peterson, he's always been prompt and reliable."
"Going to ask you to wait a minute, Mr. Pinkerton."
Russ pushed back from the counter and disappeared into the warren of rooms in the back.
So far, so good, Jack thought. Now he'd express shock and upset at the news that the man he sought had recently met with an accident. Willy would forgive him for it. In fact, he thought his longtime friend would appreciate the layers of the ruse.
He'd probe and pick at the deputy and work his way around to learning exactly what effects the police had impounded.
Once he knew for certain they had the pooch, he'd take the next step and nip it from the property room.
He'd have the diamonds, and he'd take them—and himself—as far away from Laine as possible. Leaving a trail for Crew that a blind man on a galloping horse could follow.
After that . . . well, a man couldn't always plan so far ahead.
He turned back toward the counter, a distracted look on his face. And felt a quick lurch in the belly when instead of the bored deputy, a big, blond cop stepped out of the side door.
He didn't look nearly slow enough to suit Jack.
"Mr. Pinkerton?" Vince gave Jack one long, quiet study. "I'm Chief Burger. Why don't you step back into my office?"
13.
A thin worm of sweat dribbled down Jack's spine as he stepped into the office of Angel Gap's chief of police. In matters of law and order, he much preferred working with underlings.
Still, he sat, fussily hitching his trousers, then setting his briefcase tidily beside his chair, just as Peter would have done. The smell of coffee was stronger here, and the novelty mug boasting a cartoon cow with bright red Mick Jagger lips told Jack the chief was having some Java with his after-hours paperwork.
"You're from Boston, Mr. Pinkerton?"
"That's right." The Boston accent was one of Jack's favorites for its subtle snoot factor. He'd perfected it watching reruns of MASH and emulating the character of Charles Winchester. "I'm only here overnight. I'm scheduled to leave in the morning, but as I've yet to complete my purpose I may need to reschedule. I apologize for bothering you with my problems, Chief Burger, but I'm really quite concerned about Mr. Peterson."
"You know him well?"
"Yes. That is, fairly well. I've done business with him for the last three years—for my employer. Mr. Peterson is a rare-book dealer, and my employer, Cyrus Mantz, the Third—perhaps you've heard of him?"
"Can't say."
"Ah, well, Mr. Mantz is a businessman of some note in the Boston and Cambridge areas. And an avid collector of rare books. He has one of the most extensive libraries on the East Coast." Jack fiddled with his tie. "In any case, I've come down specifically, at Mr. Peterson's request, to see, and hopefully purchase, a first-edition copy of William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury —with dust jacket. I was to meet Mr. Peterson for lunch—"
"Have you ever met him before?"
Jack blinked behind his stolen lenses, as if puzzled by both the question and the interruption. "Of course. On numerous occasions."
"Could you describe him?"
"Yes, certainly. He's rather a small man. Perhaps five feet six inches tall, ah . . . I'd estimate about one hundred and forty pounds. He's in the neighborhood of sixty years of age, with gray hair. I believe his eyes are brown." He scrunched up his own. "I believe. Is that helpful?"
"Would this be your Mr. Peterson?" Vince offered him a copy of the photo he'd pulled from the police files.
Jack pursed his lips. "Yes. He's considerably younger here, of course, but yes, this is Jasper Peterson. I'm afraid I don't understand."
"The man you identified as Jasper Peterson was involved in an accident a few days ago."
"Oh dear. Oh dear, I was afraid it was something of the kind." In a nervous gesture, Jack removed the glasses, polished the lenses briskly on a stiff white handkerchief. "He was injured then? He's in the hospital?"
Vince waited until he'd perched the glasses back on his nose. "He's dead."
"Dead? Dead?" It was a fist slammed into the belly, hearing it again, just that way. And the genuine jolt had his voice squeaking. "Oh, this is dreadful. I can't . . . I never imagined. How did it happen?"
"He was hit by a car. He died almost instantly."
"This is such a shock."
Willy. God, Willy. He knew he'd gone pale. He could feel the chill under his skin where the blood had drained. His hands trembled. He wanted to weep, even to wail, but he held back. Peter Pinkerton would never commit such a public display of emotion.
"I don't know precisely what to do next. All the time I was waiting for him to meet me, growing impatient, even annoyed, he was . . . Terrible. I'll have to call my employer, tell him . . . Oh dear, this is just dreadful."
"Did you know any of Mr. Peterson's other associates? Family?"
"No." He fiddled with his tie, fussily, though he wanted to yank at it as his throat swelled. I'm all he had, Jack thought. I'm the only family he had. And I got him killed. But Peter Pinkerton continued in his snooty Harvard drawl. "We rarely talked of anything other than books. Could you possibly tell me what arrangements have been made? I'm sure Mr. Mantz would want to send flowers, or make a donation to a charity in lieu."
"Nothing's set, as yet."
"Oh. Well." Jack got to his feet, then sat again. "Could you tell me, possibly, if Mr. Peterson was in possession of the book when he . . . I apologize for sounding ghoulish, but Mr. Mantz will ask. The Faulkner?"
Vince tipped back in his chair, swiveled gently side to side with his cop's eyes trained on Jack's face. "He had a couple paperback novels."
"Are you certain? I'm sorry for the trouble, but is there any way to check, a list of some sort? Mr. Mantz has his sights set on that edition. You see, it's a rare find with the dust jacket. A first edition in, we were assured, mint condition—and he'll, Mr. Mantz, he'll be very . . . oh dear, insistent about my following through."
Obligingly Vince opened a drawer, took out a file. "Nothing like that here. Clothes, toiletries, keys, a watch, cell phone and recharger, wallet and contents. That's it. Guy was traveling light."
"I see. Perhaps he put it in a safe-deposit box for safekeeping until we met. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to retrieve it before . . . I've take
n enough of your time."
"Where are you staying, Mr. Pinkerton?"
"Staying?"
"Tonight. Where are you staying, in case I have something further on those arrangements."
"Ah. I'm at the Wayfarer tonight. I suppose I'll fly out as scheduled tomorrow. Oh dear, oh dear, I don't know what I'm going to say to Mr. Mantz."
"And if I need to reach you, in Boston?"
Jack produced a card. "Either of those numbers will do. Please do contact me, Chief Burger, if you have any word." He offered his hand.
"I'll be in touch."
Vince walked him out, stood watching as he walked away.
It wouldn't take long to check the details of the story, and to run the names Pinkerton and Mantz. But since he'd looked through those cheap lenses into Laine's blue eyes, he figured he'd find they were bogus.
"Russ, call over to the Wayfarer, see if they've got this Pinkerton registered."
He'd confirm that little detail, haul one of his men out of bed to keep tabs on the man for the night.
He'd have another look at the effects, see what O'Hara—if that was O'Hara—had been interested in finding. Since he was damn sure he didn't have a few million in diamonds sitting back in the property room, he'd just have to see if he had something that pointed to them.
***
Where the hell was it? Jack walked briskly for two blocks before he began to breathe easily again. Cop houses, cop smells, cop eyes tended to constrict his lungs. There was no ceramic dog on the list of effects. Surely even a suspicious cop—and that was a redundant phrase—would have listed something like that. So there went his tidy little plan to break into the property room and take it. Couldn't steal what wasn't there to be stolen.
The dog had been in Willy's possession when they'd split up, in the hopes that Crew would track Jack himself to give Willy time to slip away, get to Laine and give her the figurine for safekeeping.
But the vicious, double-crossing Crew had tracked Willy instead. Nervous old Willy, who'd wanted nothing more than to retire to some pretty beach somewhere and live out the rest of his days painting bad watercolors and watching birds.
Should never have left him, should never have sent him out on his own. And now his oldest friend in the world was dead. There was no one he could talk with about the old days now, no one who understood what he was thinking before the words were out of his mouth. No one who got the jokes.
He'd lost his wife and his daughter. That was the way the ball bounced and the cookie crumbled. He couldn't blame Marilyn for pulling stakes and taking little Lainie with her. She'd asked him, God knew, a thousand times to give the straight life a decent try. And he'd promised her that many times in return he would. Broken every one of those thousand promises.
You just can't fight nature, was Jack's opinion. It was his nature to play the game. As long as there were marks, well, what the hell could he do? If God hadn't intended for him to play those marks, He wouldn't have made so damn many of them.
He knew it was weak, but that was the way God had made him, so how could he argue the point? People who argued with God were prime suckers. And Kate O'Hara's boy, Jack, was no sucker.
He'd loved three people in his life: Marilyn, his Lainie and Willy Young. He'd let two of them go because you can't keep what didn't want to be yours. But Willy had stuck.
As long as he'd had Willy, he'd had family.
There was no bringing him back. But one day, when all was well again, he'd stand on some pretty beach and lift a glass to the best friend a man ever had.
But meanwhile, there was work to be done, thoughts to be thought and a backstabbing killer to outwit.
Willy had gotten to Laine, and surely he'd had the dog in his possession when he had or why make contact? He could've hidden it, of course. A sensible man would've locked it away until he was sure of his ground.
But that wasn't Willy's style. If Jack knew Willy—and who better?—he'd make book he had that statue with the diamonds in its belly when he'd walked into Laine's little store.
And he hadn't had it when he walked out again.
That left two possibilities: Willy had stashed it in the shop without Laine knowing. Or Daddy's little girl was telling fibs.
Either way, he had to find out.
His first stop would be a quiet little search of his darling daughter's commercial enterprise.
***
Max found Laine in her home office working some sort of design onto graph paper. She had several tiny cutouts lined up on her desk. After a minute's study he recognized them as paper furniture.
"Is this like an adult version of a doll house?"
"In a way. It's my house, room by room." She tapped a stack of graph paper. "I'm going to have to replace some of my pieces, so I've made scale models of some of the things I have in stock that might work. Now I'm seeing if they do, and how I might arrange them if I bring them home."
He stared another moment. "I'm wondering how anyone that careful about picking out a sofa ended up engaged to me."
"Who says I didn't make a scale model of you, then try it out in different scenarios?"
"Huh."
"Besides, I don't love a sofa. I like and admire it, and am always willing to part with it for the right price. I'm keeping you."
"Took you a minute to think that one out, but I like it." He leaned on the corner of the desk. "Looks like I've located Crew's ex-wife and kid. Got a line on them in Ohio, a suburb of Columbus."
"You think she knows something?"
"I have to speculate Crew would have some interest in his son. Wouldn't a man like that see an offspring, particularly a male offspring, as a kind of possession? The wife's different, she's just a woman, and easily replaced."
"Really?"
"From Crew's point of view. From mine, when you're lucky enough to find the right woman, she's irreplaceable."
"Took you a minute, but I like it."
"The other thing is, in my line when you pick loose any thread, you keep tugging until it leads to something or falls out of the whole. I need to check this out. So, change of plans. I'll be heading to New York first thing in the morning, with the diamonds we have. I'll deliver them personally, then bounce over to Ohio and see if I can finesse anything from the former Mrs. Crew or Junior."
"How old is Junior?"
"About seven."
"Oh, Max, he's just a child."
"You know the whole thing about little pitchers, big ears? Jesus, Laine," he added when he saw her face. "I'm not going to tune him up. I'm just going to talk to them."
"If they're divorced, it could be she doesn't want any part of Crew, and doesn't want her son to know what his father is."
"Doesn't mean the kid doesn't know or that Daddy doesn't drop in now and then. It needs to be checked, Laine. I'll be leaving first thing. If you want to come with me, I'll make the arrangements for both of us."
She turned back to her graph paper, used the eraser end of a pencil to poke the cutout sofa to a different angle. "You'd move quicker without me."
"Probably, but not as cheerfully."
She glanced up. "A quick trip to New York, a flip over to Ohio. Seems like old times, and it's appealing. But I can't. There's work, there's Henry, there's putting this house back together. And I have to practice calling your mother." She turned the pencil around to poke him when he laughed. "No comments on the last one, friend, it's how I do things."
He didn't want to leave her, not even for a day. Part of that, he knew, was the obsessive insanity of new love, but part was worry. "If you came with me, you could call her from wherever, you could leave Henry with the Burgers, close the shop for the day and deal with the house when we get back. You can take your graph paper."
"You're worried about leaving me while you go do your job. You shouldn't. In fact, you can't. I've been taking care of myself for a very long time, Max. I'm going to keep on taking care of myself after we're married."
"You won't have a homicidal jewel
thief looking in your direction after we're married."
"You can guarantee that? Go," she said without waiting for his answer. "Do what you do. I'll do what I do. And when you get back . . ." She ran her hand along his thigh. "We'll do something together."
"You're trying to distract me. No, wait, you did distract me." He leaned down, kissed her. "How about this? I go do what I do, you stay and do what you do. I'll be back tomorrow night, earlier if I can manage it. Until I'm back, you'll go over and hang with the cop and his wife. You and Henry. You're not staying here alone until this is wrapped. Now, we can fight about that or we can take the compromise."
She continued to walk her fingers along his thigh. "I like to fight."
"Okay." He pushed to his feet as if preparing for the round.
"But not when I agree with the other person's point of view. It's an unnecessary risk for me to stay out here alone. So I'll impose on Jenny and Vince."
"Good. Well . . . good. Want to fight about something else?"
"Maybe later?"
"Sure. I'm going to go nail down my flights. Oh, any chance that sofa can be long enough for a guy to take a Sunday afternoon nap on?"
"That's a distinct possibility."
"I'm going to like being married to you."
"Yes, you are."
***
It was after one by the time Jack finished searching Laine's shop. Torn in two directions, he locked up after himself. He was bitterly disappointed not to have found the diamonds. Life would be so much simpler if he had the little dog tucked under his arm. He could be on his way out of town, leaving enough bread crumbs for Crew to follow that would lead him and any trouble away from Laine.
Then he'd vanish down the rabbit hole. Fourteen million in diamonds—even figuring on half of that due to a quick turnover—would provide a very plush rabbit hole.
At the same time he was struck with a kind of stupefied pride. Just look what his little girl had done, and in the straight world. How the hell had she learned to buy all those things? The furniture, the fancy pieces, the little fussy table sitters. It was a pretty place. His little girl had herself a very pretty business. And since he'd been curious enough to take the time to hack into her computer and check, it appeared she had herself a reasonably profitable one.