There was a long, drawn-out silence.
"Well, he's no use to you in hospital," Zandra said. "Not if you want the money. Did you give that any thought?"
Leach grinned. "Seems 'e ain't much good outta 'ospital either, eh?"
She didn't reply.
His gray eyes darkened. "Got to make an example of 'im. Ain't got no other choice."
Zandra's face was ashen. "Of course you have a choice."
He burped again. "Your brother's got twenty-four 'ours to pay up. After that, it's 'is elbows. Forty-eight 'ours after that, both 'is 'ands. 'Uman bones crunch and snap as easy as chicken wings, but I guess you already learned that, huh?"
"You're barbaric!" she whispered, her eyes drilling into his.
He shrugged. "Don't matter what I am. What matters is that 'e pays. Otherwise, when there's nothin' left to break, 'e'll be floatin' in the bloody Thames."
Zandra felt a sudden panic. Oh, God, she thought. This can't be real. It's a nightmare, and I'll wake up at any moment.
Joe Leach grinned again. "Not a pretty sight, floaters. Just ask any copper."
Zandra's expression hardened. "Speaking of which, you so much as touch Rudolph again, and I'll go straight to Scotland Yard. Do I make myself clear?"
Joe Leach's smile faded. "Coppers can't do nothin'! See, your brother's too bleedin' scared to sing!"
"Maybe he is, but I'm not."
He leaned across the table. "Then go to the bleedin' coppers. See if that'll do 'im any good. But I can tell you this much." He stabbed a finger toward her. "You sing, and your precious brother'll be a floater fer sure. And it'll be on your conscience, birdy."
Zandra's mind was reeling. There has to be a way to save Rudolph! she thought desperately. He's my brother! I can't just stand by and let him be worked over and killed.
Joe Leach excavated his molars with the pick. "Twenty-four 'ours, that's all 'es got, luv. Otherwise, 'e'll never move 'is arms again, least not normally."
"You bastard!" Her voice was a whisper. "You get your bloody jollies doing this, don't you? You're hoping he can't pay!"
Joe Leach sat there, grinning broadly. She's right, he thought. But there's one thing I enjoy even more. And that's spunky women, especially beautiful spunky women. Getting my hands on them and slowly but surely killing off that spunk is what I really like doing best.
Zandra took a deep breath. "And if I pay the gambling debt?" she said softly. "Then will you leave Rudolph alone?"
He looked at her narrowly. "You got that kinda money?"
"Not yet. But I can arrange it."
"In twenty-four 'ours?"
She shook her head. "I'll need at least two days. Possibly even three."
He puckered his lips thoughtfully. "Aw right," he said at last. "You got sixty 'ours. Period."
Zandra nodded.
"And if the money's not on time, it's bye-bye elbows—yer elbows, not yer brother's. You understand?"
She nodded weakly, but her voice was firm. "Yes," she said.
"And you got to pay the full amount. No partial payments."
She raised her chin. "Did I ask for partial payments?"
He didn't reply. "Mind telling me 'ow you're gonna raise it?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact," Zandra said coldly, "that is none of your damn business."
"Hell do you mean? Now that it's yer debt, it's my business aw right. Get a bit worried, people owe me big." He made a pistol with his fingers and pointed it at her. "Get my meanin'?"
"And if I don't tell you," she asked facetiously, "what are you going to do then? Tear out my fingernails?"
"If I was you I'd bloody well take this serious, luv."
"Well, you're not me, are you?" she said wearily. "And, you don't really scare me." It wasn't exactly the truth ... no, not the truth at all. In fact, she was scared—scared stiff. But she wasn't about to give him the pleasure of showing it.
With a squinty look, he reached inside his jacket, took out a business card with nothing but a telephone number printed on it, and used a gold pen to scribble down another number and an amount.
"The bank's Barclay's. I wrote down the number o' the account. The money can be wired directly into it, old luv."
He extended the card across the table, holding it between his index and middle fingers.
Zandra snatched it, looked down at it, did a double take, and then glared at him. Her nostrils flared.
"What the hell is this shit? You said the debt was a flat million. Here you wrote down a million and a quarter!"
"Yeah." He grinned and rocked back in his chair. "That includes additional penalties, interest, and transfer of title."
She blinked her eyelashes rapidly. "Transfer of what?"
"You know. Transfer fees. Like vehicular ownership registration."
She stared at him. "You really are the most amazing first-class prick."
"Yeah?" He leered. "That's me. First class, an' all prick."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, give me a break," she said in a bored voice.
He stopped rocking his chair and leaned forward. "I'll give you somethin' if you want it, luv. An', you don't pay up, I'll give it to you even if you bloody don't. See, I'm really lookin' forward to that."
She gestured for him to lean closer. When he did, she said: "Dream about it, arsehole."
He grinned. "I already am!"
The waiter came with the check.
Leach waved a hand dismissively. "Lady's payin'," he said, the toothpick bobbing up and down from the corner of his mouth.
Zandra accepted the salver with the check on it. As soon as the waiter had gone, she said: "I see that I've been mistaken. You're not only a prick. You're a cheap prick."
He took the toothpick out of his mouth, leaned across the table, and before she knew what he was up to, stuck it between her lips.
She spat it out in disgust.
"Adios, countess," he smirked, getting up and sketching her a mock salute. Then, adjusting his lapels, he strutted off.
Zandra watched him leave. She didn't know when she had met a more loathsome creature.
Wearily, she turned the check over and stared. Dinner had cost the equivalent of a week's salary.
Reaching for her purse, she blessed the American Express card Burghley's issued its employees.
Thank God I didn't leave home without it, she thought. If I had, I'd be in the kitchen washing dishes.
Unknown to Zandra, Joe Leach had passed the maitre d' a business card, along with the extravagant tip.
"Call this number and tell whoever answers to 'ave Freddie meet me 'ere," he'd whispered. "Got that?" The maitre d' obviously had.
Now, on his way out, Joe Leach met up with the aforementioned Freddie. A handsome man in his early forties, he could have passed for a respectable banker with his bowler, thick topcoat, and umbrella.
"You get a good look at the bird I was with?" Joe Leach demanded. "Yeah."
"Follow 'er. Don't let 'er out of yer sight. Call me on the cellular phone. I want to know 'er every move." "Consider it done, guv."
Zandra took the Piccadilly Line back to Heathrow, where she planned to catnap in the waiting room.
I've got to come up with one and a quarter million pounds, she thought over and over. Almost two million dollars.
And she had all of sixty hours in which to raise it. She glanced at her watch and felt a sudden chill. No, that was wrong. Her calculations were flawed.
I have nearly eleven hours until my flight departs, then six hours of flight time, and a good hour or two more to go through customs and get into Manhattan. That leaves me with only thirty-nine or forty hours—if the flight's not delayed!
Zandra sagged in her seat. She was almost physically ill. One and a quarter million pounds, she kept thinking. I have to raise nearly two million dollars—or else.
Meanwhile, the seconds were ticking rapidly toward countdown— —like the timer on a bomb.
As the train pulled into stations, stopped f
or passengers to get on and off, and pulled out again, she wondered: What is my pain threshold? Will I pass out when it becomes unbearable? Will I die? She had no idea.
Joe Leach was in one of the posh London casinos he managed when the cellular phone chirruped. "Yeah?" "She's at 'eathrow."
"Probably waitin' for a New York flight. Stick around and see which one she's on."
"Should I try to detain her?" "No. Let her go."
I'll have local talent waiting for her in New York, he decided. They can trail her and make sure she doesn't take a powder.
Chapter 40
Monday morning in Manhattan. Clouds again. Plus a few rents of pellucid sky, the weather's way of apologizing for all the gloom.
Dina breakfasted with Robert, going on and on about Becky's this and Becky's that. Robert, reading the Wall Street Journal, grunted occasionally and did his best to tune her out. If she wanted to hear herself talk, then that was just fine by him. It wasn't as if he had to listen. In fact, he'd become highly adept at turning a deaf ear to her chatter while still making the appropriate noises when called for. However, when he heard her mention Auction Towers, he decided it might behoove him to pay attention.
"Back up there, will ya," he grumped. "You're yakkin' a million miles a minute."
"Sweetie!" she accused, with a little-girl pout. "You haven't been listening to a single word I've said!"
"Oh yeah? Then how come I asked you to back up?"
Dina couldn't argue with that. "I was talking about our move," she said.
"Move? What move?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's what I mean, sweetie. You haven't been paying attention. I told you we'd have to vacate the apartment while it's being redone. Right?"
"So?"
"So, it just occurred to me that you've got—what? Thirty? Or is it forty?—unsold condos in Auction Towers. All empty and going to waste."
"They ain't goin' to waste," he said crabbily, alarmed by the direction the conversation was headed.
Thank God his ears had perked up in time to avert Big Trouble. The last thing he needed was to move into the same building as Bambi Parker. As if things weren't dicey enough as they were!
"If they're sitting there empty, then what are all those units doing?" Dina asked.
"They're bein' shown. Prospective buyers tromp through 'em all the time."
"Through all of them?"
"You never know. Why? You suggestin' we show a place we live in?"
"Of course not, silly!" she said, with a touch of asperity. "I was only trying to save you money, Robert."
Shit, he thought. Dina save money? That was a laugh.
"Sweetie, we have to move somewhere."
He had a good mind to tell her, No, we don't have to move anywhere. He had a good mind to tell her, I was just getting used to the current decor as it is. He had a good mind to tell her, I liked the place on Central Park West the best. He had a good mind to tell her, I still miss my good, serviceable GoldMart furniture. And he had a good mind to tell her, Above all, I miss my goddamn recliner!
"I guess you'll just have to find us a place," he said.
"You know that's easier said than done, sweetie."
"Then what's wrong with stayin' in a hotel?" he suggested.
Dina's eyes lit up. "What a good idea!" she squealed. "Oh, Robert! I just knew you'd think of something!"
"You make the arrangements," he told her, and thought: How much can a hotel suite run? Not nearly as much as an overstaffed apartment. Besides, with hotel services, we can fire everybody—cook, major- domo, maids ...
"I'll get on it first thing," Dina promised.
"You do that," he said, congratulating himself on steering her clear of Auction Towers.
"And you'll have final approval of whatever I find," she told him.
"Unh-unh." He shook his head. "I'm much too busy to waste time lookin' at places," he said, deciding to drop by Bambi Parker's later that day. "It's all in your hands."
"You won't be sorry, Robert," Dina said—key words which should have set off all his internal alarms.
But he wasn't listening. Having decided to visit Bambi, he spent the rest of the meal fantasizing about what the morning might bring. Dina would have his ass in a sling if she guessed what he was planning.
Luckily, her mind was on other matters, notably which hotel she preferred—the Pierre, the Sherry Netherland, or the Carlyle—and how many rooms they would need.
Needless to say, her idea of hotel living was different from Robert's. And, best of all, he'd forgotten to put a cap on expenditure, another major mistake.
Not that she saw any reason to broach that particular subject just yet. He'd find out soon enough, anyway.
By which time it would be too late.
Just as well I don't have a window office, thought Kenzie, schlepping into work with a small paper bag containing two paper cups of takeout coffee and two cheese Danishes.
"Rovery!" Arnold Li cried.
"Please," Kenzie begged. "It's too early for that."
"In that case, thank you kindly. Oh. I checked our voice mail. Here're yours." He handed Kenzie pink While You Were Out slips.
Kenzie swiftly scanned them. "Nothing from Zandra?" she asked.
"No. Why?"
Taking off her coat and scarf, she quickly filled him in on Zandra's sudden departure.
"Well, time to hit the grindstone," she said. "I might as well start by getting these calls out of the way."
"Forget the calls," Arnold said. "The only important one's the three- one-three area code."
"Three-one-three ..." Kenzie frowned.
"Detroit and environs. Specifically, Grosse Pointe."
"Ah."
"And, more importantly, it's where one of the bodies is buried."
"Oh-ho!"
"Where the bodies are buried" was art world jargon, and referred to certain treasures whose changes of ownership everyone kept track of.
Kenzie felt a potent surge of excitement. "Don't tell me," she breathed, her eyes sparkling. "Da Vinci's studies for his unfinished Adoration of the Magi!"
"Bingo! That's the good news."
"Oh. So there's bad news, too?"
"Yep. The trustees for the heirs are trying to pit us, Christie's, and Sotheby's against one another."
"So what else is new?"
"Apparently, they're demanding special terms, including a guaranteed flat amount, whether or not the sketches fetch that much."
"Shit," she said quietly.
"I couldn't have expressed it better myself. Christie's will probably balk, but knowing Sotheby's, they'll jump at it. They've done it often enough in the past."
"Not to mention making preauction loans to buyers," Kenzie gloomed.
"Uh-huh. Anyway, I called Sheldon D. Fairey, and he wants to see you ASAP." Arnold swiveled in his chair and picked up his phone. "Just to be on the safe side, I'd better call the airlines and see about getting you on a flight to Detroi—"
He swiveled back around, but Kenzie was already gone.
For once, the dour Miss Botkin did not solemnly usher Kenzie into Sheldon D. Fairey's office—she practically hustled her inside.
"Ah, Ms. Turner."
Sheldon D. Fairey's voice was at its plummiest, and he looked formidable seated behind his mammoth, ivory-inlaid calamander, thuya, and ebony desk.
"Please." He gestured. "Do sit down."
"Thank you, sir."
Kenzie took a seat on one of a pair of Anglo-Indian, carved ebony armchairs and waited.
Shooting back the cuffs of his gorgeous suit of charcoal wool flannel, Sheldon D. Fairey rested his elbows on the tooled green leather writing surface, steepled his pink-palmed hands, and tapped his index fingers against his lips. "I gather you have a good idea why I wished to see you?"
She met his gaze directly. "Yes, sir. The Leonardo sketches."
"Quite right." He nodded and frowned. "Tell me, Ms. Turner. How much would you estimate they are worth?"
"Well, sir," she said slowly, "I really couldn't begin to guess. If they are indeed the real thing, they're ... well, priceless. There's no way I could put a dollar value on them."
"Of course not." He permitted himself a slight smile. "My answer exactly."
She waited.
"Unfortunately, philistine as it may sound, as auctioneers we are in the business of constantly appraising priceless articles expressly to put a financial price on them. Is that not true?"
"I know that, sir, but as for a Leonardo sketchbook ... Well, first of all, I've never seen any of these drawings in person, only in photographs, and I don't need to tell you that photographs can lie. Also, a lot depends upon the condition they're in. Are they faded? Smeared? Foxed? Torn? And finally, there's the matter of rarity. Leonardos aren't like Picassos. They hardly ever come on the auction block. The last time I can remember was when Basia Johnson—"
"Yes, yes, I know," he said testily, and sighed. "Please, Ms. Turner," he said in a soft voice, "humor me. Try."
Kenzie held up her hands. "That's just it, sir. I don't know! All I can do is speculate, and even then I'd first have to judge their quality, authenticity, and condition. And to do that, I'd have to see them in person."
"I take it Mr. Li told you about the trustees pitting us against Christie's and Sotheby's?"
"Yes, sir."
"Apparently, they're demanding an instant decision—" He held up both hands, palms facing outward, to fend off her protests. "I know, I know. It's highly irregular. However, in view of the fact that they are Leonardos . . . well, we must be flexible."
Kenzie was silent.
"Also, the trustees want us—and the other auction houses—to guarantee a certain minimum price. Needless to say, they'll choose whoever's offer is the highest."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but ... aren't there twenty-four sketches in all?" Kenzie asked.
"I believe so." He nodded briefly. "Yes."
"Good lord! That means each of them may be worth millions!"
"Which is precisely why I'm counting on you, Ms. Turner. We cannot let this opportunity slide through our fingers. I want you to fly to Detroit at once, and if the sketches are indeed authentic—"
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