Instead of replying, he flipped out his badge.
For a moment, Kenzie's jaw actually dropped. "Would you kindly," she snapped, glaring at him with righteous fury, "explain what the hell you think you're up to?"
It was as if he hadn't heard. "Who's this?" Charley played the beam on Hannes's face. "C'mon, buddy." He held out his other hand. "Let's see ya cough up some ID."
"Now just wait a goddamn minute!" Kenzie objected, bristling. "Charley, you've got absolutely no right rousting innocent people. So why don't you switch off that obnoxious flashlight, put that badge back in your pocket, and go fuck off!"
"Ma'am?" Once again, he directed the beam of light into her eyes. She averted her face, but not quickly enough. "You lookin' for a disorderly conduct summons?"
"A what ...?"
She suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of her and the heat of a terrible anger, like some overpoweringly combustible gas, was filling her to bursting. It was all she could do not to explode.
Breathe deeply, she advised herself. Keep your cool... She reminded herself that he was jealous and on a power trip. And hiding behind his badge, the goddamn creep!
"Get that light out of my eyes," she demanded quietly. "Now."
The authority in her voice surprised even herself. It must have surprised Charley too, for he instantly complied.
"Kenzie?" Hannes's voice came from right behind her. "I assume you know this gentleman?"
"Gentleman!" She snorted her contempt. "That's certainly elevating him! But to answer your question," she sighed, "yes, I know him." And flashing Charley a look of sheer disgust, she added, "Or rather, I should say I used to know him—but that was before he signed up for the Gestapo."
Charley ignored her jibe. Hand still extended, he said, "Hey, buddy.
Thought I asked to see some ID." Furling and unfurling his fingers to show he was serious. "C'mon. Make it snappy."
Hannes stared at him coldly.
Charley stared right back.
The air crackled with bad vibrations.
"Oh, Christ!" stewed Kenzie. "Just what I need—a pissing contest in the middle of the night!" Moving away from both of them, she slumped wearily against the wall. "Hans," she said tiredly, "would you please show Dirty Harry here some identification? Maybe then, God willing, he'll be satisfied, and hopefully get lost?"
In short order, Hannes produced his wallet and handed over his international driver's license. Observed Charley running his flashlight over it. Couldn't miss the way he looked suddenly taken aback, as if acting out the word Whoa! "You Hannes Hockert?" he asked.
Hannes nodded. "Yes," he said.
"The Hannes Hockert?"
Kenzie frowned. Now what can Charley have meant by that? she wondered, staring over at Hannes. Have I found myself a tennis champ? Or maybe even some European racecar driver?
"Would somebody," she spoke up in exasperation, "please fill me in on what, exactly, is going on here?"
Hannes was sliding something else out of his wallet, so she pushed herself away from the wall to have a look.
As it turned out, he was neither a Grand Prix driver nor a tennis champ, at least not according to his identification.
Interpol! Kenzie thought with a sinking heart. Wouldn't you know it—a cop! As if one in my life isn't enough, I have to go out and find myself another!
"Well, what a coincidence," Charley was saying in amazement, his voice real nice and warm now. He promptly switched off the flashlight and handed Hannes both his IDs. "I'm Charles Ferraro."
Now it was Hannes's turn to stare. "You are the policeman from the New York art theft squad?" he asked in disbelief. "The one I am assigned to work with over the next year?"
Charley grinned. "The one and only," he said, holding out his hand.
And Kenzie, suddenly relegated to the sidelines, gnashed her teeth in frustration. Having witnessed their turf war, she wasn't about to stick around for the sole purpose of being excluded from the only thing on earth more powerful, and infinitely more exclusive, than male bonding: cop bonding.
Kicking aside Hannes's Burberry, she snatched her keys out of her bag, unlocked the front door, and flounced inside. Peeved, she slammed it shut and tromped heavily up the stairs.
Briefly she wondered whether either of them had noticed her departure.
Not that it mattered. They could play all the macho games they wanted.
Tomorrow was a workday. She was going to bed!
Chapter 21
The following morning, the prevailing westerly had scrubbed the sky clean. At nine past six, the sun rose gloriously over Manhattan, anointing the glass ziggurats, apartment chateaux, and cat's cradle bridges with undiluted sunshine. The puddles dried up and there was a brisk autumnal nip in the air.
Kenzie's alarm clock jarred her awake after five and a half hours of sleep.
On her way to work, she darted into a coffee shop for a cup of regular and a bagel to go. Belatedly remembered she didn't have a dime, thanks to Charley's stiffing her for order-out Burmese. Cursing him under her breath, she headed on to work, resigned to drinking the vile brew from the communal coffee urn.
Fortunately, Arnold Li took pity on her. He insisted she borrow forty dollars until payday. She gave him her equivalent of a papal blessing, but he shrugged off her thanks.
"It's the reast I can do," he quipped, launching into his routine. "Must prease new boss. Right, missy? Chop-chop!"
"I'm not the new boss," she gloomed, proceeding to impart the news of Bambi Parker's promotion.
If she expected shock and outrage, it wasn't forthcoming. Arnold took the disclosure remarkably well.
"Look on the bright side," he smiled, reverting to his perfect English. "At least it gets you off the hook."
"Hook? What hook?"
"You just wait and see," Arnold predicted cheerfully. "She'll nuke herself in no time. I give her six months, max. Sooner or later, the position's yours anyway. And in the meantime, since you're not the boss, you're saved the aggravation of having to give her the ax. See? You'll have your cake and be able to eat it, too."
Popping out for a container of decent coffee and a bagel, Kenzie pondered Arnold's wisdom.
He could be right, she thought. Then again ...
Trouble was, she had no way of telling.
Least not yet.
Bambi Parker drifted into Burghley's at half past ten. The first thing she did was head to The Club. She silenced the powder room and announced her promotion.
Squeals of congratulations followed.
Twenty minutes later, she moseyed along to Mr. Spotts's vacated office.
At eleven, Zachary Bavosa, the attorney from Calvert, Barkhorn, Waldburger, and Slocum, arrived on behalf of his anonymous client. In tow were two armed security guards, one of whom carried a slim, briefcaselike crate containing the Holbein.
Bambi perused the painting. Small but magnificent, it depicted a girl with flowers and a spaniel. Moreover, it seemed genuine, and the sales receipt from 1946 looked in order.
What more could she ask for?
A second opinion.
However, she wasn't about to summon Kenzie or Arnold. They'd only waste days, even weeks, trying to find fault with the picture or its provenance, she thought. Who needs that? Besides, I'm in charge now. I'm calling the shots.
Right then and there, Bambi came to a decision.
"We'll be happy to handle the sale," she assured the attorney with her best smile, and called down to Consignments.
A few minutes later, one of the girls from The Club came up to usher Zachary Bavosa, the security guards, and the Holbein downstairs, where the appropriate paperwork would be filled out, and the painting locked in one of the walk-in vaults.
Twice that morning, Charley Ferraro called Kenzie at work.
And twice she hung up on him.
Keeping his cool, he decided to wait a few days before trying her again. Given time, he was certain she would come around.
> At noon, he met Hannes Hockert for lunch at Wollensky's Grill, where they dug into the prime ribs with the same gusto as they discussed international transportation of stolen art, and the increasingly wily methods used by smugglers. In passing, he happened to mention that Kenzie was employed at Burghley's.
After lunch, Hannes decided to give her a call.
His greeting, also, was met with chill silence and a click.
She'd hung up on him, too.
Four thousand miles away, Karl-Heinz's jet landed at Munich airport and taxied to a remote apron, where an executive helicopter awaited. Also on hand were officials from customs and immigration, who waived the usual formalities.
Twenty minutes later, the helicopter put down on the grounds of an exclusive private hospital in the picturesque foothills of the Bavarian Alps.
The director of the facility personally escorted Karl-Heinz to Intensive Care. There, he found his sister, Princess Sofia, keeping vigil at their comatose father's bedside.
"How is he?" Karl-Heinz asked, coming into the room and bending down to kiss her on the cheek.
His lips met air; Sofia was already on her feet, snatching up her things. She was a study in protected and endangered species: leopard (hat and coat), black alligator (oversized handbag and shoes), and ivory (necklace, ear clips, and bracelet).
"It's about time you arrived!" she snapped. "I've been alone with him for twelve hours straight. I suppose I should thank you for relieving me?"
Heels clacking, she marched to the door, swung it open, and then paused and turned to him. "Welcome home," she said bitterly.
And the door closed behind her.
Karl-Heinz felt drained. Two minutes with Sofia was a lifetime of torture. Small wonder her husband had developed a knack for disappearing at just the right moment. Marriage to her must be a fate worse than death.
Slowly, heavily, he lowered himself into the chair she had vacated and focused his attention upon the patient.
Who ...?
There was a momentary sense of disorientation, of having wandered into the wrong door, which only added to his confusion. He blinked his eyes rapidly, then hunched forward and stared anew at the shrunken, un- moving stranger on life support.
Either I'm in the wrong room, or someone's made a terrible mistake, he thought ...
... for what other explanation could there be since this curiously sexless, translucent-skinned creature was not his father? No. This was not the once-vital man from whose loins he had sprung. It cannot be. I must summon the doctors, tell them there has been a mix-up ...
But of course, there hadn't been. It was him. His father. The old prince.
The merest ghost of him, perhaps, but him nonetheless ...
Wrapping his arms around his chest, Karl-Heinz closed his eyes. How wretchedly cruel life can be! he kept thinking.
The hours crept by. Periodically, doctors and nurses came and went on soundless crepe soles, checking the tubes and monitors, moving the comatose body to avoid its getting bed sores, holding whispered conferences while consulting charts. Last night's glittering soiree at the Met seemed a million light years in the past, his only memory of it reduced to but a single powerful thought: If only Zandra were here beside me ...
Zandra, unaware of Karl-Heinz's departure and the crisis which precipitated it, reported to Burghley's at precisely ten o'clock in the morning. She spent an hour being processed by personnel, filled out an application for a green card, and received a two-week advance on her paycheck, as well as a check-cashing card for use at the nearest Citibank.
Then Kenzie, only too happy to get off the phone—she was hanging up on Charley for the second time that day and had already hung up on Hannes once—showed her to their shared office, where she introduced Arnold Li.
He rose politely from behind his desk. "Herro," he said solemnly, shaking Zandra's hand and giving his best Asian bow. "Prease caw me Arnod. Rov'ry to meet you."
For a moment he had Zandra fooled.
"Don't be taken in by that routine," Kenzie said with a touch of exasperation. "He speaks perfect American English. If you want my advice, don't even hesitate—whenever he starts, just tell him to shut up."
"I will do." And Zandra turned to Arnold and said, "Shut up."
They all three burst into laughter, and their friendship was cemented right then and there.
For Zandra, that first day at Burghley's flew by in a blur. This was what she had always wanted. A real job, where she would be earning her keep while doing something constructive. No other employment ever after could compare, of that she was certain.
And how amazing that it should be in a field so familiar to her, as if her entire life, spent among the masterpieces in her various relatives' stately homes, had been in preparation for this very position!
Any self-doubts concerning her abilities disappeared on that first day. At last, she had found her niche in the working world. And how familiar, this singular atmosphere of riches and breeding! And yet how unstuffy and wonderfully casual, especially compared to that stiff-upper-lip world she had left behind. She felt like a caged bird must after it had been set free and allowed to soar.
She loved it here. She adored it. In fact, she couldn't imagine working anywhere else. Even the most mundane of tasks seemed novel and exciting.
Kenzie and Arnold introduced her to employees of various other sections, and explained the fundamentals of how the Old Masters department operated. They gave her stacks of past auction catalogues and sale results lists, so that she might compare estimates versus actual prices. Finally, they took her down to the vast, climate-controlled, subterranean vaults to view the three hundred twelve lots which would comprise the next Old Masters auction.
And it was there, surrounded by the staggering profusion of paintings, that Zandra surprised Kenzie and Arnold—and most of all herself—with knowledge she was not even aware she possessed: "Oh. Gosh. An Oudry. He was terribly good at these sweet little animals, wasn't he?"
And: "Definitely French School. Eighteenth century. Her dress is the clue. I'd say the sitter was definitely English."
And: "Oh, bugger it! Why ever did they restore this? Makes it much less desirable, don't you think?"
And: "What an absolutely marvelous still life. Cristofaro Munari, unless my eyes deceive me ... should fetch a fortune."
And: "My goodness! However did that slip in? Patent fake, I'm afraid. Best check the provenance thoroughly. Someone's bound to have cooked it up."
She caught Arnold and Kenzie staring at her with open mouths.
"Oh. Sorry! I must be barmy. I didn't mean to be presumptuous or try to show off. Gosh no. It's just that my dreary relatives all have such frightfully huge collections—"
"It's not that," Arnold explained gently. "It's just that after Bambi Parker, we didn't expect someone this fired-up, let alone knowledgeable."
He was so sweet that Zandra was thoroughly charmed, and a faint blush colored her cheeks. "Bambi Parker?" She frowned. "Should I know her?"
"You will," Kenzie assured her dryly, "you will. God! I don't know how that painting got past us," she fretted anxiously. "But now that you mentioned it—"
"Don't worry, darling," Zandra said. "I'll get on it first thing. Oh. And what's the best newspaper for flat listings?"
"You mean apartments?"
Zandra nodded. "I'll be needing my own place."
"Well, unless you're independently wealthy, good luck," Kenzie said. "For all the prestige, working here doesn't exactly buy you champagne and caviar." She added dryly, "Rice and beans is more like it."
"So what do you suggest? I'll be needing a place to live."
"How fussy are you?"
"On my budget? A room with kitchen and bath privileges will suit me fine. So long as it's on the cheap."
"Well . . . I'm looking for a roommate," Kenzie said slowly.
"Brilliant!"
"Not so fast. Before you take the plunge, I think you'd better drop by and check it ou
t for yourself."
"May I? After work all right?"
"After work's fine. But I've got to warn you. You're going to be awfully disappointed."
Zandra smiled. "Somehow I seriously doubt that."
At noon, Zandra dashed to Citibank, where she cashed her advance on her paycheck and opened a checking account. Lunch was a deli sandwich grabbed on the run, and the rest of the afternoon was spent examining the suspect painting and investigating its provenance, a painstaking process of tracing its ownership backward through time.
Zandra found it exhilarating, more like playing detective than working.
At quitting time, she walked home with Kenzie to check out her apartment.
"I'm afraid you're used to a lot better," Kenzie murmured as she tackled the last of the five locks. The tumbler clicked, she pushed on the door, reached around the jamb, and hit the lights. "After you."
Once inside, Zandra craned her neck this way and that.
"Kenzie! It's terrif! So grand, and yet almost English in comfort. Gosh. However did you do it?"
Flipping on lights as she went, Kenzie showed her around: "... Here's your basic, out-of-date Manhattan kitchen ... circa 1920s bathroom ... my bedroom—"
Zandra peeked inside. "Oh, but it's positively dee-voon. And so wonderfully welcoming. I do love cozy rooms. They're so intimate."
"Small, you mean." Kenzie smiled, shrugging. "But what can I say? The price is right." She opened the door across the hall and stepped aside. "And this," she said, "ta-da!—is the spare bedroom. It would be yours. Hopefully, you won't mind its being furnished."
Zandra went inside and looked around. It was, she thought, surely the most delightfully eclectic room she had ever seen.
"All auction sleepers I picked up for a song," Kenzie explained with a sheepish grin. "As you can see, I'm a sucker for bargains."
"Oh, but it's absolutely marvelous. I'd love to take it. Gosh, there I go again—being awfully presumptuous ... I should say, I'll take it if you're willing to have me."
"Have you!" Kenzie looked taken aback. "Of course I'll have you," she said staunchly. "Why wouldn't I?"
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