by Big Jack
Antique toys, Eve mused while Whittier searched. Gannon’s ex had antique toys in his office and an advance copy of the book.
“Does your son collect this sort of thing, too?”
“Yes, it’s the one thing Trevor and I shared. He’s more interested in collector’s values, more serious about it than I from that standpoint. It’s not here.”
He turned, his face was sheet-white now and seemed to have fallen in on itself. “It doesn’t mean anything. I must have misplaced it. It’s just a toy.”
Chapter 13
“Could it have been moved?” Eve studied the shelves. She had a vague sort of idea what a bulldozer looked like. Her knowledge of machines was more finely tuned to urban style. The maxibuses that belched up and down the avenues, the airjacks that tore up the streets in the most inconvenient places at the most inconvenient times, the droning street-cleaning units, the clanking recycler trucks.
But she recognized models of old-fashioned pickup trucks and service vans, and a shiny red tractor, not unlike the one she’d seen on Roarke’s aunt’s farm recently.
There were toy replicas of emergency vehicles that were boxier, clunkier to her eye than what zipped around the streets or skies of New York. And a number of bulky trucklike things with scoops or toothy blades or massive tubes attached.
She didn’t see how Whittier could be sure what was missing, or what was where. To her eye, there was no rhyme or reason to the collection, but a bunch of little vehicles with wheels or wings or both cobbled together as if waiting for a traffic signal to turn green.
But he was a guy, and her experience with Roarke told her a guy knew his toys very well.
“I haven’t moved it. I’d remember.” Steve was searching the shelves now, touching various vehicles or machines, scooting some along. “I can’t think why my wife would either, or the housekeeper.”
“Do you have any of this sort of thing elsewhere on the premises?” Eve asked him.
“Yes, a few pieces here and there, and the main collection upstairs in my office, but . . . ”
“Why don’t you take a look? Peabody, could you give Mr. Whittier a hand?”
“Sure. My brothers have a few model toys,” Peabody began as she led Steve out of the room. “Nothing like what you’ve got here.”
Eve waited until their voices had faded. “How much is this kind of deal worth?” She waved her thumb toward the shelves as she turned to Roarke.
“It’s a bit out of my milieu, but antique, nostalgic, novelty collections of any kind have value.” He picked up a small, beefy truck, spun the wheels. The quick smile confirmed Eve’s theory that such matters were indeed guy things. “And the condition of the pieces add to it. These are all prime, from what I can see. You’re thinking the toy’s been lifted.”
“Strong possibility.”
He set the truck down but didn’t release it until he’d pushed it gently back and forth. “If Trevor Whittier stole it from his father, if the diamonds were indeed hidden inside it—and that’s where you’re heading?”
“Past heading. I’m there. I don’t think you should be playing with those,” she added when he reached for the tractor.
He made a sound that might have been disappointment or mild embarrassment, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “Then why kill? Why break into Samantha’s house? Why not be toasting your good fortune in Belize?”
“Who says he knows they’re in there?” She watched Roarke lift a brow. “Look at his profile. He’s a lazy, self-centered opportunist. I’m betting if Whittier does a check of his collection, he’ll find several of the better pieces missing. Stupid bastard might just have sold them, and the diamonds along with them.”
She wandered up and down the shelves, scanning the toys. “Samantha Gannon’s ex has a collection.”
“Does he now?” Roarke nodded. “Does he, really?”
“Yeah. Not as extensive as this, at least not the collection I saw in his office. Put Trevor Whittier together with the ex.” She put the tips of her index fingers together. “Point of interest, antique toys and games. Gannon’s ex had an advance copy of the book, and might very well have talked about it.”
“Intersections,” Roarke said with a nod. “It really is a small little world, isn’t it? The ex buys pieces from Whittier’s son, or at least knows him, socializes perhaps, shares this interest. Because of that, he mentions the book, talks it up. Samantha’s grandmother owned an antique store. I believe she still does. Another sort of intersection, another common thread that might’ve prompted a conversation.”
“Worth checking. I want an all-points out on Trevor Whittier. I want to sweep him up and into Interview, and I want a damn warrant to search his place. All of that’s going to take some fast talking.” She frowned toward the doorway. “What do you think? Will Whittier keep quiet, or will he try to warn Trevor we’re looking for him?”
“I think he’ll try to cooperate. That would be his first instinct. Do the right thing. He won’t consider, or believe, his son’s a murderer. It won’t be in his scope. In trouble, yes, in need of help. But not a cold-blooded killer. If he begins to think in that direction, I don’t know what he might do.”
“Then let’s keep him busy as long as we can.”
She called Baxter and Trueheart in to handle Whittier. They’d accompany him to his downtown offices, where he kept a few pieces of his collection.
“I need you to wait for the wife,” Eve directed Baxter. “Keep her with you. I don’t want either of them to have the opportunity to contact the son. Let’s keep him out of this mix as long as we can. We get some luck, and we pick him up before he knows we’re looking for him.”
“How long do you want them wrapped up?”
“Try to get me a couple hours. I need to get a warrant for Whittier junior’s place, and I want to get to Chad Dix. I’m going to send a couple uniforms out to Long Island, where Whittier’s mother’s living. Just to be safe.”
“We’ll stall. Maybe he’ll let us play with the fire truck.”
“What is it with guys and little trucks?”
“Come on, you had your dollies and tea parties.” A lesser man would have shrunk under her withering stare. “Okay, maybe not.”
“Keep them wrapped,” Eve ordered as she started out. “If it starts to unravel, I want to hear about it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I bet this sucker has a working siren.”
Eve heard the high-pitched scream of it as she passed into the foyer. “Excuse my idiot associate, Mr. Whittier. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“It’s fine. I want this straightened out.” He managed a smile. “I’ll just go and . . . ” He gestured toward his den. “I’ll just make sure the detective doesn’t . . . ”
“Go right ahead. You’re waiting for the wife,” Eve said in an undertone to Trueheart. “If the son happens by, keep him here, contact me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Peabody, with me.”
“No place I’d rather be.” Peabody glanced at Roarke. “You coming with us?”
“I doubt the lieutenant has use for me at the moment.”
“I’ll probably get around to you.”
“My hope eternally springs.”
She paused on the sidewalk. “If you want to stay available, I’ll let you know when we have Trevor in custody.”
“I appreciate it. Meanwhile, I could do a little search among known collectors and see if a piece fitting the description has been on the market in the last few months.”
“That’d cover some bases. Appreciate it. Let’s get the commander to wheedle a warrant for us. I want to talk to Chad Dix. Proving a connection there adds a couple of bars to the cage.”
Roarke lifted Eve’s chin with his hand—a gesture that had her wincing, and Peabody wandering discreetly away. “You’re very steely-minded on this one, Lieutenant.”
“No touching on the job,” she muttered and nudged his hand aside. “And I’m always steely-minded.”
“No. There are times you run on guts and wear yourself out emotionally, physically.”
“Every case is different. This one’s by the stages. Unless Trevor’s figured it all out by now, he’s not a particular threat to anyone. We’ll have his parents under wraps, and I’m sending a couple of uniforms to keep tabs on the grandmother’s place. We’ve got Gannon protected. Those are his most obvious targets. I’m not dealing with wondering who some psycho’s going to kill next. Puts a little more air in my lungs, you know?”
“I do.” Despite her earlier warning, he touched her again, rubbing a thumb along the shadows under her eyes. “But you could still use a good night’s sleep.”
“Then I’ll have to close this down so I can get one.” She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets, sighed heavily because she knew it would amuse him. “Go ahead, get it over with. Just make it quick and no tongues allowed.”
He laughed, as she’d expected, then leaned down to give her a very chaste kiss. “Acceptable?”
“Hardly even worth it.” And the quick gleam in his eye had her slapping a hand on his chest. “Save it, pal. Go back to work. Buy a large metropolitan area or something.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
At Eve’s signal, Peabody stepped up to the car. “It must really set you up, having a man like that look at you the way he does every day.”
“At least it doesn’t keep me off the streets.” She slid in, slammed her door. “Let’s cook this bastard and maybe we can both get home on time for a change.”
Trevor detested visiting his grandmother. The concept of age and illness disgusted him. There were ways, after all, to beat back the worst symptoms of the aging process. Face and body sculpting, youth treatments, organ transplants.
Looking old was, to his mind, a product of laziness or poverty. Either was unacceptable.
Illness was something to be avoided at all costs. Most physical ailments were temporary and easily rectified. One simply had to take proper care. Mental illness was nothing but an embarrassment to anyone associated with the patient.
He considered his grandmother a self-indulgent lunatic, overly pampered by his father. If so much time and money wasn’t wasted making her comfortable in her mad little world, she’d straighten up quickly enough. He knew very well it cost enormous amounts of money—his inheritance—to keep her in the gilt-edged loony bin, to pay for her housing, her food, her care, her meds, her attendants.
Pissed away, he thought, as he drove his new two-seater Jetstream 3000 into the underground parking facility at the rest home. The crazy old bat could easily live another forty years, drooling his inheritance, what was rightfully his, away.
It was infuriating.
His father’s sentimental attachment to her was equally so. She could have been seen to, decently enough, in a lesser facility, or even a state-run project. He paid taxes, didn’t he, to subsidize those sort of facilities? What was the point of not using them since he was paying out the nose for them in any case?
She wouldn’t know the damn difference. And when he was in charge of the purse strings, she damn well would be moved.
He took a white florist box out of the trunk. He’d take her the roses, play the game. It would be worth his time and the investment in the flowers she’d forget ten minutes after he gave them to her, if she knew anything. If by some miracle she remembered knowing anything.
It was worth a shot. Since the old man seemed to know nothing, maybe his crazy old mother had some lead buried in her fogged brain.
He took the elevator to lobby level, gearing himself up for the performance. When he stepped off, he wore a pleasant, slightly concerned expression, presenting the image of a handsome young man paying an affectionate duty call on an aged and ailing relative.
He moved to the security desk, setting the box of flowers on the counter so the name of the upscale city florist could be read by the receptionist. “I’d like to see my grandmother. Janine Whittier? I’m Trevor. I didn’t call ahead as it’s an impulse visit. I was passing the florist’s and I thought of Grandma and how much she loves pink roses. Next thing I knew I was buying a dozen and heading here. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Of course!” The woman beamed at him. “That’s so sweet. I’m sure she’ll love the flowers nearly as much as she’ll love seeing her grandson. Just let me bring up her schedule and make certain she’s clear for visits today.”
“I know she has good days and bad days. I hope this is a good one.”
“Well, I see here she’s been checked into the second-floor common room. That’s a good sign. If I could just clear you through.” She gestured toward the palm plate.
“Oh, sure. Of course.” He laid his hand on it, waited while it verified his identification and his clearance. Ridiculous precautions, he thought. Who in hell would want to break into an old people’s home? It was the sort of thing that added several thousand a year to the tab.
“There you are, Mr. Whittier. I’ll just scan these.” She ran a hand-held over the roses to verify the contents, then gestured. “You can take the main staircase to the second floor, or the elevator if you prefer. The common area is to the left, down the hall. You can speak to one of the attendants on duty. I’m sending up your clearance now.”
“Thank you. This is a lovely place. It’s such a comfort to know Grandma’s being so well looked after.”
He took the stairs. He saw others, carrying flowers or gifts wrapped in colorful paper. Staff wore what he assumed were color-coded uniforms, all in calming pastels. In this unrestricted area, patients wandered, alone or with attendants. Through the wide, sunny windows he could see the extensive gardens below, with the winding paths where more patients, attendants, visitors strolled.
It amazed him, continuously, that people would work in such a place, whatever the salary. And that those who weren’t paid to be here would visit, voluntarily, on any sort of regular basis.
He himself hadn’t been inside the place for nearly a year and sincerely hoped this visit would be the last required of him.
As he glanced at the faces he passed he had a moment’s jolt that he wouldn’t recognize his grandmother. He should have refreshed his memory before the trip out, taken a look at some photographs.
The old all looked the same to him. They all looked doomed. More, they all looked useless.
A woman being wheeled by reached out with a clawlike hand to snatch at the ribbon trailing from the florist’s box.
“I love flowers. I love flowers.” Her voice was a pipe tooting out of a wizened face that made Trevor think of a dried apple. “Thank you, Johnnie! I love you, Johnnie!”
“Now, Tiffany.” The attendant, a perky-looking brunette, leaned over the motorized chair, patted the ancient woman on the shoulder. “This nice man isn’t your Johnnie. Your Johnnie was just here yesterday, remember?”
“I can have the flowers.” She looked up hopefully, her bony hand like a hook in the ribbon.
Trevor had to battle back a shudder, and he shifted to prevent that hideously spotted hand from making contact with any part of him. “They’re for my grandmother.” Even as bile rose in his throat, he smiled. “A very special lady. But . . . ” Under the pleased and approving eye of the attendant, he opened the box, took out a single pink rosebud. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you had one.”
“That’s so kind of you,” the attendant responded. “There you are now, Tiffany, isn’t that nice? A pretty rose from a handsome man.”
“Lots of handsome men give me flowers. Lots of them.” She stroked the petals and lost herself in some blurry memory.
“You said you were here to see your grandmother?” the attendant prompted.
“Yes, that’s right. Janine Whittier. They told me downstairs she was in the common room.”
“Yes, she is. Miss Janine’s a lovely lady. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. If you need any help, just let me know. I’ll be back shortly. I’m Emma.”
“Thank yo
u.” And since he couldn’t be sure Emma wouldn’t be useful, he braced himself and leaned down to smile in the old woman’s face. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Tiffany. I hope to see you again.”
“Pretty flowers. Cold eyes. Dead eyes. Sometimes shiny fruit’s rotted at the core. You’re not my Johnnie.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered, and wheeled the old woman away.
Hideous old rag, Trevor thought and allowed himself that shudder before he walked the rest of the way into the common room.
It was bright, cheerful, spacious. Areas were sectioned off for specific activities. There were wall screens set to a variety of programs, tables arranged for game playing, visiting, crafts, seating areas for visiting as well, or for passing the time with books or magazines.
There were a number of people in attendance, and the noise level reminded him of a cocktail party where people broke off into groups and ignored the talk around them.
When he hesitated, another attendant, again female, came over. “Mr. Whittier?”
“Yes, I . . . ”
“She’s doing really well today.” She gestured toward a table by a sunny window where two women and a man appeared to be playing cards.
He had a moment’s panic as he wasn’t certain which woman was his grandmother, then he saw that one of them wore a skin cast on her right leg. He’d have been told, endlessly, if his grandmother had injured herself.
“She looks wonderful. It’s such a comfort to know how well she’s being taken care of, and how content she is here. Ah, it’s such a nice day—not as hot as it was. Do you think I could take her out into the gardens for a walk?”
“I’m sure she’d enjoy it. She’ll need her medication in about an hour. If you’re not back, we’ll send someone out for her.”
“Thank you.” Confident now, he strolled over to the table. He smiled, crouched. “Hi, Grandma. I brought you flowers. Pink roses.”
She didn’t look at him, not even a glance, but kept her focus on the cards in her bony hands. “I have to finish this game.”