Glass Houses

by Stella Cameron

  “And we’re going into overdraft. Expenses have been over the top. We had to speculate to accumulate, you know that. The money will start rolling in again soon. I had a plan. We’d tell our latest customer—he who wrote those two checks, in case you’ve forgotten—we’d tell him his transaction’s on hold. That the merchandise is coming. Keep him quiet for a bit and use his money. Then we’d bring our old friends in New York to heel. And they would come. We know what they’ve all got hidden away. There are private collectors all over the world who would pay to see our list of those paintings. They’re all stolen. Those crooks would come when we called, and they’d pay for our continued silence about what they’ve got.”

  “And they will still come, and we’ll be in clover,” Rupert said, rubbing his hands together. “Nothing’s changed there. And we’ll get to tire FitzDuriiam woman and make sure she’s no bother. It’ll all be fine.”

  Winston said, “Not if someone blows the whistle on that other matter. The matter you felt you had to discuss with dear Kitty, who won’t let it drop.”

  “You’re wrong.” Rupert wished he absolutely believed what he said. “Kitty’s not stupid. I’ve told her he’s dead. She’ll have figured out it’s safer to keep quiet because she doesn’t want to get involved. That goes without saying.”

  “It had better go without saying.” Winnie jabbed a toe toward the negatives on the floor. “The FitzDurham woman’s got prints, and now she knows who we are. And she’s got names and numbers for people who expect us to be absolutely discreet.”

  Rupert chewed his lip. “You don’t know if she saw anything in the photos. You don’t even know if there’s anything to see in the photos. Anything we need to worry about, that is. We’re only guessing and taking precautions.” He leaned toward Winnie. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “What if she’s a planter?” Winston said.

  “I think you mean a plant, Winston.”

  “She could be. It could all have been a setup to draw us out. What if they had those photographs and knew there was voluble evidence in them, but they didn’t really have any idea who the evidence was voluble to—or who the photographs belonged to? For all you know, she’s out there now.” He gestured toward the street and sank lower in the chair. “She could be out there watching us and reporting back to the mastermind. Telling him they’ve cornered us and it’s time to close in.”

  Rupert peered through the windows, then pulled himself together. “That’s valuable, Winnie. But she’s not. They’re not. She left for the States. Should be there by now. Just about. You wouldn’t believe what I went through to find out where she’d gone.”

  “That’s it then.” Winston leaped up and cuffed Rupert one across the ear. “We’re off.”

  The ear stung. Winston inflicted his petty pain and kept Rupert’s hate alive and growing. “It’s not that bad. We’re not done for yet.”

  “Off to the States, you fool,” Winston said. “To track her down and finish her off. And whoever she works for. She can identify us. Besides, she’s a swindler. She got our money for the wrong negatives.”

  Seven

  He walked, or sauntered, to stand in front of her. Olivia pressed hot, damp palms against her skirt and did her best not to pass out from lack of air.

  “Olivia Fitz?”

  Disaster. There was no way she could feel relaxed with him, not when he must see her as a dowdy, dun bird to his brilliantly blue-eyed golden eagle. This was the most embarrassing moment of her entire life.

  Sam was waiting.

  “I’m Olivia FitzDurham,” she said, looking up at him and making sure her gaze was steady. If her eyes appeared shifty, it would be truly horrifying. “Thank you very much for coming to meet me. I’m really sorry to be such a nuisance. I’m sure you’re very busy investigating important cases and this is bad timing for you to break away. I’ve been thinking. I’m sure everything’s just fine. I’ve overreacted. I’m going to see about getting a flight back to London. In fact, you don’t need even to wait with me. There’s bound to be a plane leaving soon.” She stood up and offered him her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I wish you every success in any endeavor you undertake.”

  Aiden waited until she finally closed her mouth. He glanced at her extended right hand and placed the bunch of roses in it. She automatically closed her fingers around the paper and stems.

  He hadn’t expected to be a smash hit with her, but from her reaction, he was one helluva turnoff. “Welcome to New York,” he said, and risked another grin.

  A smile arched his upper lip away from his teeth, crinkled the corners of his eyes, and made little brackets on each side of his mouth. “Yes,” she said. “You must be an awfully kind man.” Otherwise, why would he waste his time with her? Not that she wasn’t passable to look at, just not—well, not, that’s all. Why was she even thinking about his physical reaction to her when the poor man was only doing what came naturally to him—protecting a potential victim?

  “Er, thanks,” Aiden said when he couldn’t think of another response. He must be an awfully kind man?

  Olivia couldn’t do a thing to stop herself feeling flustered. “I’m not a victim type, you know. I’ve never been that sort of person. Really, I’m very capable.” She longed to be back in London, in Hampstead. What a monumental idiot she was making of herself. And to as much as contemplate his thinking of her as a victim sickened her.

  Now he got it; she was embarrassed because she thought she was inconveniencing him. “I’m glad you got here safely. Don’t give the victim stuff another thought. You acted, and that’s positive”—Thank you, Vanni—“because too many people are indecisive under pressure and they freeze. That’s when they become victims.” There was something to all that stuff about Englishwomen’s skin. Although she must be exhausted, Olivia’s skin glowed.

  “What a nice thing to say, Sam. You’re right, of course, but I admit one can feel a bit of a pest—a lot of a pest, actually, for intruding in someone else’s life.”

  This was where he should take her aside and explain about Sam, or Ryan. He should explain everything, right now, before things got any stickier.

  “It would be nice to at least spend the night here,” she said, and made a motion to stop him from taking her luggage cart. “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s on wheels and ever so easy to pull.”

  Gently, he patted her hand and removed it from the cart handle. “Exactly. So it’ll be easy for me to pull, and then I won’t feel like a jerk. Or will that offend your feminism?”

  “I’m not a feminist. Well, of course I’m a feminist, just not that kind of feminist.” She chuckled. “Now that’s as clear as mud, isn’t it? I mean I’m really a feminist, but there are obvious reasons for the differences between men and women.”

  “Uh-huh.” If he laughed, she wouldn’t think he was kind.

  “The strength thing, I mean.” Olivia Fitz was getting pinker. “You know, bigger in some places, or ways, differently shaped because we were intended to perform differently. Oh, good grief.” And she really did laugh. “Contrary to my brother’s opinion, I’m really quite sensible and clearheaded most of the time. I’m not known for saying inappropriate things. Thank you for dealing with my luggage.”

  Aiden decided he might be able to like the lady. “You’re tired,” he said, taking a bulging black bag from her shoulder. “I’ll handle that, too. Cameras, I bet.” He must tell her who he was—or wasn’t.

  “I don’t go anywhere without a camera. Without one I feel there’s something missing. Probably like you and your gun. I need to find a phone and call some hotels.”

  Her brother could be the one with the real inside track to how clear Olivia’s head was.

  She walked along beside him, and he liked her walk. She didn’t mince or trot, but neither did she stride in her sensible flat shoes. “It’s amazing here,” she told him. “You can feel the energy.”

  “Wait till you get to Manhattan. Hold on to your hat then. What h
appened to your hat anyway?”

  She slapped a hand to her head and stood still. “I don’t remember when… Isn’t that ridiculous? I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I put one on. Possibly I didn’t. How strange.” She started walking again.

  “Why would you wear one at all? You’ve got pretty hair. I’m glad it’s not covered up.”

  That caused her to bow her head so he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t answer him.

  “You do know I can’t allow you to stay in a hotel, don’t you?”

  “I’ll be fine there.”

  He’d managed to make her feel unwelcome. “People are already expecting you.”

  Olivia knew Sam was trying to be nice, but she wouldn’t let him go to any more lengths to help her. “You’re awfully kind, but I can’t allow you to put yourself out anymore. I don’t know what I was thinking of before. Of course I can’t stay at your place. What would your family and friends think?”

  His sudden sharp laugh and the way he shook his head unnerved her. She had no idea what he found so funny.

  Aiden couldn’t say what he thought, which was that his family wasn’t going to know, but that his friends would be eaten up with curiosity about the woman Aiden-the-loner chose to shack up with. And shacking-up would be what they assumed he was doing. “Y’know, Olivia,” he said, and placed a hand on the back of her neck without thinking. Too late to snatch it away. “Y’know, I think it’s you who are kind. You’ve got to be anxious and adrift, but you’re worrying about my reputation. In fact, that’s downright sweet.” They finally reached the doors to the drive-through in front of the terminal and went outside. “Why don’t you wait here while I get my car?”

  A chill and gritty wind stirred around Olivia’s legs. “No, no, it’ll save time if I come with you, and it feels good to be moving.”

  He’d kept his hand on her neck and noted that his touch seemed to reassure her. He shifted to grip her shoulder. “I want to feed you. Then, when you’ve had some rest, we’ll go over everything that’s happened to date.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said. Was she going to talk about believing she’d been a murder target? “I don’t want you to feel responsible for me. You aren’t. My goodness, is that some sort of game?”

  What game? he wondered. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Pedestrians racing with cars and things. It’s a sort of chase to see who gets there first, and still alive.”

  “Oh, that.” He kept a firm hold on her and wove a path across the street. “Everyone knows what they’re doing.” No point in telling the truth—that this was the biggest game of “chicken” on earth—and scaring her even more.

  “Heathrow’s wild,” Olivia said, and he realized what she evidently hadn’t. She had grabbed a handful of his jacket. “This is wilder.”

  “Yeah.” The crowds and jostle of vehicles looked average to him. “We’re going to Brooklyn.”

  He felt her prepare to ask questions, but they’d reached the elevators in the garage, and negotiating a spot inside the first arriving car made conversation impossible.

  Olivia’s anxiety only built. He didn’t live in Brooklyn. Why would he take her there? “Is Hell’s Kitchen in Brooklyn?” The doors were closing and a lot of people were crammed inside, but she couldn’t wait to get a clearer picture of what was happening.

  “Nope. I’ll explain where we are as we go.”

  Once more he held her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if the familiarity felt good, the action of a friend, or if it made her feel threatened.

  An elegant woman wearing a butter-colored silk suit, cream hose, and high-heeled, bone-colored pumps stood a few inches from them and very deliberately studied Sam. She was gorgeous, and from the way she looked at him, she thought Sam was gorgeous, too. She started at his feet and moved very slowly up his body until she reached his face. Olivia saw him glance briefly back at the woman, but look away at once. He squeezed Olivia’s upper arm and smiled down on her.

  Hmm. Yes, the familiarity felt good.

  The woman’s tightened mouth registered annoyance— probably because Sam wasn’t drooling over her. She switched her attention to Olivia and repeated the foot-to-face sweep. Olivia smiled. The woman didn’t smile back. The elevator doors opened again, and Sam propelled Olivia out.

  “You hungry?” he asked. “You’d better be. Where we’re going, they don’t understand if you don’t eat three helpings of everything.”

  “Rather hungry,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to put anyone out, though. I mean, I’ve already been enough of a nuisance and—”

  “Do me a favor, ma’am. Don’t say that again. You’re here because you were encouraged to come. End of story. Okay?” He’d drawn to a halt near an antique car that reminded Olivia of something from a gangster picture—except for the color. She stared at the vast fins and tried hard not to crumple under the weight of her shaky reaction to the irritation she heard in Sam’s voice.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll be more careful what I say.” She started walking again.

  “This is it,” Sam said. He opened a back door of the finned monster—the chartreuse, finned-monster—and put her luggage on the seat. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

  “This is your car?”

  “Restoring cars is my hobby. I usually drive a Mustang, but I thought you might enjoy something more sedate.”

  “It’s a Cadillac?”

  “Yep. A fifty-nine Cadillac Sixty Special four-door hardtop. Isn’t she a dream?”

  A Cadillac the length of a frigate and sporting an immaculate chartreuse paint job. “A dream,” Olivia said. And, oh, so sedate. She wondered what the Mustang looked like. She pointed at him. “MustangMan. I get it now.”

  “That’s me.” Sam ushered her into the passenger seat where shiny black leather felt slippery. “One-hundred-thirty-inch wheelbase,” he said. “Overall length, two-hundred-twenty-five inches. Did you notice the dummy air swoops— torpedo-shaped?”

  A man and his toys. “I certainly did. They’re—memorable.”

  Aiden slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s side. He ought to drive the Caddy more often, but he didn’t like to risk having some bored bubble-gummer keying the sides—or worse. Kids with nothing to do could make life nasty.

  He slid behind the wheel and sighed at the way the engine hummed the instant he turned the key. “Listen to that,” he said. “You had it right. It’s a dream.”

  Olivia supposed the car was interesting. The view down the bonnet went on forever. Once Sam was on the ramps leading down from the garage, she asked, “You were going to tell me about going to Brooklyn.”

  Now. Now he would tell her about Ryan. “We’ll take the Belt Parkway. Brooklyn gets a bum rap from people who don’t know it. Some of the views of Manhattan—wait till you see it at night—they’re something.” She might totally panic when he started talking about not being who she thought he was.

  “But Hell’s Kitchen isn’t in Brooklyn.”

  “No, Manhattan. Midtown.”

  “I need a map.”

  “Sure, to orient yourself.” Time enough to explain everything when they got closer to the Zanettos. “You’ll soon feel you’ve lived here all your life.”

  Olivia doubted that. “I ought to tell you more about what happened this morning—or whenever it was. I’m getting confused on times. There wasn’t time to put all this in the last e-mail, but that man—the one who came for the photographs—he was so creepy. He looked through the letterbox in my front door and asked me to push the negatives out to him.” The next bit mortified her. “He put an envelope of money inside. Mmm… there was enough so I didn’t have to use a credit card to buy my ticket. That was good, wasn’t it? They can’t trace me that way now, through my credit card.”

  Olivia was aware that her surroundings were more green than she’d expected, but she was too perturbed to take close note of anything they passed.

  “Let me get this straight,” Aiden said. He’
d better remember it wasn’t his job to interrogate her. “A man came to your home—”

  “It was the man who rang up earlier. At first I thought it wasn’t, but then I realized he just didn’t have cotton wool in his mouth.”

  Aiden took a sidelong look. She was looking right back. So earnest and anxious. So pretty. And maybe more than a few tacos short of a full-meal deal? Hadn’t that been Vanni’s line? “Cotton wool in his mouth?”

  “Sorry. You say cotton. Inside his cheeks. I’ve read how people put cotton wool in their mouths to change their voices. Or a flannel—washcloth to you—over their mouths. Or perhaps that was a flannel over the telephone receiver. I knew it was him, though, because he mentioned ringing me earlier about the kill fee.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Olivia heard other words in her head: He intended to kill me but attacked someone else by mistake. She said, “When I didn’t agree to give him the photographs, he said he only needed the negatives. Then he pushed an envelope full of money and things through the door.”

  Rather than gaining any reassurance from this revelation, Aiden got a too-familiar feeling of foreboding. “Olivia, did you give him the negatives?”

  “He gave me the money.”

  “So you’ve said.” He could see her hands trembling in her lap. “Just take a deep breath and stay with me on this. Because he gave you the money, you gave him the negatives?”

  “I feel so awful.”

  “Save it. We don’t have time for you to crack up on me.” His voice had turned hard, and his profile was sharp, the corner of his mouth turned down, and that muscle she’d often noticed in men’s cheeks worked back and forth. Oh, dear, he was grinding his teeth. She’d made him really angry.

  “I don’t mean to snap at you,” he said. “It goes with the territory, I’m afraid. I get intense about business and I forget to make nice.”

  Make nice? “You don’t have to pretend to be what you’re not for me. I’m a stranger to you anyway. Well, I am really. Oh!” She jerked around to sit facing him. “I didn’t give him the ones he wanted. Oh, dear, I see what you thought. He asked for negatives, so I gave him some. But they weren’t the ones from the shoot for Penny Biggies.”