He lowered his mouth to her breast, bit gently. "Fair's fair."
She arched, absorbed, then riding on the thrill rolled over to reverse positions. "I'd just sneak around behind his back and have sex with you. I'd feel bad about it, but I'd do it anyway."
"You're such a slut."
She threw back her head and hooted with laughter. "Oh God! I feel wonderful."
His hands ran up her sides, then in and over curves. "You're telling me."
"Max." The sweetness seeped into her, had her brushing her hands through his hair, then cupping his face. "I love you, Max. I'll be such a good wife."
She was everything he wanted and hadn't known he was looking for. The whole of her, all those strange and lovely layers that formed her fit the whole of him as no one ever had, or ever would.
He drew her down to him, stroking her hair, her back, as love swarmed inside him. And when she sighed, the long, contented sound of it was like music.
Soft, so soft, her skin, her lips, so that the moment took on a dreamy hue that made it easy to be tender. He could cherish her here, and wondered if anyone ever had.
Instead of seeing her as competent or clever, as practical and smart, had anyone ever shown her she was precious?
He murmured to her, foolish things, romantic things as he eased her over to undress her. His hands skimmed over her as if she were more fragile than glass, more splendid than diamonds.
Her breath caught, another quiet little sigh as she let him take her over, as she sailed over smooth, gentle waves of pleasure. Under his hands she was pliant, willing to lay herself open for whatever he gave, or took.
Long, lush kisses that shimmered through the blood and sent pulses skipping. Slow, indolent caresses that sent warm thrills over the skin. She floated on the lazy river of sensation.
As that river rose, she felt the sleepy passion wake to roll through her in an endless swell. She arched to him, once again wrapping herself around him so they sat, locked together in the middle of the bed.
Mouths met more urgently, with breath quickening as the air went misty, as heart kicked against heart. Need welled inside her, throbbing like a wound, spreading like a fever.
She murmured his name, over and over, as she pushed him back, as she straddled him and cupped his hands to her breasts.
She took him inside her, captured him in all that velvet heat. Watching him through the shadows, her hair gleaming through them, her eyes impossibly blue.
Angling back, she offered him the lovely white line of her. He could feel the canter of her heart, the shivers along her skin, the taunt brace of it as she set to ride him.
Then she leaned forward, her hair raining down to curtain her face, and his. She anchored her hands on his shoulders, dug her fingers in. And drove him mad.
Her hips charged like lightning, shooting sparks of shock through his blood. The pleasure stormed through him now, whipped by her energy. She threw her head back, crying out when she clamped around him, convulsed around him.
Clinging to the edge, he reared up, banded her in his arms and, with his lips hot on her throat, let her drag him over with her.
***
He had to work. It wasn't the easiest transition with his body sated with sex and his mind veering constantly back to Laine. But the work was vital. Not just for his client, or for himself, but for Laine.
The sooner this portion of the diamonds was back where it belonged, the better for all concerned.
But that was hardly the end of it, or of her problems.
He didn't expect Crew would come back searching for them in the house, but neither did he expect the man to just cut his losses and walk away. He'd killed for those stones, and he wanted all of them.
He'd planned to have all of them from the beginning, Max concluded while he shuffled his notes into another pattern to wait for some new piece to fall into place.
No reason that made sense to have lured Myers out for a private meeting unless he'd planned to eliminate him and increase his take. He'd have picked his other partners off and slithered away with the full twenty-eight million.
Had they sensed it? Wouldn't someone who'd lived a life on the grift catch the smell of a scam? That was his bet, in any case. Either Jack or Willy had sensed a double cross, or been spooked by Myers's disappearance.
So they'd gone into the wind.
And had both ended up here, assuming Laine would be the perfect place to hide the stones until they could liquidate them and vanish for good.
He'd kick Jack O'Hara's sorry ass for that later.
They'd led Crew right to Laine's doorstep. The stones were secure, but not in the way they'd planned. And Willy was dead, Laine a target.
And once more, he thought in disgust, Big Jack was under the radar and on the move.
He wouldn't go far, Max mused. Not with Willy's quarter share at stake.
He'd be holed up somewhere, working on the angles. That was good. It would give Max the time and the opportunity to run him to ground and collect another quarter share.
He'd keep his word to Laine. He wasn't interested in turning Big Jack over to the cops. But he was interested, in fact he was deeply invested, in tearing a strip off the man for putting Laine in jeopardy.
Which brought him back to Crew.
He wouldn't go far either. Now that he knew the investigation was centered right here in Angel's Gap-and Max could only lay that on his own head-he'd be more careful. But he wouldn't want too much distance between himself and the prize.
He'd killed for another quarter of the take. He sure as hell wouldn't hesitate to kill for another half.
In Crew's place, Max would set his sights on O'Hara. There was only one thing standing between O'Hara and twenty-eight million. That was Laine.
He'd hand the diamonds in his possession over to his client, dust his hands and say that's the best I can do and scoop Laine up, tuck her away in Savannah. Of course, he'd have to sedate her, hog-tie her and keep her in a locked room, but he'd do it if he believed it would take her out of the mix and keep her safe.
But since he didn't think either of them would be very happy with her drugged, tied up and locked away for the next several years, it didn't seem like the way to go.
Crew would just wait, bide his time and come after her when he chose.
Best if Crew made the move while he was on their ground, with them both on full alert.
Because she had to know. Two things Laine wasn't, were slow and stupid. So she knew a man didn't steal millions, kill for it, then count his losses cheerfully and walk away from half that pie.
It wasn't just a case with the fun and challenge of the investigation, and a fat fee at the end of it, any longer. It was their lives now. To secure their future, he'd do whatever it took.
He scanned his notes again, stopped and nearly kicked back in the delicate chair before he remembered it wasn't suited to the move. He hunched forward instead, tapping his fingers along his own printout.
Alex Crew married Judith P. Fines on May 20, 1994. Marriage license registered New York City. One child, male, Westley Fines Crew, born Mount Sinai Hospital, September 13, 1996.
Subject filed for divorce; divorce granted by New York courts, January 28, 1999.
Judith Fines Crew relocated, with son, to Connecticut in November 1998. Subsequently left that location. Current whereabouts unknown.
"Well, we can fix that," Max muttered.
He hadn't pursued that avenue very far. His initial canvass of Judith's neighbors, associates, family had netted him little, and nothing to indicate she'd continued contact with Crew.
He flipped through more notes, found his write-up on Judith Crew nee Fines. She was twenty-seven when they married. Employed as manager of a Soho art gallery. No criminal record. Upper-middle-class upbringing, solid education and very attractive, Max noted as he looked over the newspaper photo he'd copied during his run of her.
She had a sister, two years younger, and neither she nor the parents had be
en very forthcoming, nor very interested in passing on information. Judith had cut herself off from her family, her friends. And vanished sometime in the summer of 2000 with her young son.
Wouldn't Crew keep tabs on them? Max wondered. Wouldn't a man who took such pride, had such an ego, want to see some reflection of self, some hint of his own immortality in a son? Maybe he wasn't particularly interested in maintaining a relationship with the ex, or with a small boy who'd make demands. But he'd keep tabs, you bet your ass. Because one day that boy would grow up, and a man wanted to pass on his legacy to his blood.
"All right, Judy and little Wes." Max wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to arpeggiate. "Let's see where you got to." He played those fingers over the keyboard and started the search.
***
Walking voluntarily into a police station went against the grain. Jack didn't have anything against cops. They were only doing what they were paid to do, but since they were paid to round up people just like him and put them in small, barred rooms, they were a species he preferred to avoid.
Still, there were times even the criminal needed a cop.
Besides, if he couldn't outwit the locals and wheedle what he needed to know out of some hayseed badge in a little backwater town, he might as well give it up and get a straight job.
He'd waited until the evening shift. Logically, anyone left in charge after seven was bound to be closer to the bottom of the police feeding chain.
He'd shoplifted his wardrobe from the mall outside of town with an eye to the personality he wanted to convey. Jack was a firm believer in the clothes making the man whatever the man might elect to be.
The pin-striped suit was off the rack, and he'd had to run up the hem of the pants himself, but it wasn't a bad fit. The clown-red bow tie added just the right touch, hinting at harmless.
He'd lifted the rimless glasses from a Wal-Mart, and wasn't quite ready to admit they actually sharpened his vision. In his opinion, he was entirely too young and virile to need glasses.
But the look of them finished off the intellectual-heading-toward-nerd image he wanted to project.
He had a brown leather briefcase, which he'd taken the time to bang up so it wouldn't look new, and he'd filled it as meticulously as a man might when traveling to an out-of-town meeting.
A smart player became the part.
He'd browsed through Office Depot, helping himself to the pens, notepads, sticky notes and other paraphernalia the administrative assistant of an important man might carry. As usual, such office toys both fascinated and bemused him.
He'd actually spent an entertaining hour playing with a personal data assistant. He did love technology.
As he walked down the sidewalk toward the station house, his gait became clipped, and his big shoulders hunched into a slump that looked habitual. He tapped the glasses back up his nose in an absent gesture he'd practiced in the mirror.
His hair was brutally slicked back, and-courtesy of the dye he'd purloined from a CVS drugstore that afternoon-was a glossy and obviously false shoe-polish black.
He thought Peter P. Pinkerton, his temporary alter ego, would be vain enough to dye his hair, and oblivious enough to believe it looked natural.
Though there was no one around to notice, he was already in character. He pulled out his pocketwatch, just the sort of affectation Peter would enjoy, and checked the time with a worried little frown.
Peter would always be worried about something.
He climbed the short flight of stairs and walked into the small-town cop shop. As he expected, it boasted a smallish, open waiting area, with a uniformed deputy manning the counter toward the rear.
There were black plastic chairs, a couple of cheap tables and a few magazines-Field and Stream, Sports Illustrated, People-all months out of date.
The air smelled like coffee and Lysol.
Jack, now Peter, tapped his fingers nervously at his tie and nudged up his glasses as he approached the counter.
"Can I help you?"
Jack blinked myopically at the deputy, cleared his throat. "I'm not entirely sure, Officer... ah, Russ. You see, I was supposed to meet an associate this afternoon. One P.M., at the Wayfarer Hotel dining room. A lunch meeting, you see. But my appointment never arrived and I've been unable to reach him. When I inquired at the hotel desk, I was informed he never checked in. I'm quite concerned, really. He was very specific about the time and place, and I've come here all the way from Boston for this appointment."
"You looking to file a missing persons report on a guy who's only been gone, what, eight hours?"
"Yes, but you see, I've been unable to reach him, and this was an important appointment. I'm concerned something may have happened to him on his trip from New York."
"Name?"
"Pinkerton. Peter P." Jack reached inside his suit jacket as if to produce a card.
"The name of the man you're looking for."
"Oh yes, of course. Peterson, Jasper R. Peterson. He's a rare-book dealer, and was to acquire a particular volume my employer is most interested in."
"Jasper Peterson?" For the first time, the deputy's eyes sharpened.
"Yes, that's right. He was traveling from New York, into Baltimore, I believe, and through D.C. before taking some appointments in this area. I realize I may seem to be overreacting, but in all my dealings with Mr. Peterson, he's always been prompt and reliable."
"Going to ask you to wait a minute, Mr. Pinkerton."
Russ pushed back from the counter and disappeared into the warren of rooms in the back.
So far, so good, Jack thought. Now he'd express shock and upset at the news that the man he sought had recently met with an accident. Willy would forgive him for it. In fact, he thought his longtime friend would appreciate the layers of the ruse.
He'd probe and pick at the deputy and work his way around to learning exactly what effects the police had impounded.
Once he knew for certain they had the pooch, he'd take the next step and nip it from the property room.
He'd have the diamonds, and he'd take them-and himself-as far away from Laine as possible. Leaving a trail for Crew that a blind man on a galloping horse could follow.
After that... well, a man couldn't always plan so far ahead.
He turned back toward the counter, a distracted look on his face. And felt a quick lurch in the belly when instead of the bored deputy, a big, blond cop stepped out of the side door.
He didn't look nearly slow enough to suit Jack.
"Mr. Pinkerton?" Vince gave Jack one long, quiet study. "I'm Chief Burger. Why don't you step back into my office?"
13.
A thin worm of sweat dribbled down Jack's spine as he stepped into the office of Angel Gap's chief of police. In matters of law and order, he much preferred working with underlings.
Still, he sat, fussily hitching his trousers, then setting his briefcase tidily beside his chair, just as Peter would have done. The smell of coffee was stronger here, and the novelty mug boasting a cartoon cow with bright red Mick Jagger lips told Jack the chief was having some Java with his after-hours paperwork.
"You're from Boston, Mr. Pinkerton?"
"That's right." The Boston accent was one of Jack's favorites for its subtle snoot factor. He'd perfected it watching reruns of MASH and emulating the character of Charles Winchester. "I'm only here overnight. I'm scheduled to leave in the morning, but as I've yet to complete my purpose I may need to reschedule. I apologize for bothering you with my problems, Chief Burger, but I'm really quite concerned about Mr. Peterson."
"You know him well?"
"Yes. That is, fairly well. I've done business with him for the last three years-for my employer. Mr. Peterson is a rare-book dealer, and my employer, Cyrus Mantz, the Third-perhaps you've heard of him?"
"Can't say."
"Ah, well, Mr. Mantz is a businessman of some note in the Boston and Cambridge areas. And an avid collector of rare books. He has one of the most extensive libraries on th
e East Coast." Jack fiddled with his tie. "In any case, I've come down specifically, at Mr. Peterson's request, to see, and hopefully purchase, a first-edition copy of William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury-with dust jacket. I was to meet Mr. Peterson for lunch-"
"Have you ever met him before?"
Jack blinked behind his stolen lenses, as if puzzled by both the question and the interruption. "Of course. On numerous occasions."
"Could you describe him?"
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