by Janet Dailey
Natalie’s disapproving frown eased into a smile as she thought of something else. “Would a feature on an east coast station help us get national coverage?”
“Why not?” Kelly took the opportunity that had just been offered. “We’ve had several stories picked up by the major networks. They’re cutting costs too. In-depth features, general interest—they get to go national without sending out a team of their own.”
“Ah. But even so—”
“You once had a home in Atlanta, as I remember.”
“Yes. I still do.”
Kelly picked up on what the other woman left unsaid. Natalie owned many houses. They weren’t homes, strictly speaking, since she probably didn’t stay more than a week in any of them, like a lot of rich people.
“We could say you are an Atlanta resident, you know, part-time. And of course the story would be mostly about contemporary art.”
As if. The average viewer wouldn’t be wowed. Art with a capital A was a public-television topic, not a ratings raiser. But Kelly wasn’t going to give up.
“With you to introduce it in a brief interview—”
“My dear, this isn’t about me.” Natalie Conrad’s soft voice was threaded with steel. “After my husband’s death, I became a much more private person.”
Kelly wasn’t going there. Some say you became a recluse, Mrs. Conrad. Can you tell us about that?
“But this project changed everything.” Natalie gestured toward the architect’s model. “Harry had always admired the Fisher Museum in Houston. I think ours will be a worthy rival.”
She sat up, her back ramrod straight. Natalie Conrad’s most striking characteristic was her pride. It put the steel in her voice and burned in her eyes as she turned her classically beautiful face to Kelly.
“I’m sure it will.” Once again Kelly noted the blurred line of Natalie’s lips, feeling a little ashamed for thinking it was due to collagen. Tears, emotions, even suppressed anger, could give a woman that look.
“I hope to name it for him. The museum board must agree,” Natalie said, looking down at the model again. Seeming dissatisfied, she turned it so that a projecting angle faced front.
Must agree? Did anyone ever say no to Natalie Conrad? Kelly told herself not to fill in too many blanks until she had more information. “I think that’s a great idea,” she said.
The other woman didn’t answer. Natalie Conrad seemed preoccupied as she looked at the model museum, her expression troubled. Kelly set aside the idea of an interview for the moment, sensing that the subject was effectively closed.
Well-dressed guests, a woman and three men, had come up onto the dais and seemed to be waiting to speak to Mrs. Conrad, kept discreetly at a distance by Neil Atwood and other staffers in dark suits.
The older woman barely looked up as Kelly said something about getting back to the party. She had the feeling she was about to be dismissed.
“Please stay,” Natalie said suddenly. “If you decide to do a feature—and we would be honored—you’ll want to hear what those people have to say.” She gave an almost invisible nod in their direction.
“Won’t they mind if I listen?” Kelly asked.
“I don’t care.” Natalie’s smile was less than warm. “They want something from me—their names on a wing or a gallery. And I want something from them.”
Kelly didn’t have to ask what that might be. The honor would cost many millions. Worth it, apparently, for those who could afford it.
“Forgive the cliché, my dear, but time is of the essence,” Natalie continued. “We need to put together the museum’s financing tonight if we can. Listen and learn.”
Kelly sat back.
The murmured conversations with the people on the short line weren’t as interesting as trying to figure out Natalie Conrad’s accent. She didn’t have one. Her precise pronunciation could be the product of a finishing school, probably abroad. Kelly tried to remember where Natalie was from and drew a blank, realizing that she knew more about the late Mr. Conrad than she did about his widow.
An hour passed. The private negotiations were over and deals had been struck. The money at stake was mind-boggling. And all for an unbuilt art museum with no start date for its construction, as far as Kelly could tell. She hadn’t been able to glean any hard facts at all.
With pledges from ultra-rich donors secured, the bidding opened to the public: a select group of the merely wealthy seated in gilt chairs in several rows before the dais.
A roving spotlight moved over the group, stopping on each donor as names were called from an unseen microphone and the amounts announced. Huge monetary gifts were added to a running tally, accompanied by roars and cheers. Bigger spotlights began to rove over the crowd in the ballroom, ratcheting up the excitement. Kelly had never seen anything like it.
Natalie Conrad presided from the dais, encouraging the attendees to dig deeper. The final total was staggering. Between the glaring spotlights and the frenzied noise, Kelly had had enough and felt a mean headache coming on. Slipping away down the low stairs to the side, she went in search of Deke.
Finding him was an impossibility. It was after midnight and the party was deteriorating. It got worse once she was in the thick of it. A stiletto heel took a step back and nearly nailed her gown. Kelly lifted her skirt a few inches and hung on to it, pushing through loud guys and women with smudged makeup trying to be heard over the din. A large hand cupped her rear and squeezed. Kelly turned around and swung. Her closed fist just missed the jerk. He guffawed and stumbled away.
Forget it, she told herself. She needed to get to the penthouse and just chill out, call room service for some real food and something hot to drink. Deke might already be there on the other side of the adjoining door. They could trade notes, talk, relax—she wanted to do that, badly. Then a roving spotlight stopped and trapped him in a circle of cold light.
Deke was at a table with two women, having a grand old time. They couldn’t see her.
Kelly recognized one of them as his fellow agent, the Happy Hacker. Mousy but cute. The other one was familiar. That taffeta dress and the come-hither smile—Deke had winked at her while they were dancing.
Was Taffy an agent too? No telling. Kelly almost didn’t care one way or another. But it would have been nice to have a complete list of the players in advance, she thought grimly. Apparently Deke felt entitled to give out that information on a need-to-know basis.
Moving on when the spotlight did, she glided past the suddenly darkened table, noting the empty bottle of champagne stuck upside down in a bucket of melting ice.
Whoopee. The party was definitely over as far as Kelly was concerned. She didn’t turn around when she heard Deke call her name. But she was whipped around to face him seconds later, his grip on her arm almost painful.
“Where are you going?”
“Bed.”
“Not by yourself.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Deke. I don’t even need a night-light. You can party on. I’ve had enough.”
“Stop it. Both those women are colleagues.”
“I recognized the hacker.” She pulled away from his hold, trying not to make a scene. Kelly made the mistake of glancing back at the table.
Deke’s companions were looking at her curiously.
“The other one is also an agent.” The mocking gleam in Deke’s dark eyes didn’t reassure her on that score.
“Of course.” Her lips curved into a stiff smile of response. She was mad at herself for being jealous, even for a few seconds. The feeling was irrational and unwarranted. The look on his face didn’t make things better. Smacking him wasn’t an option, but it would have been satisfying. “See you in the morning.”
“Kelly—”
He couldn’t stop her from heading out. Kelly walked on, keeping her gaze on an open exit to the side, the only one that wasn’t swarmed with people.
Then the lean figure of a man walked swiftly through the shadowy hall beyond the doors. Even at t
his distance, the aristocratic profile was recognizable. Gunther Bach.
She glanced back toward Deke, instinctively seeking confirmation. He caught up with her. “Don’t follow him,” he muttered. “That’s not your job.”
“I didn’t intend to.”
The crowd surged, separating her from Deke. A huge man with unruly black hair and a shapeless suit stepped between them, his back to Kelly. Deke looked up at the interloper with an expression of mingled anger and surprise.
Her lucky break. Kelly went a different way without a backward look at him, going through double sets of doors with a stream of people. There was no sign of Bach in the lobby. She made double sure he wasn’t following her when she stepped into the elevator that would take her to the penthouse suite.
Exhausted and preoccupied, Kelly didn’t see Deke catch up again and watch her until the doors closed. She had no idea that Huxton had stationed himself on their floor for the night or that he confirmed her safe entry into the suite with a text to Deke. All she wanted to do was flop on a freshly made bed and not think.
Wire-framed fixtures with bare bulbs threw harsh light over the cinder-block walls of a corridor meant for hotel staff and catering equipment. Gunther Bach nodded to a slightly built man going in the opposite direction, pushing a wheeled cart overloaded with dirty glassware and plates. He could only hope the fellow would take him for a banquet manager or some such personage.
The man kept his head down, as if he hoped not to be noticed as well, and concentrated on what he was doing. He made a turn into the chaotic work area Gunther had already passed. A cloud of dishwashing steam drifted down the corridor when the cart rattled through the doors.
Gunther coughed and continued to walk briskly, heading for an exit that led to the hotel’s parking lot. Once outside in the night air, he breathed more easily. He narrowed his eyes, adjusting to the relative darkness of the parking lot, looking for his luxury rental before glancing at his watch.
He had ten minutes before Konstantin would arrive. Time enough to collect himself and rehearse what he would say. His silent partner would expect a complete report.
First, Gunther took out a silver cigarette case and treated himself to a calming smoke. Then he crushed the butt underfoot and got into his car to wait.
Soon enough, a huge black SUV rolled past him. Gunther glanced at the plates, comparing the numbers to several sets he had memorized. One set matched. The vehicle was Konstantin’s.
He watched the SUV go into a parking space, getting out of his car when the brake lights went off. Gunther looked around the parking lot, which was empty, except for a few exuberant drunks who weren’t likely to remember him or anything else.
The passenger door of the SUV opened with a soft click as he appeared in its mirror. Gunther got in.
Konstantin himself was at the wheel, which was unusual. His bulky body seemed too large for the seat he occupied and his black, disheveled hair brushed against the interior roof. The dark blue birthmark on his face didn’t show much in the shadows. A stray glint of light revealed a heavy ring on one of the meaty, thick-knuckled hands resting on the inner curve of the steering wheel.
The man was a brute. But highly intelligent. At this stage of the operation, Konstantin ranked one level below Gunther himself.
“Good evening,” Gunther said.
Konstantin growled a reply as he pushed a button. Gunther heard the doors lock.
“Where is your driver?”
“He was needed elsewhere,” the other man replied. “Too many ears make problems. Now talk.”
Gunther obliged in detail. Occasionally Konstantin cut him off with an impatient grunt, telling him to get to the point.
“We made many new friends,” Gunther said sarcastically. “With luck, some will talk to us tomorrow or the next day. Even I have never seen so many rich people in one place—Natalie Conrad is like a magnet. Imagine paying millions to put your name on part of a building. But people do.”
“Were you photographed with her?”
“No,” Gunther said. “But she knew I was there. She reached me at the airport just in time. The opportunity could not be ignored.”
“We were ready for you,” Konstantin said simply.
He reached for a flask and unscrewed the cap. The sickly-sweet smell of plum brandy reached Gunther’s nose. The other man took several swigs and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“One of my men saw you talking to a blond woman. Very pretty. Who was she?” Konstantin asked the question as if he knew the answer and was only looking for confirmation.
“Kelly Johns. She is a news anchor from Atlanta. We had lunch together recently—very recently. She tried to pump me about my financial enterprises, supposedly for a feature report.”
“And?”
“I thought of a distraction. My attempt at seduction disgusted her.”
Konstantin laughed rudely. “For a reason. You are old.”
Gunther bit back a curt reply. “But I found out what I wanted to know.”
“Go on.” The bulky man took another nip of brandy.
“That she was lying about her reasons for meeting with me. For a fraction of a second there was fear in her eyes.”
“Always good to see,” Konstantin muttered.
Gunther anticipated the next question. He took several sheets of thin paper from an inside pocket of his jacket and unfolded them on the dashboard. Konstantin squinted.
“She is not on this list. Therefore, she was not invited. Security was very tight for this event. Natalie told me that. Of course, she has no idea why I changed my plans at the last minute. I suspect she thinks I still have feelings for her.”
Konstantin shook his head. “You?”
“I won’t shatter her cherished illusion. She is still useful, and we need new clients with deep pockets. None of our accounts have been frozen.”
“Yet.” Konstantin seemed distracted. Gunther noticed him looking into the rearview mirror. There were other people in the parking lot. Well-dressed guests were waiting in the valet line for their cars to be brought.
Double-wide service doors opened suddenly. A long cart was thrust through, laden with thick, yard-high rolls of something gray. Gunther caught a glimpse of brightly colored edging. The red carpets were being removed from the ballroom.
“So much work,” Konstantin muttered. Three men pushed the heavy cart, and one in front helped steer it to a storage building.
He and Gunther watched in silence as a second cart followed the first. The men handling it set the brakes to keep it from moving and went to help the others unload.
Gunther turned and looked over his shoulder. They were not that far away. He could see a dark stain spread beneath the second cart, dripping from a corner. A roll of carpet thrown on top bulged in the middle.
He faced forward again. Konstantin offered a few words of explanation. “It had to be done. And I did not want the body in my car.”
“Who was killed?”
“A thief. His name is not important.”
CHAPTER 10
Kelly awoke to sunlight pouring in through the penthouse suite windows. She’d forgotten to close the drapes before collapsing into bed last night. She pushed back the covers and sat up, yawning. At least she hadn’t slept in her evening gown. There was a drift of silky, sage-green material over one of the armchairs. Her high heels were where she’d kicked them off, more or less in a corner.
Barefoot, she padded to the bathroom, looking for her robe. The hotel air-conditioning had been auto-set to high, and the chemise she’d slept in wasn’t enough to ward off the chill. Tightening the sash knot on her way back, Kelly noticed a piece of paper that had been shoved under the adjoining door of the penthouse suites.
She hesitated, but only for a second. Kelly picked it up.
First five women to call win a free breakfast!
Deke hadn’t signed it. But by now she knew the number he’d added—it had appeared on her phone often enough.
Kelly looked at the clock. 8:46. Way too early to activate her sense of humor. She ripped the note in half and shoved it under the door to his side.
She was annoyed with him, nothing more. That he hadn’t told her absolutely everything about the operation wasn’t the end of the world, and so what if she’d been startled to see him in the spotlight with two women. Her momentary flash of jealousy was completely irrational. Deke was an intriguing guy, and great-looking, but Kelly had accompanied him to Texas to get another side of a story she wanted to do. It was best to leave it at that.
She walked to the window, gazing out on Dallas by day. Like Atlanta, it was divided by fast-moving highways weaving through skyscrapers and older buildings of brick, though Dallas was nowhere near as green. The morning sun brought out the businesslike look of the city. The magic was gone.
Kelly turned away, looking for the room service menu. She frowned when she saw that another note had replaced the first on the floor. There was something else beside it—a long, green stem.
He must be enjoying this little game. Kelly walked over and stopped by the second note, reading it without picking it up.
Sorry. Talk to me. P. S. The rose won’t fit under the door.
Kelly relented. She turned the lock and opened it. There stood Deke holding eleven red roses in a vase. She picked up the long-stemmed one on the floor and stuck it in the vase. “Are those a peace offering?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What for?” Her question was sincere enough. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Good to know.”
“Besides, I’d rather have coffee.” She walked in, looking around some more.
“It’s in the carafe. Good morning. How are you?”
Kelly gave him—and the room—a fast once-over before she replied. “I’m barely awake.”
He looked a little silly holding that tall vase of long-stemmed roses, what with the stubble outlining his strong jaw and his messed-up dark hair. He wore the same tank top and athletic pants with a stripe down the side that he’d had on before dressing for the ball yesterday.