“Probably not,” Mike said.
My phone rang. I stared at the number until I realized it was Myron Chung calling me.
“Mr. Chung. What can I do for you?”
“I think another buyer is here,” he said.
“Here? In Chicago?”
“Here, as in the Shoreside Hotel. Frank Gomez checked in about an hour ago. Those same two men delivered another shipping crate to Martinez’s room.”
“The tall man and the short Hispanic?”
“Yes.”
Donny and Karl. “Where’s Margarita?”
“She went home after Hollande’s men took the painting. I checked with the hotel, and she has the room booked for the rest of the week.”
“Mr. Chung, I’m staying about forty minutes from the hotel. When Margarita leaves home, call me. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”
I said to Mike, “I wonder if Wil is going to try and bust Gomez and his plane.”
“The chairman of a large corporation? Good question. I’d be surprised if Gomez set off a firefight like the one we just saw. Corporate executives tend to use lawyers to do their fighting.”
We slipped into Doreen’s through a side door, and I went to my room while Mike headed for the kitchen to get his dinner. I thought about food and decided a bath was more important.
One thing about using a brothel as a hotel. The oils, lotions, and creams in the washroom were exquisite. But as soon as I slipped into the steaming hot water loaded with aromatic oils, my phone rang. Thinking it might be Chung, I grabbed it and answered.
“Libby?” It was Wil. “Where are you?”
“In the bathtub. And afterward, I plan on going to bed. Contrary to popular opinion, I do need to sleep occasionally.”
“Oh, sorry. Have you talked to Chung?”
“Yes. He said he’ll call me when Margarita Martinez leaves home in the morning. Why, what’s up?”
“I’m thinking that we need to find where they have the paintings stashed.”
Duh. “Oh? Any ideas how to do that?”
“I was hoping you might.”
I bit my tongue. We might try following them, but Karl was smarter than we were the last time.
“I’ll think about it. Good night, Wil.”
The following day, I watched Margarita and Frank Gomez eat lunch at the Shoreside’s restaurant, then retire upstairs to her room. He was young to be head of a major corporation. She hung on his arm like a lover, and indeed, when she opened the door to the room, he put his arms around her as he followed her in, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.
It took a couple of hours, and if one were gauche enough to listen at the door, the noises coming from inside did not sound like a serious artistic discussion. Eventually, Margarita came out into the hall. She looked a little mussed, and her makeup wasn’t as crisp as I remembered.
Turning at the doorway, she said, “Be a dear and make sure the door is locked when you leave.”
Before the door closed and she practically skipped down the hall to the elevator, I could see that the bedclothes were quite rumpled. I understood that providing a little extra personal attention when a client paid millions for a painting might make Margarita some men’s favorite art broker.
Fifteen minutes later, a couple of men came out of the near stairwell and knocked on the door. Gomez let them in, and in only a couple of minutes, they carried a narrow shipping crate out. Gomez pulled the door closed behind him and followed them down the stairs.
I trailed them, and watched the crate load into the trunk of a limousine. I had to applaud Gomez’s class. A painting by a grand master shouldn’t have to travel in a working-man’s van.
Wil and his team intercepted them only a few blocks away. Another team boarded the plane at the airport and took control of it. All very civilized and quiet. I was glad to see that someone had taken the lessons of the previous night to heart.
Two paintings recovered, two customers detained, but we were no closer to finding the rest of the artworks or arresting those responsible for the theft. Even more maddening, to me at least, we weren’t any closer to learning who killed Deborah Zhukoff.
“Mike,” I said, “Let’s try to find Donny again.”
He showed his fangs in a lopsided smile and said, “Sounds like a plan to me.”
The license plate on Donny’s van had given us the listed address for Donald Chavez. We tried that first. The van wasn’t there, but I still walked up to the door and knocked. No answer, so I walked around the house, peered through the windows, and decided he wasn’t home. Our next stop was at the bar, and sure enough, we found him at his home away from home. I assumed my disguise from before. I tried to recall what name I’d given him, and couldn’t remember.
When I opened the door and walked into the bar, I realized it didn’t matter.
“Hey, baby,” Donny said, getting up off his barstool and walking away from a woman who was draped all over him. I didn’t see him as that much of a lady-killer, so I assumed he was still spreading his newfound wealth around. I gave him a big smile. “Hey, handsome. What’s goin on? Did ya miss me?”
He bought me a drink and some tacos, and I steered him away from the bar to a quiet booth in the corner. Over the next hour, I made sure he downed three drinks to my one.
“So, what do you do?” I asked after he was sufficiently lubricated and kneading my breast like bread dough.
“Make furniture and cabinets.” I detected a note of pride in his voice.
“Really? Who do you work for?”
“Nobody. Work for myself.”
I drew away from him. “Oh. I thought you had a job.”
“Naw, it’s not like that. I have my own workshop and sell stuff through some of the fancy furniture stores. It’s top-quality. Have more orders than I can fill.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re here instead of hard at work.”
“Geez. Hey, what’s wrong? A guy needs to take a break once in a while. Can’t work all the time.”
“Yeah, right. Middle of the day, middle of the week. I’ll bet you don’t work at all. You probably sell drugs or something.” I picked up my purse and acted as though I was searching for my coat.
“Hey, baby, don’t be like that.” He grabbed at my arm.
“I had plenty of losers trying to get in my pants in Atlanta,” I said. “I thought you were different. I deserve a guy who can pay the rent and buy me nice things. Someone with a future.”
He pulled out a business card and shoved it under my nose, his name plus “Latin-influenced custom furniture and woodcraft” with a phone number. On the back, it showed the logos and numbers of half-a-dozen stores, most of them recognizably corporate.
I left off searching for my coat, which was within arm’s reach, and studied the card. “You really own a business?”
“Yeah, that’s what I been tryin to tell ya.” His slurring was reaching a point where I decided he’d had enough to drink.
“So, you could show me your shop?”
“Yeah, sure. You want to see it? Okay, I’ll take you over there.”
Looking up at him through my lashes, I let a smile grow on my face. “Is anyone there?”
“Naw, nobody. I took the day off and the shop’s closed.”
I gave him my best wicked smile and purred, “Have you ever done it there? You know, where you work? I screwed my boss on his desk once, and it was hot. Do you have a lot of power tools?” Stroking the inside of his thigh. “Do you have a power tool for me?”
Donny paid and dragged me out to his van in record time. Unfortunately, he acted as though he planned on driving. As drunk as he was, I considered that a disastrously bad idea. Leaning over, I pulled his face around and kissed him.
“Why don’t you put it on autopilot? That way I don’t get bored.” It would also be far easier for Mike to follow the van on robotic control.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a business with a parking lot for a few cars and a
sign in front. He really did have a respectable business. In spite of myself, I was impressed. Inside was a small display room with a few tables, chairs, and an incredible chaise lounge upholstered in dark red velvet. The work was clean and decorated with what looked to be artistic hand carving.
I walked over and studied the chaise. It was drool worthy. If I couldn’t have a man in my life, that piece of furniture was definitely worth my love.
“How much?”
“Sixteen thousand.”
Love dropped to intense like. Besides, that piece in my townhouse, surrounded by the rest of my furniture, would look like a rose in a field of weeds.
“Show me your shop.”
He took me to the back where he had a lot of tools—saws and lathes and other stuff I didn’t recognize—and several pieces of half-finished furniture. One corner of the shop caught my eye. Scraps of plywood and pine boards, materials for the paintings’ shipping crates. The rough lumber looked out of place among the dark hardwoods he used in his furniture.
“Some nice wood,” I said, running my hand over a dining room table that was almost black with red highlights.
“I have it shipped in from all over the world,” he said.
Looking around, I asked, “Where do you keep it all? Someone told me once that some woods needed to be kept in controlled conditions so they wouldn’t dry out and crack. I don’t understand how you’d make furniture with wood like that. Wouldn’t it crack in your home?”
“That’s why you oil it. But I have a humidity-controlled storage room to keep wood in until I’m ready to use it.”
“Really? Can I see?”
He led me to the rear of the shop, where he unlocked and opened a heavy steel door. When he swung it open, I saw stacks of wood in all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Against the back wall were three plywood and pine shipping crates, two about the size of those we’d already confiscated, and a smaller one.
Reaching into my purse, I found the jet injector filled with a fast-acting barbiturate. Then I turned to Donny, put my arms around his neck, and kissed him. He folded me into an embrace and as one of his hands traveled over my ass, I pressed the injector against his neck.
He slumped, and I eased him to the floor.
A quick check of the shipping crates revealed the Monet and the two Renoirs. I pulled out my phone.
“Mike? How far away are you?”
“Half a block.”
“Leave the car and come on in. I have the paintings.”
We loaded them into Donny’s van and drove it to the museum. The look on Myron Chung’s face was priceless, but not as satisfying as the one on Wil’s face when he showed up.
“If you want to bust the thieves, take the van back to the owner,” I told them. “I’m sure Donny will cut a deal.”
I wondered if he might be willing to sell that chaise cheap. Legal bills were expensive, and it looked like he might need some money.
The next morning, Wil took me to breakfast at a bistro with pastries that should have been illegal. They also served real coffee, something hard to come by in the parts of town I’d been frequenting.
“Your buddy Donny is singing all the right notes,” Wil said as we waited for our food. “His friends, however, aren’t saying a word. Nothing to implicate Martinez. Gomez threw her under the bus without a second thought. Says he didn’t know the painting he bought was stolen and wants his money back. We also have the surveillance video we took of her and the activities in and around that hotel room.”
If they had vid from inside the room, they could probably sell it, but I didn’t say that. “That should be enough. At the very least, you can shut down her business. No one will deal with her once word gets out. Assuming she survives Georges Hollande’s wrath.”
“We’re announcing the recovery of the paintings and the arrests this afternoon as soon as we’ve arrested Margarita. Then we’ll have to deal with all their lawyers.”
I chuckled. “Better you than me. We still have loose ends, though. The necklace, Donnelly, and the murder. Unless Martinez implicates Donnelly, we don’t have anything on him.”
The waitress brought our meals, and I dove in.
“Are you starving?” Wil asked.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, nodding my head and stuffing another bite of quiche in my mouth. I hadn’t eaten since Donny bought me tacos the day before.
Wil laughed. “Well, as to Donnelly, he still has the problem of his gambling debts.”
“Nope,” I said between bites. “He cleared sixteen million on those two paintings.”
Wil put his fork down. “You checked his bank accounts.”
“Yep. I assume he got Deborah’s share as well.”
“Don’t you ever think about the fact that hacking into banks is illegal?”
“No, not really. Someone would have to catch me. Besides, I don’t steal anything. I only do it for educational purposes.”
Chapter 24
I talked Wil into hauling Malcolm Donnelly down to Chamber headquarters for questioning. He didn’t want to do it. Standard diffidence toward a large corporation’s chairman, and all that.
An apartment on the floor below Donnelly’s was being remodeled while the owners visited Europe. Immediately after my breakfast with Wil, I went over there, and as soon as Donnelly left the building, I went in.
I showed up as a man wearing a fumigation suit and announced that I needed to spray the place for roaches. The construction workers went home, and I crawled from the balcony of that apartment to the balcony above. Crossing over another balcony took me to Donnelly’s. I jammed the alarm contact on the sliding door, and waltzed in.
It wasn’t a large apartment. I suspected that before Winifred filed for divorce, he kept it as a place to take his ladies. Figuring I had three hours, I thought I would have enough time to search the nine rooms.
The woman lying in bed watching a vid and eating chocolates wasn’t in my plans. From her reaction, she wasn’t expecting me, either.
She must have caught movement out of the corner of her eye. I whipped back out of the doorway as she turned toward me. Then she screamed. I could hear my father in my head. “Careless” and “unprofessional” were the two printable words in his imaginary rant. I hadn’t taken the time to scout Donnelly’s place before breaking in.
I morphed into a likeness of my friend Paul. His image was stored in my memory and it was quick. That done, I charged back into the bedroom. She opened her mouth to scream again but hesitated. I understood why. Paul was handsome and charming enough that a woman might actually welcome him barging into her bedroom.
Grabbing her wrists in one hand, I looked around for something to tie her hands. The belt of a bathrobe came to hand and I used it, then gave her a shot with the jet injector.
Unable to resist, I whispered in her ear as the drug took effect. “I’m going to make this the sweetest dream of your life.”
I didn’t find anything in the bedroom. I didn’t find anything in the entire house. No necklace. No incriminating papers or files on the computer. I did find a used home pregnancy test cup in the spare washroom. To add to Donnelly’s problems, it showed a positive result.
Before I left, I untied the mistress and tucked her in. With any luck, she’d decide I was a dream and not say anything to Donnelly.
Of course, there were tons of places someone could hide a necklace in Chicago. It might be in his office at work, or in his locker at the country club. But people got edgy when their valuables weren’t ready to hand or in places they couldn’t control. Prior to Winifred filing for divorce, Malcolm was still living with his wife. At least, that’s what the news said.
The plans for his estate were available with only an hour’s worth of hacking. Nothing too lavish. Forty rooms in the main house, two or three outbuildings, a clubhouse that served the pool and tennis courts, and the stables. He had bought the place twenty years before and never used the stables, at least not for livestock. For all I knew, that was
where he kept his haram.
I looked up the Chicago police’s interview with Winifred and her servants.
After I spent most of the day on that line of research, Mike said, “You know, breaking into the Donnelly estate and retrieving the necklace is a spectacularly bad idea.”
“Oh? How so?”
“What are you going to do with it? How are you going to prove he stole it? B and E is a crime, you know. Donnelly’s going to scream that you’ve been guilty all along and now he has the proof.”
His words percolated through my brain as I stared at him. “That’s entirely too logical,” I finally said.
He shrugged. “Just thought I’d throw that out there before you asked me to help you get in trouble.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Ask Wilbur to search the place with the Chicago cops?”
“On what pretext?”
Mike grinned. “The Chamber needs a pretext? Say you’re searching for Zhukoff’s murder weapon. The wife’s alibi has holes you could drive a truck through.”
I thought about it. “That wouldn’t even be targeting Malcolm at all, would it? He hasn’t been to the estate since Winifred filed for divorce. His lawyers wouldn’t have any cause to block the search.”
“They would be cheering you on,” Mike said. “If Wini goes to jail for murder, her divorce claims fall apart. He can divorce her without a fuss or any payments.”
I called Wil. He argued with me. It seemed that was all we did. It hadn’t always been like that, and I hated it. Then I put Mike on the phone to him. Evidently, they spoke the same language. I wasn’t sure if that language was male, or corporate security, or something else, but Mike convinced him.
The following morning at seven o’clock, Mike and I joined Wil and Myron Chung, along with twelve Chamber Security men and twenty of Chicago PD’s finest. A police lieutenant knocked on the front door of the Donnelly mansion and presented the butler with a search warrant. Then he trooped upstairs to present it to Winifred.
As the butler told us, the lady of the house was indisposed. When someone was so dead drunk the cops couldn’t wake her up, that was pretty drunk.
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