by Nora Roberts
For a moment he didn’t follow her. Then his pasty face blanched. “You know about the painting.”
“I bought it, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but, that was a mistake.” His frantic eyes widened. “No? You knew—knew all along about the Monet? You were working with DiCarlo? You—you cheated,” he accused, miserably.
Dora merely chuckled and leaned forward. “You needn’t sound so offended. After all, you sent DiCarlo here, didn’t you?”
“It’s been his fault.” Disgusted, Winesap threw up his hands. “All this confusion is his fault. I can’t imagine why I was sorry he died so badly.”
The image in the police photo flashed obscenely in her mind. “So you killed him,” she murmured. “For this.”
But Winesap wasn’t listening. “Now I have to clean up the entire mess, again. I’m not happy about the two hundred and fifty thousand, Miss Conroy. Not happy at all.”
He rose. So did Dora. Even as he reached under his coat, two officers were bursting through the rear door.
“Freeze.”
Winesap took one look at the guns pointing at him and fainted dead away. His checkbook slipped out of his hand and flapped onto the floor.
“He was going to pay me for it,” Dora said dully. She watched, light-headed, as two officers escorted a babbling and cuffed Winesap out of the shop. She hadn’t needed to lower her head between her knees, but she remained sitting. It was an even bet as to whether or not her legs would support her. “He was going to write me a check.” A laugh bubbled out, lightly tinted with hysteria. “Jesus Christ, I wonder if I’d have asked him for two forms of ID.”
“Here.” Jed shoved a cup into her hands.
“What is it?”
“That tea you drink—with a little brandy.”
“Good idea.” She knocked it back like water and felt it warm her jittery stomach. “I guess you guys got all you needed.”
“We got plenty.” He wanted to touch his fingertips to her hair, but he was afraid she’d cringe away. “You did good, Nancy.”
“Yeah, I did.” She lifted her eyes then, made herself meet his. “I guess on some level we didn’t make such a bad team.”
He stared down at her for a long time. “It’s been hard on you.”
“I come from pretty tough stock, Skimmerhorn. Conroys don’t fold easily.”
“You were brilliant.” Brent swept in to lift Dora out of the chair by her elbows. He kissed her, hard. “A stand-up job, Dora. You want a job on the force, you’ve got my recommendation.”
“Thanks. But I’m putting my magnifying glass and coupe in mothballs.”
“Come again?”
“Nancy Drew,” Jed muttered, and felt his heart sag. “I’m going down to Interrogation with Brent. Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m going to be fine. Terrific, in fact.” Her smile was blinding, but she lowered herself carefully to the arm of the chair. “It’s still tough for me to believe that pathetic little man engineered all this, and killed DiCarlo.”
Brent opened his mouth, then shut it again at a swift, warning look from Jed. “We have enough on the tape to pry the rest out of him.” Because they felt useless, Jed jammed his hands in his pockets. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I said I would. Go be a cop.” She softened the words with a smile. “It looks good on you.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Jed watched as the strands fell beautifully back into place. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call, let me know what the result of the interrogation is.”
“You’ll get a full report,” Brent promised her.
“In the morning.” Steadier, she rose again. “I’m going upstairs and sleep around the clock. If you’re finished in here, I’ll lock up behind you.”
She followed them to the door. When he reached it Jed turned, closed his hand over hers on the knob. He couldn’t help it. “I’d like to talk to you tomorrow, when you’re feeling up to it.”
She nearly gave in. Very nearly. There was as much hurt in his eyes as she was holding inside her. But a fast break was a clean one. “My schedule’s a little tight, Jed. I’ve booked an early-morning flight to Aruba. I’ve got to pack.”
There was nothing in her voice, nothing in her face that offered the slightest opening. “You move fast.”
“It seemed best all around. I’ll send you a postcard.” Because she hated the bitter aftertaste of the statement, she turned her hand under his and gave it a quick squeeze. “Give ’em hell, Captain.”
She closed the door quickly and turned the lock.
“Why didn’t you tell her we’ve asked LAPD to move on Finley?” Brent demanded when Jed stood on the sidewalk.
He hurt, all over, as if someone had pounded him ruthlessly and methodically with foam-covered fists. “Do you think that would have made her sleep any better?”
“No,” Brent murmured to Jed’s retreating back. “Guess not.”
And she was telling herself that sleep was exactly what she needed. She hadn’t had a decent night of it in more than a week. Dora pulled the shade on the front door, then drummed up the energy to lift the coffee-and-tea tray.
Once she got to Aruba, she promised herself, she’d do nothing but sleep. She’d sleep in bed, on the beach, in the ocean. She’d bake this aching depression out of her body and mind with the Caribbean sunshine, beat those midwinter blues and come back tanned and revitalized.
She set the tray on her desk to carefully lock the storeroom door and engage the security alarm before heading up to her apartment.
It was habit more than desire that had her taking the tray into the kitchen to wash. When she turned from the sink, she was standing face-to-face with Finley.
He smiled and took her nerveless hand in his. “I’ve taken you up on your offer of hospitality, Isadora. And may I say you have a charming home.”
“I really don’t think I should make any sort of statement without a lawyer.” Winesap chewed on his ragged nails and glanced fitfully at Brent and Jed. “I really don’t.”
“Suit yourself.” Brent shrugged and straddled a chair. “We’ve got plenty of time. Do you want to call one, or do you want a PD?”
“A public defender?” That pricked the pride enough to have his sagging shoulders lift. “Oh no, I can afford counsel. I have a very good position.” But his lawyer was in Los Angeles, he thought. “Perhaps if you could explain again why I’m here, we could dispense with the formality of an attorney.”
“You’re here on suspicion of theft, smuggling, conspiracy to murder a police officer and murder, among other things,” Brent added.
“That’s really absurd.” Pride deflated again, Winesap hunched down in his seat. “I don’t know where you could have gotten such a ridiculous idea.”
“Maybe you’d like to listen to the tape of your conversation with Miss Conroy.” Jed made the suggestion as he crossed to the recorder.
“That was a simple transaction—and a private one.” Winesap tried to lever some indignation through the fear in his voice. But when Jed switched on the recorder, he said nothing at all. It was painfully clear after only a few moments that he hadn’t been thorough at all—and that he’d been remarkably stupid.
While his mind worked, he began to suck on his knuckles. He didn’t think he would care for prison. No indeed. Winesap thought of Finley and knew he would like his employer’s brand of punishment a good deal less.
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Might I have a cup of water, please?”
“Sure.” Agreeably, Brent went to the water cooler and pumped out a paper cupful.
“Thank you.” Winesap sipped it slowly while he considered his options. “I think I would like immunity, and a place in the witness-protection program. I think that would suit me very well.”
“I think it would suit me very well to see you rot in a cell for the next fifty years,” Jed said pleasantly.
“Captain.” Brent fell into the classic interrogation rhythm. “Le
t’s give the guy a chance. Maybe he’s got something to trade.”
“I promise you, I do. If I have assurance that my cooperation will be rewarded, I’ll give you everything you need to make a very big arrest.” Loyalty, a chain around his neck for eight long years, slipped easily off. “A very big one,” he repeated.
Jed gave an imperceptible nod as Brent’s eyes met his. “I’ll call the DA.”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Finley kept his hand firm on Dora’s arm as he pulled her into the living room. “And have a nice chat.”
“How did you get in?”
“There was such a lot of confusion this evening, wasn’t there?” He smiled as he pushed her into a chair. “I wasn’t at all sure that Abel—Mr. Winesap—could handle this matter efficiently on his own. I came to supervise. A very good thing, too.”
Finley took the chair beside her and folded his hands comfortably. He saw Dora’s eyes cut toward the door and shook his head. “Please don’t attempt to run, Isadora. I’m very strong and very fit. I’d hate to resort to physical violence.”
She would hate it, too. Especially since she was certain she wouldn’t get two feet. Her best bet was to play for time and wait for help. “It was you who sent DiCarlo.”
“It’s a long, sad tale. But I find you such good company.” He settled back comfortably and began to talk. He told her of the carefully planned robberies in several different countries. The network of men and finances it required to operate a successful business—legally and illegally. When he reached DiCarlo’s part in it, he paused, sighed.
“But I don’t have to go into that with you, do I, dear? You’re an excellent actress. One wonders why you decided to give it up. I realized quite soon after your visit to my office that you and DiCarlo had been in league together.”
For a moment she was too stunned to speak. “You think I was his partner?”
“I’m sure you found him an adequate lover.” Truly disappointed in her, Finley plucked at his cuffs. “And I can certainly see how you could have lured him into betraying me. A pity, too,” Finley added softly. “He had potential.”
“What I told you in your office was exactly the truth. He broke in here and attacked me.”
“I’m quite sure you had some sort of falling out. Greed and sex working against one another, I would assume.” His eyes narrowed, glinting dully. “Did you find another, more inventive man, Isadora, one you could maneuver and pit against poor Mr. DiCarlo so that he came to me with some feeble excuse for not returning my property?”
“The painting was not your property. You stole it. And I was never involved with DiCarlo.”
“And when he didn’t return,” Finley continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you became concerned and decided to test the waters with me yourself. Oh, you were very clever. So charming, so distressed. I very nearly believed you. There was just one niggling doubt in my mind, which proved sadly true once I witnessed the events of this afternoon. I’m disappointed that you turned to the police, Isadora. Settling for a finder’s fee.” He wagged a finger at her scoldingly. “I thought more of you than that. You’ve cost me two very good men, and a painting I wanted very much. Now how are we to reconcile?”
Too terrified to sit, she sprang to her feet. “They have your Mr. Winesap down at police headquarters. He’ll be telling them all about you by now.”
“Do you think he would have the nerve?” Finley considered it a moment, then moved his shoulders in elegant dismissal. “Perhaps. But don’t be concerned. Mr. Winesap will very soon suffer a tragic and fatal accident. I would much rather talk about my painting, and how you think I can retrieve it.”
“You can’t.”
“But surely, since you’ve been such a help, the police have told you where they’ve secured it.”
She said nothing, only because it surprised her so much that she hadn’t thought to ask.
“I thought so.” Finley smiled broadly as he rose. “Just tell me where it is, Isadora, and leave the rest to me.”
“I don’t know where.”
“Don’t lie, please.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his Savile Row suit and pulled out a highly polished Luger. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he asked when Dora’s eyes fastened on the barrel. “A German make, used in World War II. I like to think that a Nazi officer killed quite efficiently with it. Now, Isadora, where is my painting?”
She looked helplessly into his eyes. “I don’t know.”
The force of the bullet slammed her back against the wall. Even as the fire erupted in her shoulder, she didn’t believe he’d shot her. Couldn’t believe it. Dazed, she touched a finger to the worst of the heat and stared blindly at her blood-smeared fingers. She was still staring at them when she slid limply down the wall.
“I really think you’d better tell me.” All reason, Finley stepped up to where Dora lay in a boneless heap. “You’re losing a great deal of blood.” He crouched down, mindful not to stain his suit. “I don’t want to cause you unnecessary distress. It took DiCarlo hours to die after I shot him. But there’s no need for you to suffer like that.” He sighed when she only whimpered. “We’ll give you a little time to compose yourself, shall we?”
Leaving her bleeding, he began to methodically examine her treasures, one by one.
“The little bastard sure did sing.” Brent felt like singing himself as he cut through traffic toward South Street.
“I don’t like cutting deals with weasels,” Jed muttered.
“Even for a big fat weasel like Finley?”
“Even for that.” He checked his watch. “I’ll feel better when I know that LAPD’s picked him up.”
“The warrant’s in the works, pal. He won’t be sleeping in his own bed tonight.”
There was some comfort in that. Some small comfort. Jed would have been happier if he could have taken the man down himself. “You didn’t have to come this far out of your way. I could have caught a cab.”
“Nothing’s too good for the captain. Not tonight. And if I were you, I wouldn’t wait until morning to give a certain gorgeous brunette the good news.”
“She needs to sleep.”
“She needs some peace of mind.”
“She ought to get plenty of it in Aruba.”
“Come again?”
“Nothing.” Jed turned to scowl at the light sleet that began to fall as they turned onto South.
“Now then.” Finley sat down again, pleased when Dora found the strength to push herself to a sitting position against the wall. The blood seeping out of the wound on her shoulder had slowed to a sluggish ooze. “About the painting.”
Her teeth were chattering. She’d never been so cold, so cold that even her bones felt like frigid sticks. While her arm and shoulder spurted fire, the rest of her seemed cased in ice. She tried to speak, but the words hitched one moment and slurred drunkenly the next. “The police . . . The police took it.”
“I know that.” The first sizzle of anger crept into his words. “I’m not a fool, Isadora, as you obviously believe. The police have the painting, and I intend to get it back. I paid for it.”
“They took it away.” Her head lolled on her shoulder, then rolled weakly against the wall. The room was losing its color, going gray. “To grandmother’s house,” she said, edging toward delirium. “Then away. I don’t know.”
“I can see you need incentive.” He set the gun aside and loosened his tie. Dully, Dora watched him slip out of his jacket. When he reached for the gold buckle of his belt, slippery fingers of horror crept through the shock.
“Don’t touch me.” She tried to crawl away but the room revolved sickeningly so that she could only curl in a ball in a congealing puddle of her own blood. “Please, don’t.”
“No, no. Unlike DiCarlo, I have no plans to force myself on you. But a good whipping with this belt may loosen your tongue. It may be hard for you to believe, but I actually enjoy inflicting pain.” He wrapped the end of the belt around his hand, the buckle lo
ose to add bite to the beating. “Now, Isadora, where is the painting?”
She saw him pick up the gun and raise the belt at the same time. All she could do to try to block both weapons was close her eyes.
“You can drop me out front,” Jed told Brent.
“Nope. Door-to-door service.” He whipped into the parking lot,