Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  "He could quite honestly be unaware of having done it."

  "Hannes—"

  "Please, Kenzie. Listen to me. Charley drinks quite heavily."

  "True."

  "Perhaps he suffers blackouts. That would explain why he doesn't remember what he did."

  "Oh, God. Now you're frightening me!"

  "He would never wish you harm, Kenzie. At least, not intentionally."

  She tried to draw comfort from what he said, but she felt a chill instead.

  Charley may not want to hurt me, she thought. But who can predict what he might do in a blackout?

  Hannes was watching her. "I'm so sorry, Kenzie. I didn't mean to alarm you."

  She pasted on a smile. "You didn't," she lied.

  Charley's always been gentle with me, she told herself. He's never shown violent tendencies. Being scared of him is ridiculous—

  —or isn't it?

  Suddenly she really didn't know.

  Chapter 50

  Sweeties!" Dina trilled.

  Arms flung wide in welcome, she tossed kisses left and right. "How was the honeymoon? Zandra, I simply must hear all about it. Goodness! Heinzie, you're both tanned as nuts. Well? Do sit down. I apologize for these humble quarters. It's only temporary, but it already feels like forever ..."

  While their apartment was being redecorated, the Goldsmiths, their majordomo, Dina's personal maid, and a small selection of their museum-quality paintings were camping out in high style at the Carlyle Hotel. The "humble quarters"—a four-bedroom corner suite which rented for $24,000 a month—was on a high floor, with both north- and west-facing views. The foyer had a marble floor, the enormous living room a grand piano, and each bedroom an en suite bath. A separate room on a lower floor had been converted into an office for Gaby.

  Julio hovered discreetly.

  "Champagne," Dina decreed as they got settled on plump floral chintz sofas. "Cristal. And send downstairs for tea sandwiches."

  She beamed at Zandra and Karl-Heinz.

  They both looked radiant, exactly like a couple returning from their honeymoon should look. Obviously, marriage agreed with them.

  As well it should. They had everything anyone could possibly want. Wealth, power, glamour—you name it.

  Well, almost everything, Dina thought. But she had to wait for the right moment before raising that particular subject.

  Meanwhile, there was much gossip and news to exchange. It had been two weeks since the wedding, and Dina realized she didn't even know where the happy couple had honeymooned.

  "Oh, sweeties, this is fantastic!" she purred. "I couldn't wait for the two of you to get back. Without you, this city's been dull, dull, dull!"

  Karl-Heinz laughed. "You're not prone to exaggeration, are you?"

  "Me?" Dina laughed. "Of course not. Anyway, do tell! Where did you get those magnificent tans?"

  "Oh, these? Why, Mustique, darling. Where else?"

  "Mustique!" Dina looked nonplussed. "But ... it's so quiet there."

  "Dead, actually," Zandra said cheerfully.

  "My point exactly. And you didn't go stir-crazy? Not in two entire weeks? Sweeties, what did you do there?"

  "Oh, Dina, really."

  Zandra exchanged a sly, amused glance with Karl-Heinz.

  "Darling, what do you think couples do on their honeymoons?"

  "I see. Well, we needn't get into that. Ah! Saved by Julio and the champagne."

  While Julio uncorked the bottle and poured, Dina eyed the newly- weds closely. There was something different about Zandra and Karl- Heinz ... something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

  Then suddenly she knew what it was. They really were a couple. And there was something else, too. They were happy. You could tell just by looking into their eyes.

  Whether they realize it or not, she thought, they're in love. Genuinely in love!

  Julio drifted away and Dina raised her glass.

  "A toast," she proposed. "Here's to the both of you and the timely arrival of a bundle of joy."

  "To a bundle of joy," Zandra repeated softly, and the three of them touched glasses and sipped.

  "Delicious," Karl-Heinz said.

  "Yes," Dina said. She put her glass on the coffee table. "Now for some news. I hope you won't mind my meddling, but during the past two weeks I took it upon myself to do a little research."

  "Research?" said Zandra blankly. "Darling, whatever for?"

  "Why, for your little bundle of joy, of course! What else?" Dina smiled like a benevolent fairy godmother. "And there's good news and there's good news! I myself couldn't believe the leaps and bounds obstetrics has made during the past few years. I don't think you will, either."

  Zandra had to smile. Good old Dina, she thought. Trust her to have gone sniffing around the halls of science and medicine.

  She said, "Well? We're all ears. Aren't we, Heinzie, darling?"

  Dina picked up her glass and took a tiny sip and set it back down.

  "It used to be," she said, "that a child's sex was a toss-up. Sort of like pot luck."

  "Still is, I should imagine," said Zandra.

  "Ah." A faint smile hovered on Dina's lips. "You'd be surprised, sweetie. Dr. Lawrence Rosenbaum has proved otherwise."

  Karl-Heinz frowned. "Rosenbaum ... Rosenbaum ..." he murmured, crossing his legs and pinching the perfect crease of his trousers. Then he shook his head. "Never heard of the man."

  "That's not surprising," Dina said, "because before this, neither had I."

  "Darling, you know how I absolutely despise mysteries," Zandra said. "So who is he?"

  "Only this city's most famous obstetrician/gynecologist. That's right, sweetie. In fact, he's often referred to as the top OB/GYN expert in the world."

  Dina folded her hands in her lap. "Lawrence Rosenbaum and I," she said, "had a nice long talk. And guess what?"

  Zandra and Karl-Heinz looked at her expectantly.

  "Apparently, a new procedure was developed a few years ago which can help influence the sex of a child. That's right!"

  Dina sat forward on the sofa. She was seized with a barely contained excitement, and her pale eyes shone like faceted aquamarines.

  "Heinzie! Zandra! Sweeties! Did you hear me? He can help you produce a male ... heir!"

  "I wonder how he does that?" Zandra mused thoughtfully. "Last I heard, the sex of a child is determined by nature."

  "It seems that nature can be helped along. I forget the exact name of the procedure—" Dina waved a slender hand airily. "—you know I have absolutely no head for medical terminology, sweetie, but I did gather it's done through artificial insemination."

  Karl-Heinz shook his head. "I'm not sure I like the idea of Zandra submitting herself to—"

  "Darling, it isn't the method of insemination that's important, really it's not!" Zandra told him softly.

  "But—"

  "We need a male child, darling, and I'm willing to undergo anything within reason so long as there's a chance it'll help. I can live with that...if you can."

  Karl-Heinz sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  Dina pressed onward. "The process is really very simple. What they do is ... let me see ... first they take some sperm—in this case yours, Heinzie—and then they spin it or shake it in a laboratory, which causes the female sperm to drop, and the male sperm to come to the top—"

  "Did you say ... shake it?" Zandra giggled. "Like a martini?"

  "Spinning the sperm," Karl-Heinz uttered in amused incredulity. "And that is supposed to guarantee us a male child?"

  "No," Dina conceded. "It doesn't guarantee anything. But it has been known to be effective. If you're interested, Dr. Rosenbaum can explain it all far better than I can."

  Karl-Heinz exchanged glances with Zandra, who gave an imperceptible nod.

  Dina drank some of her champagne.

  He sighed. "It just sounds so ..." He held up his hands ... "so over the top."

  "Sweetie, it is not over the top," Dina objected. "
Lawrence Rosen- baum is a highly respected scientist who happens to be practicing medicine." She paused and stared at him. "Besides, do you have a better idea?"

  He shook his head.

  "Look at it this way," Dina's voice gentled. "What have you got to lose?"

  Karl-Heinz did not reply, but Zandra thought: Only about twelve billion dollars.

  She sat up straight and tall, and as she raised her chin she was every inch the princess.

  "Darling," she told Dina, "call Dr. Rosenbaum. Ask how soon he can see us."

  "Zandra!" Karl-Heinz protested. "Draconian measures like this weren't—"

  Part of the bargain, he didn't have to say.

  Zandra smiled at him. "You're sweet, but my mind's made up, Heinzie."

  "But why not let nature take its course? See what happens?"

  "Because, darling, nature may take months—years even!—just to fertilize me. I know your father's condition is currently stable, but he is still in a coma. You heard his doctors. It's only a matter of time."

  "Yes, but—"

  "And besides," she said, "how can I let Sofia's munchkin inherit? Any woman who dresses in mourning for my wedding's certainly not going to get the better of me!"

  Zandra looked at Dina.

  "Make the call, darling," she said huskily, taking Karl-Heinz's hand. "Make it now."

  Chapter 51

  Sure you ain,t hungry, Ferraro?" the deputy chief asked. "Best grub on earth's right 'round here."

  They were pushing their way through the dense Chinatown crowds, Ditchek's nose on full alert even as he gnawed on a sweet-and-sour rib.

  Charley gave a sickly smile. "Thanks, Chief, but I'll pass."

  That earned him a scornful look and a shrug.

  Deputy Chief Tyler Ditchek was Charley's direct superior. A hefty beer barrel of a man, he was neither muscular nor flabby, had hard, suspicious eyes, a rumble of a voice, and a bullish, pockmarked face. Plus a cast-iron stomach, judging from what he'd already put away—a container of fried dim sum, two fatty whole duck legs, plus the bag of greasy, baby- back ribs he was working on.

  Gnawing on the last one, Ditchek stuffed it in the bag, sucked on his fingers, and ditched the bag in a trash bin. He wiped his hands with paper napkins and produced a robust belch.

  "All right, Ferraro. I got a tight schedule." He flicked a sideways glance. "Whaddya wanna see me about?"

  "This pilot program I'm stuck in," Charley said.

  "Whaddabout it?" Ditchek's stony face showed what he personally thought of it, which wasn't much.

  Charley said, "Interpol and the Job don't mix. I want out."

  Ditchek snorted. "Shit," he said. "You got the cushiest job on the entire force." He eyed a row of crisp whole piglets hanging from hooks. Seemed to have trouble deciding. He said, "They're better on down a ways," and continued on.

  Charley looked back at the piglets. "Least there you know what you're eating, Chief."

  Ditchek said, "Fun-nee. Gonna hit me with that If-It-Moves-They- Eat-It shit?"

  "Actually I wasn't, but now that you mention it—"

  "Best grub on earth," Ditchek pronounced, cutting him off. "Couldn't ask for fresher."

  "Yeah. Like going to a pet store to buy groceries."

  "That's what I mean by fresh."

  "Yeah," Charley said. "Around here, fresh means it hops. It crawls. It swims. It slithers. I should come down here at Easter, buy little chicks and rabbits."

  Ditchek laughed. "Don't have to wait for Easter," he said. Then he got serious, his brows drawing together and beetling. "Now, what's this shit about you wanting out? Huh?"

  Charley's face tightened. "I've had it, that's all."

  "Yeah, but why've you had it?"

  " 'Cause this NYPD-Interpol shit sucks!"

  "Yeah?" Ditchek chuckled. "Tell me something else that's new."

  Charley drew a deep breath. "Way things are headed, me and the Finn are going to kill each other."

  Ditchek looked at him sharply. "Thought the two a you had a marriage made in heaven."

  Charley scowled. "Had's the operative word. It's time we got a divorce, and it had better be a quickie!"

  "This all happen overnight?"

  Charley shook his head. "Nah. It was a while in coming. Just took me some time to wake up."

  "To what?"

  "The guy's screwing my girl."

  "I hear right?" Ditchek squinted at him. "You both porkin' the same broad?"

  Charley thrust his hands into his coat pockets. "Yeah," he scowled. "And I'm supposed to trust him to watch my back? No way!"

  Ditchek shook his head. "Life's a bitch."

  "Christ, but I'd like to take that bastard and hang him out to dry!"

  "Must be some broad," Ditchek said admiringly, "huh?"

  "Listen, Chief," Charley growled.

  "All right, all right." Ditchek held up his meaty paws. "Don't be so goddamn touchy! Hell, I'm not porkin' nobody."

  Ditchek stopped walking, his eyes on greasy clumps of mystery meat being scooped out of a deep fryer.

  Charley waited as Ditchek gestured to the Asian vendor, saying: "Gimme a bag a those."

  Money exchanged hands, and Ditchek took the bag and walked on, tossing crispy morsels in the air and catching them in his mouth.

  "Now, getting back to serious shit. I want you to listen to me a moment, Ferraro." Ditchek squinched his eyes. "Hear me out. Okay?"

  Charley resigned himself. "Yeah. Sure."

  "You know what we have in this here city?" Ditchek asked rhetorically. "Well, I'll tell you. We have a bad case a 'the gots.' "

  " 'The gots.' "

  "Right. We got everything, see. We got us a crack epidemic. We got us a hundred thousand heroin addicts. We got us a million people on welfare. We got us gun-totin' eight-year-olds shootin' each other dead in the schools. We got us nine-year-olds tossing six-year-olds outta twenty-story windows. We got us hordes a homeless, and as if that's not bad enough, we got kids dousing 'em with gasoline and setting 'em on fire."

  Charley waited.

  "And you," Ditchek said caustically, "you would rather be on the mean streets? That what you're telling me?"

  "If that's what it takes," Charley said, "yeah. I would."

  "Asshole," the Chief said, without malice. "Okay. Lemme list the reasons why wanting out's too much to ask for."

  "Come on, Chief—"

  "Unh-unh." Ditchek scowled. "I got the floor."

  "Christ, Chief, you don't expect me to just sit back and—"

  "Ah, shut the fuck up, Ferraro. Lemme say my piece." Ditchek crunched a morsel between his molars. "Now, you're good at what you do. Hell, ain't nobody else on the force can tell a Picasso from chicken scratch. That, my friend, is reason Numero uno."

  Ditchek tossed another morsel in the air, caught it in his mouth, and chewed.

  "Numero dos. You can work both sides a the art scene. You can fit in at an opening without screaming, 'Lookit me, I'm a cop!' and, you can go undercover, pass yourself off as one a the bad guys. Not many guys good at that, either."

  "Chief," Charley pleaded.

  Ditchek tossed and caught another morsel.

  "Numero tres. This NYPD-Interpol thing's a pilot program. You know—" he pointed a thick index finger at Charley "—and I know—" he jabbed it in his own chest "—that it's the mayor and the PC's pet project."

  "Like I give a shit," Charley mumbled.

  "Maybe you don't," Ditchek growled, "but I sure the hell do! Wanna know why?"

  Here goes, Charley thought, knowing what was coming. At one time or another, everyone who was answerable to Ditchek had heard the same unvarying routine.

  Ditchek said: " 'Cause I'm retiring next year, that's why. 'Cause I don't want to be on the PC's shit list for all that time. 'Cause I don't want your dick—or anybody else's—fucking up my retirement!" He vented a noisy breath. "Got that?"

  "Yeah, Chief," Charley sighed.

  "You're what? Six months into a one-year te
st program?"

  "About that." Charley nodded. "Yeah."

  "Well, goddammit, detective! Stop sniveling, get your ass in gear, and toe the line! Six months ain't nothing."

  "But that cocksuck—"

  "Yo, hold it right there." Ditchek held out a hand like a traffic cop stopping traffic. "Personally, and off the record," he said softly, "I can't blame you. I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same way. Okay?" "Gee, thanks, Chief."

  Ditchek's voice hardened. "But professionally, and on the record, save me the sob story. Whatever grudges you got, my advice is, clear the air and bury the hatchet. Translation: I don't give diddly squat. And you'd better not make this into a bigger issue than it already is. You do, and I'll have your ass!"

  The furnishings at the art theft squad office were standard city issue. Gray metal desks. Gray metal swivel chairs. Dented black filing cabinets. The computer, on a workstation shoved against the far wall, would have looked incongruous, save for the familiar, sticky dirt which had coated it gray. Ditto the fax machine. Hardly the most cheerful of surroundings.

  But then, Hannes was not exactly conducting very cheerful business. He was, in fact, typing up his letter of resignation.

  When he was done, he read it through, signed it, and faxed it to Paris:

  03/24/1995 12:36 NYPD ART THEFT DIV PAGE 01

  FACSIMILE MESSAGE

  TO: M. Christophe Boutillier, Interpol, Paris

  FROM: Hannes Hockert

  M. Boutillier:

  Due to circumstances I would rather not go into, I am sorry to inform you that I am experiencing severe difficulties with the Interpol/NYPD pilot program. I know that we were very excited about it initially, but that enthusiasm has since waned.

  Furthermore, I fear my continuance with this project will result in more harm than good. I therefore respectfully ask to be reassigned and replaced immediately.

  Respectfully,

  Hannes Hockert

  After the fax was transmitted, Hannes got his coat and left the building. He took the subway up to Times Square. Walked briskly over to Eighth Avenue, ignoring the peep show shills with all the brusqueness of a born New Yorker. Amazing, he thought, how quickly one adapts.