by N. C. Lewis
"Seems so. My heart attack offered an easy opportunity."
Amy gave a private prayer of thanks. "And what about Detective Wilson?"
"She and the others are working homicide and some cold cases. It was one of those 'temporary' slight of hands that none of us saw. Mary's been working cases for weeks now. Says the team is under-resourced. I'm thinking of working some old cases, just to help out."
"Will Lieutenant Kostopoulos mind?"
Nick thought about that. "No, I don't think so… but the chief might, if he finds out. The lollipop liaison unit is generating brownie points. Goes down well with the voters and our political masters. So, for now, I'm the full-time senior officer in the unit."
"Well, I'm thankful you work for someone who's got your back like Lieutenant Kostopoulos."
Nick knew Amy was right, wished he'd have thought about it that way. Now he did. "Suppose so. I definitely owe the lieutenant one."
Chapter 9
Thirty minutes after the arrivals board announced Victoria's plane had landed, Nick and Amy wandered downstairs to the lobby.
"Mom!" cried Victoria, rushing forward with arms open to give Amy a hug.
"Let me look at you," said Amy, holding her daughter at arm's length. "My, your skin is glowing, London must be good for you."
"It is! It's been wonderful," replied Victoria, hugging her mother tight. "There's no other place outside Austin that I would rather be. There is so much history, international food, art, and culture. It's everything you can imagine and more."
Nick had helped Zach stack their luggage onto a pushcart. As the two men approached the hugging women, Victoria, out of the corner of her eye, saw her father.
"Dad!" she cried breaking free of Amy's grip. Again, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her father, tears filling her eyes. "I've missed you and Mom."
"Well now," said Nick, mirroring his wife, "looks like my gal's thriving on the other side of the pond, and that makes me feel mighty proud."
For several minutes, Victoria talked excitedly about London, their journey to the airport, and the flight to Austin. Then, as the conversation died away, Nick turned to Zach, gave him a hug and said, "Victoria didn't give you a chance. What's going on with you?"
"Never could get a word in edgewise, not even on our first date," Zach replied, touching Victoria gently on the arm.
"Get used to it, honey. Anyway, I just have more to say!" Victoria's lips curved upward into a half pout, half smile.
Zach laughed. "That's for sure!" He turned to Nick and Amy. "It's been an exciting time in the Ainsworth household, lots of news. I'll tell you all about it on our drive home."
Amy thought for an instant that the news was about Victoria, that she was pregnant, and that at last she and Nick would have a grandchild. But she pushed the idea out of her mind as hopeful speculation.
◆◆◆
They were out on Route 71 and cruising at sixty-five miles an hour when Zach, who was sitting in the back seat with Victoria, turned to his wife. "Is it okay if I tell your parents about our news?"
"News?" Victoria repeated in a tired voice.
"Are you okay, honey?" Zach asked wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
Nick smiled as he glanced at the couple through the rearview mirror. It seemed his daughter and Zach were getting along just fine.
It began to rain. A thick sheet of drops like an ocean spray crashed down from the heavens. Nick flipped on the wipers and headlights. The traffic, moments earlier moving freely, slowed to a crawl.
"Honey, I'm okay," Victoria said. "Yes, please tell my parents about the news."
Zach leaned forward in his seat, stared out of the car window then began. "Last week I accepted a new job. Assistant head of marketing for a biotechnology firm based in the Docklands, that's east London."
"But I thought you liked working in the investment industry. What was wrong with your previous job?" Amy asked surprised.
"Nothing, nothing at all. I loved that job. But this new position came with a bigger opportunity."
"What type of opportunity?" quizzed Nick.
Zach shifted in his seat. "A big one," he replied barely able to contain the excitement in his voice. "The company I've joined is researching a new way to measure blood sugar."
"Blood sugar!" Amy sounded alarmed. "What are they vampires or something?"
Zach shook his head and let out a chuckle. "No, not vampires, clinical researchers. The company is developing an electronic device to measure blood glucose."
"Why?" Amy asked, hoping the answer wouldn't be too technical. Biotechnology wasn't a subject she had much interest in.
"There are over three hundred million diabetics who need to prick a finger every day in order to get a sample of blood to measure their glucose levels. The company I'm working for is developing a noninvasive technique that analyzes saliva."
"Sounds gross!" Amy's nose wrinkled.
Zach raised his finger to the sky like an English professor about to make an important statement. "Believe me, it's way better than jabbing your finger with a sharp needle two or three times a day. That's painful, messy, and quite frankly, disgusting. "
The rain stopped, the sky brightened, so Nick picked up speed.
"I guess you're right," Amy acknowledged. "It sounds like the idea has a lot of potential."
"Oh my," chipped in Victoria, "when Zach first told me about it I thought he was crazy. But when he mentioned four hundred billion dollars, I listened hard."
"Four hundred billion dollars!" Amy said in a low voice.
"That's how much consumers spend every year on diabetes-related health care spending."
Nick whistled. "That's a lot of money."
"Just think about it, instead of pricking yourself with a sharp lance, you simply spit onto a strip. Who wouldn't prefer that?" Zach was waving his arms around. "Huge upside potential, simply massive!"
"Sounds like it," said Amy.
Zach was in his element now. "That's why I took the job. It doesn't pay much, hardly anything at all, but when the company takes off, I'll be one of the founding employees. Think Microsoft in the 1980s, and you'll get the picture."
"They say some founding employees retired as multimillionaires," commented Nick wistfully.
"Hundreds of employees," Zach expounded with a knowing stare. "That's why we sold our apartment in London and put all our investments in the stock. We are renting now."
Nick's eyes narrowed. "Stock?"
"Yes, the company's listed on the London stock market. When news breaks of our invention the stock price is going to soar."
Nick felt an uneasy sensation in his stomach. With one eye on the road and the other on the mirror watching his son-in-law, he chose his words carefully. "Everything invested in one stock, do you think that's wise?"
The car became very quiet. Even the rumble of the tires on the surface of the road seemed distant, like the sound of some faraway sea. Amy fidgeted with a lock of hair, Zach stared out of the car window, and Victoria let out a low sigh. But no one spoke.
Then, as they turned off the highway, large drops of rain pounded against the windshield, rattled like gravel on the roof. A sudden jolt of lightning followed by a long rumble of thunder jolted Victoria to speak her mind.
"Dad, that's what I thought, especially as Zach quit his old job and joined the new company without my knowledge. I wasn't happy." She nudged Zach in the ribs.
"Won't happen again," he said, staring down.
Victoria continued. "But as Zach always says, no risk, no return. So, I guess we decided to take a risk."
"That's right, Mr. King," replied Zach formally, "we are swinging for the big time, want to retire before I'm forty. Right now I'm employee number seven."
"The company has even trained him in first aid, you know that paramedic stuff. Zach's got a certificate and all," added Victoria with pride.
"What will you do with all that free time once you hit the big four zero?" Nick asked tr
ying hard to hide the alarm in his voice.
Zach leaned back in the seat. "Visit with you and Mrs. King and play with our ten kids."
Nick glanced at the rearview mirror, saw Victoria elbow Zach in the side. Then he half turned to Amy. She wasn't smiling.
◆◆◆
Later that night as Nick climbed into bed Amy asked him a question. "Do you think Victoria's all right?"
"How do you mean?" said Nick plumping up a pillow.
"She seems different."
"Can't say I've noticed, although she appeared a little tired. It was a long flight, probably suffering from jet lag. It's Zach I'm worried about. I hope this biotechnology company isn't another of his harebrained schemes."
"Do you think Victoria is really okay with it?"
"That's what she said."
"Really?"
Nick considered that for a moment. "They're a young couple with great chemistry. As you said earlier, Zach is a little headstrong. I think Victoria is used to that by now. She seems fine."
But Amy wasn't convinced. There was something different about her daughter, but she couldn't quite put a finger on it.
Chapter 10
It was after nine a.m. and Loren Harrington was running late. Frustrated at having slept through her radio alarm, she rolled out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. While others found routine humdrum, Loren found it liberating. She was a creature of habit. It was daily rituals that got her through college, and now as a businesswoman, routine guided her days.
In fifteen minutes she'd be ready and out the door. Loren knew this because she timed it. Loren Harrington timed everything. The walk from her apartment to her business, The Harrington Galleria took nine minutes. Lunch, if she prepared it at home, added twelve minutes to her morning routine. The deli was a fifteen-minute walk from her office, seven-minute wait, a twelve-minute munch at one of the plastic tables by the window, and another fifteen-minutes' walk back.
Loren always dreamed of owning her own arts and artifacts gallery. The Harrington Galleria was the fulfillment of her dream. Not total fulfillment, for the gallery was on the wrong side of town—the east side. And much smaller than she originally envisaged. She thought it affordable when she signed the lease; now she could barely make the rent.
"I will be late," she said aloud as motivation to help stay on track. "So what?" she added, "I'm the boss; I can open the store when I like." Then she chastised herself. Thoughts like that threw her out of routine. "Without discipline, there is only chaos and confusion."
But this morning, Loren felt sluggish, her mind foggy. She could barely drag herself into the shower, and when she did, the water did little to revive her. "Only discipline and routine will help me through," she repeatedly said as the steamy water splashed on her face.
Neither the mantra nor the hot water lifted the fog from her mind.
Loren had spent the previous evening going over her quarterly business financials. She knew things weren’t pretty, but it wasn't until after midnight she realized the numbers were uglier than she imagined. It was the late night and restless slumber that caused her to sleep through the alarm.
"It's my fault I'm late, should have kept to my regular nighttime ritual."
The Harrington Galleria was the only thing she ever wanted, all she lived for. Now, without an injection of cash, it would fail. She'd maxed out her credit cards. There was no chance of a bank loan.
Loren stepped out of the teeny shower in her Mill Street apartment. That's what her landlord called it—an apartment. But it was one room in a large family home divided into tiny rental units. The British, she thought with a grimace, had an excellent word for it—a bedsit. And that's what it was—a single room with a bed, kitchenette, and tiny bathroom. Just enough space to sit or sleep.
Loren toweled off by the bed and slipped into her work clothes—a dark blue, two-button jacket with matching pants and white silk blouse buttoned to the neck. Gazing at her reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on a wall in the kitchen, she applied eyeshadow. Then she stepped back, half turned, eyed herself with satisfaction.
She was good-looking with one of those long delicate faces with high cheekbones that wouldn't look out of place gracing the cover of a fashion magazine. At five foot four, modeling agencies deemed her too short. That had upset her mother. It didn't matter to Loren, though; she always loved art, galleries, and museums. Now, ten years after completing her art degree she owned a gallery, and despite the financial challenges, there was no way she'd let it fail.
"Lunch at the deli today," Loren said glancing at her cell phone. "Not enough time to prepare anything at home." She hesitated, changed her mind, walked to the miniature fridge in the kitchenette, and prepared lunch. Again, she chastised herself. "Must stick to my routine. It's the only way to win."
The only concession to Loren's daily routine came on Saturday, her day off. In the morning she worked at the Bullock Texas State History Museum as a volunteer docent. The thrill of explaining the history of ancient Texas artifacts to eager visitors filled her with joy. But her greatest pleasure came after the museum closed. Then, she could hold the artifacts in her hands, examine them carefully, close her eyes, and feel a part of history.
Volunteer docents weren't supposed to handle the exhibits. They weren't supposed to steal them either. But neither constraint hampered Loren.
Loren sold the items from a back room in her Galleria. They were always minor exhibits, stolen from the storerooms so they wouldn't be missed. The money wasn't enough to keep the business going, but as she always reminded herself, "Every little bit helps."
Black clouds hung low in the sky as Loren hurried the half block to her gallery on East Tenth Street. Her Balenciaga sneakers made easy work of the wet sidewalk. Slung over her shoulder, in a brown leather bag, she carried her work shoes—Christian Louboutin stilettos.
This area of Austin was a seedy part of town, slowly transforming as affluent young couples priced out of downtown moved in. Loren kept her guard up as she walked. It wasn't unusual to see a down and out slumped in a doorway, sleeping off a drunken stupor. Or someone wearing filthy rags to approach asking for money.
Stepping over disused fast-food containers and Styrofoam cups, she hurried along, stopping only briefly to glance at a poster for a missing cat pasted to an ancient lamppost. Mittens had escaped two days ago. The cat, a black-and-white tabby, had a distinctive white swirl across its face. There was a hundred-dollar reward. Loren made a mental note to keep an eye out. "I need the money, every little bit helps."
As she continued along the street, she thought about Floyd Adams. Only now was the realization dawning of the evil that lurked within that man. It all began when someone—she couldn't remember who—had whispered in her ear news about the museum commissioning figurines depicting the Battle of San Jacinto by the painter Edwina Lutz.
Loren dug a little, discovered Floyd Adams commissioned the pieces. But they'd not go on public display for at least eighteen months. That meant they would be put away in a dusty storeroom. Long enough for them to disappear without anyone noticing. A little detective work would find out their exact storage location.
Next, Loren calculated the figurines would be worth four or five times what the museum paid, on the black market. Buyers wouldn’t be a problem. It was as if someone had answered her financial prayers.
She'd offered Floyd fifty percent. He wanted seventy-five and her body. She declined. That was a mistake. She realized that now.
"Dammit!" she whispered under her breath. "And damn Floyd Adams."
If the figurines went missing, Floyd might demand all her profits and her body into the bargain. The creepy, bespectacled, potbellied, middle-aged man had her over a barrel. If she didn't comply, he'd tell the authorities where to hang their hats. Why should she take the risk and Floyd get all the reward?
As she turned onto the pathway that led to the entrance of The Harrington Galleria, she made up her mind. "With discipline and routine,"
she said resolutely, "I'll get rid of Floyd Adams. Then I can steal the Edwina Lutz figurines and use the money to keep this place afloat."
Chapter 11
Edwina Lutz sat on a toadstool under the shade of a gnarled oak tree smoking a cheap Cuban cigar. The toadstool, a bench designed to look like a fungus, bright red with white splotches, was one of her favorite spots in the Betty and Edward Marcus Sculpture Garden at the Laguna Gloria Art School.
A tall, slim woman in sweats, Edwina was almost sixty-five, although she looked twenty years younger with her brunette hair swept up under a knotted handkerchief. She puffed on the cigar blowing a long trail of blue smoke out through her nose. Her intelligent green eyes watched the vapors drift upward until they disappeared.
Edwina taught expressive painting. The class was on a fifteen-minute recess, long enough for her to indulge in two of her many passions, cigars and thinking. On this evening as she puffed and inhaled, she thought about money, or rather her lack of it.
Although her paintings sold for considerable amounts at auction, it had been over a decade since she'd created an original work. The artist's curse—drugs and booze were mainly to blame. Out of financial necessity she taught adult education classes. It was one of her least favorite activities.
"Things will change," she whispered under her breath, "with the Battle of San Jacinto payment."
Eyes half closed, Edwina visualized the check from the Bullock Texas State History Museum, and blew out another plume of smoke through her nose. The cash would be in her hands in a few days, and for that, she had to thank Floyd Adams.
"Edwina, I wonder if I might trouble you?" The request came from a chirpy, little middle-aged man with an office gut and wide steel-rimmed glasses—a student in her class.
It caught Edwina by surprise. She liked to take her passions without interruption. "How can I help you?" Her lips curved into a smile which didn't extend to her eyes.
The man stepped forward into the fading plume of cigar smoke. It offered an ineffective barrier against his avaricious stare. "How can one tell"—he sounded rather pompous—"when a work of art is finished?"