Her Special Charm (2 page)

His mistake. Santini was like a dog with a bone. A starving dog.

James sighed as he drove down the corner. The light had just turned red. He
hated
waiting for the light to change. “She looked to be about seventy-five, Santini. Maybe a seventy-six-year-old would have found her hot, but no, she wasn't hot.”

Santini shook his head. “First woman you trip over—” he slanted a glance at his partner of three years “—literally—in I don't know how long and she has to turn out to be a senior citizen.” The dark, weathered face gathered around a pout. “Couldn't you have run into a hot babe?”

James thought of the cameo he'd left locked up in his desk drawer at home. He still had to place the ad and he was dreading the deluge of response he anticipated. “I wasn't trying to run into anyone and if your wife catches you talking like that, you'll be sleeping on the screened porch again.” The light turned green and he was off.

Santini jolted, then settled back. After three years, he
still wasn't accustomed to the fits and starts of his partner's driving.

“Yeah, I know. But a guy can dream, can't he? I can't step out on her—won't step out on her,” Santini amended, probably because the former sounded as if he were henpecked, which he had admitted in a moment laced with weakness and whiskey, but it wasn't something he liked dwelling on, “but I can live through you—if you had a life, that is.” He frowned deeply, forming ruts around the corners of his mouth. “You owe it to me, Munro.”

He took another corner, sharply. Santini moaned beside him. “Watching your back is all I owe you, Santini.”

Santini shifted in his seat, his hand braced against the glove compartment. Another turn was coming up. “So, you putting in the ad?”

It wasn't something he wanted to do, but Harriet Stewart was right. Someone was undoubtedly upset over losing a piece like this. The more he looked at it, the prettier it became. He could almost see it sitting against someone's throat, moving with every breath she took.

He blinked, wondering if the heat was getting to him. Even the air-conditioning in the car was struggling with the air. “At lunchtime.”

Patience had never been Santini's long suit. “Why don't you do it now?”

James snorted. “In case you haven't noticed, we've got a crime scene to cover.”

Responsibilities had shifted when it came to locking up crime scenes. These days, the scientists seemed to be all over it before the detectives had a chance even to survey the scene. “Why don't you let the CSU guys do our walking for us? Most of the time they get all huffy if we're in their ‘way.'”

It was a constant battle for supremacy. Each department felt they had dibs on solving crimes. It hadn't been this way in his uncle's day, when detectives were gods—or so his uncle liked to tell. “And what, hold on to this job with my looks?”

Santini considered for a long moment, then shook his head. “Naw, couldn't happen. You'd be let go in five minutes.”

“Not before you, Santini,” he said, taking a quick turn and then pulling the car up short. Santini nearly bounced in his seat. “Not before you.”

 

Just as he'd predicted. One look at his answering machine and he saw he was drowning in phone calls.

He glanced at the glaring red number. Fifteen. Fifteen callers since the ad had appeared this morning, each probably purporting to own the cameo. He sat down and played them all.

Only one was a hang-up, signifying a telemarketer. The rest of the calls were from people who claimed that the cameo belonged to them. Didn't take a Solomon to know that at least thirteen if not all fourteen were lying.

He frowned as the last message ended and a metallic voice came on to say, “End of final message.”

“Might as well get this over with.” The words were addressed to the dog who had come to greet him when he'd opened the front door.

James opened up a can of dog food for Stanley, took out a bottle of beer from the refrigerator for himself and settled into his recliner with a pad and pencil to return the calls.

The claims were all bogus, down to the last number on the answering machine. A great many of the stories had been creative as to how the cameo had been lost, but no one could tell him about the faint inscription etched on the back of the cameo.

A couple of the people he called back had figured out that it wasn't an inscription but initials, but as to what those initials were, they claimed to draw a blank, saying it had been so long since they'd looked at the back, they couldn't remember. He told them to call back when they regained their memory.

“Incredible city we live in,” he murmured to the dog as he hung up on the last caller. “Give them a crisis and they all pull together. Dangle a piece of jewelry in front of them and it's every man or woman for themselves.”

James sighed and shook his head. He'd never been a great believer in the nobility of man to begin with, but he hated being proven right. Getting up, he took his empty bottle to the garbage.

As he dropped it in, he saw the dog eyeing him. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I should be recycling, but I don't have the time. If you're so hot on the issue, you go and recycle them.”

Stanley just continued looking at him with his big, soulful brown eyes.

James blew out a breath, dug the bottle out of the garbage and put it on the side. “C'mon, I need a jog. Maybe it'll clear my head.” And then he grinned. “Maybe we'll trip over a diamond this time. Or a ‘hot babe.'” He used Santini's words for the experience. “If we do, we'll put her on Santini's doorstep, see what his wife has to say about it. You with me?”

Stanley barked in response.

“Good dog.”

He went to change out of his clothes and into his jogging shorts and shirt.

 

Forty-five minutes later, he was back, dripping. The humidity that held the city hostage seemed to have gone up a notch as the sun went down instead of relinquishing its grip. It was like trying to run through minestrone soup.

Throwing his keys on the table, he saw the blinking light.

Another call.

“Well, it can keep,” he told his dog, pouring fresh cold water for him into a bowl. Stanley began to lap as if he hadn't had a drink in seven drought-filled days. “I need a shower.”

The light was still blinking seductively at him after he came out of the shower.

And while he ate a dinner comprised of a ham sandwich. He eyed the hypnotic light as he chewed, toying
with the idea of just deleting it without listening, or at least putting it off until morning.

Greed always left a bad taste in his mouth and the slew of people he'd encountered this evening, all wanting something for nothing, had put him off. Bad enough he encountered it every day on the job, people stealing the sweat of someone else's brow, absconding with someone's dream when they had no right to it. But he damn well didn't have to welcome it with open arms right here on his own turf.

But he knew that wasn't strictly the case.

“Wrong, Munro. You put the ad in, you opened the floodgates. Now take your medicine.”

Mercifully, there was only one message on his machine. He pressed down the button, bracing himself.

The voice that slipped into his humidity-laced third-floor apartment reminded him of warm brandy being poured over honey. It was soft, with more than a hint of a Southern accent.

The voice made him sit up and listen.

“My name is Constance Beaulieu. I believe you've found my mother's cameo, sir.”

J
ames shifted on the sofa, moving a little closer to the coffee table—and the phone—as he listened to the woman on his answering machine.

“The cameo has great sentimental value, sir, especially now that my mother's passed on. Please call me at your earliest convenience. I'll be on pins and needles until I hear from you.” She left her number and then offered a melodic, almost inviting, “Bye,” before the connection was broken.

He didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until he was compelled to release it. Listening to Constance Beaulieu had the same effect as walking through a field filled with honeysuckle blossoms. His head felt as if it were spinning.

James glanced at Stanley. Sitting at his feet, the dog gave every indication that he had been listening just as intently as James had. He cleared his throat. “Lays it on rather thick, doesn't she?”

Stanley turned his head in his master's direction. For once, there was no response from the animal.

James blew out a long breath, shaking himself free of whatever it was that had just transpired. Undoubtedly a reaction to the long day he'd put in and the heat that was lingering over the city like a heavy, oppressive hand pushing its citizens down to the ground.

“You're not buying this ‘my-mother-passed-on' bit, are you, Stanley?” He snorted. “Oldest ploy in the world. And that accent—I'll bet you a steak dinner she's really from Brooklyn.”

This time, Stanley did bark, as if to tell him that they were on. James already knew that Stanley would do absolutely anything for steak. The dog was too damn spoiled.

“Right, and if I win, you have to try that healthy dog food you keep snubbing.” Stanley just looked at him with eyes that could have been either mournful or intuitive, depending on his own mood. “Okay, you're on.”

Might as well get this one over with as well, he thought. Pulling the telephone over to himself, James began to tap out the phone number she'd left on the answering machine.

Part of him felt it was just another wild goose chase. But he was a cop through and through. Doing the right thing was what he was all about. Even if doing the right
thing meant putting up with a lot of wrong people. Hitting the last number, he braced himself.

The phone barely rang once before he heard the receiver being snatched up on the other end.

“Hello?”

The single breathlessly uttered word echoed seductively in his ear. As it took the long way around to his brain cells, an image arose in his head of long, cool limbs, blond hair that moved like a silken curtain in the breeze and a mouth that was, to quote Goldilocks, “Just right.”

He cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind as well. Maybe Santini was right. Maybe what he needed was a woman. Not for a relationship or even any kind of a long-term companionship, but just for the most basic, mutual physical satisfaction. “Is this Constance Beaulieu?”

“Yes.” Another image flashed through his mind. A Christmas tree, standing in the middle of a darkened room, being plugged in and suddenly flooding the same area with light. “Are you James?”

He wasn't too keen on the familiar tone her voice had taken. “I'm James.”

Honeyed words slowly poured over him, one following the other, giving him no opportunity to say anything beyond that.

“And you have my cameo. I can't tell you how very relieved I am. I'd just about given up hope of ever seeing it again. It's been missing for more than a year now. It was stolen—”

He thought he perceived her taking a breath. He took his opportunity where he could and jumped in with both feet before she got her second wind. “Well, before you get all relieved, Ms. Beaulieu—”

“Constance,” she corrected.

James suppressed a sigh. “Before you get all relieved, Ms. Beaulieu,” he repeated. He was aware of the old confidence trick aimed at disarming the would-be mark by creating a warm, friendly atmosphere. That wasn't about to happen. Not if he was the so-called mark. “I'd like you to describe the cameo to me.”

He expected her to pause. Instead, she sounded pleased that he'd actually asked.

“Of course. It's a profile of a lady. Her hair is all piled up on her head. She's ivory colored and she's up against a background of Wedgwood-blue. The same color of the original owner's eyes,” she added just when he thought she was finished.

Nice touch, he thought. But the description just might have been a lucky guess. According to what Santini had told him, a lot of cameos had Wedgwood-blue backgrounds. She was going to have to do better than that if she wanted him to hand over the necklace to her. He turned it over in his hand, looking at the back.

“Tell me something that's not in the ad,” he instructed tersely.

There was a pause on the other end. When it continued, he thought he had her. She was like the rest, an opportunist. Too bad. This one had imagination. And style.
Not that he bought into the Southern accent, that was a little over the top, but—

“There's an inscription on the back.”

Her soft voice, burrowing into his thoughts, caught him off guard. “What?”

“Well, not really an inscription,” she corrected herself. “More like initials. Faint ones. You might not even be able to make them out unless you hold them up to the light, just right. But if you do, you'll see that it reads From W.S to A.D. The A.D. stands for Amanda Deveaux. She's my great-times-seven grandmother,” she clarified.

He could have sworn he heard a smile in the woman's voice. She had to be pulling his leg with this. But if so, how did she know about the initials? That
wasn't
a lucky guess. “Excuse me?”

He heard a small chuckle. At his expense? “It's easier saying great-times-seven than stretching it out and saying great-great-great-great—”

“I get the picture,” he told her gruffly. He looked at the cameo he'd placed on the coffee table. “I guess it's yours, all right.”

He thought he heard a little squeal of joy, but that could have just been the phone line, crackling. Nonetheless, the sound zipped through him.

“I appreciate you taking such precautions, James. I can come over right now and pick it up. There's a reward, of course. It's not much, but—”

Again, he cut her short. “I don't want any reward. I'm a cop.” Ironically, since he worked in R&B, rob
bery and burglary, this fit nicely into his job description. “This is all part of what I do.”

“A policeman.” This time, the little laugh that left her lips somehow managed to shimmy up his spine. And, much to his annoyance, move in for the duration of the phone call. “New York's finest. I should have known.”

He frowned. She'd lost him. “Known what?”

“That if anyone would have reported finding it, it had to be someone honorable.”

He didn't know how well that description fit him. There were times, when he and Santini were chasing down a so-called suspect, someone who took rather than earned and beat anyone who got in his way, that he found himself toying with the notion of taking the law into his own hands. Of going that extra step and making the felon pay for his crimes without dragging the court system and their endless delays into it.

At bottom, he knew that way was anarchy, so he had never acted upon his rare impulses. Still, it was exceedingly tempting to turn thought into reality….

“So,” the woman on the other end of his telephone was saying, “if you'll just give me your address, I can be over within the hour, depending on where you live, if that's all right with you.”

No, it wasn't all right with him. It was so far from all right with him that there was no human way to chart it. Giving out his address was something he rarely did. The department knew where he lived. So did his ex-wife, although with her being in California, he doubted if that made a difference.

But aside from key members of the department, and Eli Levy, the old man who ran the mom-and-pop store he frequented, no one else knew where he lived. He was as private a man as possible in this age of information invasion. And it was going to remain that way.

“Why don't you come down to the precinct tomorrow?” The suggestion was said in such a way that it clearly wasn't a suggestion at all but an order. “I'll have it for you then. Say nine o'clock?”

He heard a slight hesitation on the other end, as if she were torn over something. “I have to be in school at nine.”

“You're a student?”

“No,” she laughed, ushering in another shiver. “I'm a teacher.”

He listened to his air-conditioning unit struggling. “But this is summer,” he pointed out.

“It's an all-year school,” she told him. “Is four o'clock all right?”

Never would be better, he thought, but he'd gotten himself into this. The sooner it was over, the better everything would be. He and Santini had some canvassing to do involving the string of restaurant robberies they were investigating, but he could see to it that he was back at the precinct by four. Santini wouldn't object.

“Four o'clock,” he echoed. “I'm at the fifty-first precinct.”

He began to give her the address but she stopped him. “I know where that is.”

He wondered if that meant she just passed it on a regular basis, or that she had firsthand dealings with one or more of the people there. Again, the thought of a confidence game came to mind. But if that was the case, she was one of the best scam artists he'd ever encountered. “Third floor. Ask for James Munro.”

“Like the president.”

Everyone said that. It took effort for him not to give in to irritation. Instead, he kept his temper in check. “Yeah, like the president. Except we spell the last name differently.”

She surprised him by apologizing. “Sorry, you must hear that all the time.”

There was that little laugh again. The one that sounded like bluebells ringing. The thought caught him up short. Since when did he wax poetic about anything, much less some stranger's voice on the phone? He was getting punchy. That last outing with Stanley in this heat had done him in.

“It's just that I'm so very excited.”

She obviously meant that by way of an explanation. Why the words would suddenly nudge things around in his mind, forming close to erotic thoughts about a woman he had never even laid eyes on, he had no idea.

Despite all logic, a feeling vaguely akin to arousal slipped through him.

Annoyed with himself and the caller, he banked his reaction down immediately. Maybe Santini with all his talk of available women and how he should be out there was seeping into his subconscious.

Whatever the cause, he didn't like it. Didn't like not having complete control over every part of himself. Especially his mind.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said. He was about to hang up, then a thought occurred to him. He didn't exactly have a nine-to-five job where he could be found in a given place at a given time. Circumstances did have a way of intervening. Because of that, though it was against his better judgment, he added, “Let me give you my cell number, just in case you get lost.”

“I won't get lost, James,” she said with the kind of confidence that came from self-awareness rather than bravado. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Everything the woman said appealed to him. It took effort not to allow himself to be drawn in.

James fairly barked out the number at her, then quickly hung up before she could say anything further that would cause him to linger on the phone. He shook his head, not in disbelief but to get his bearings back.

As he banished the residue of the strange sensations that were still milling around him like morning mists on the moors, he became aware that Stanley was eyeing him with what appeared to be satisfaction, if such an emotion could have been attributed to a four-footed animal.

He knew what
that
was all about. In his opinion, Stanley was smarter than a lot of people he had to deal with.

“Okay,” he sighed, “you win. Steak. Tomorrow.” Stanley came closer and laid his head on James's lap.
He could feel the animal's warm breath on his thigh. “I'm not going to the store tonight so you can just back off, you hear me? Go stare down something else.”

It turned out to be a Mexican standoff. James did manage to hold firm about his resolution not to go to the grocery store to buy the dog the promised steak tonight. However, unable to endure the animal's soulful, penetrating look for more than fifteen minutes, he'd wound up taking the chicken breast he'd meant for his own dinner out of the refrigerator and frying it up for the both of them.

The preponderance of the meal, as always, went to Stanley. The dog took it as his due.

 

It smelled faintly of cleaning products and the sweat of fear, despite the noble efforts of the less than powerful air-conditioning system struggling to make a difference against the oppressive weather outside.

Walking just inside the front door, Constance Beaulieu took a moment to absorb it all. She'd never been inside a police station before. Even when she'd called to report her mother's cameo stolen, two policemen had been sent to her to take down the information.

Privilege did that, she thought with a hint of a smile playing along her lips. That and the fact that her parents had been friends with New York's chief of police, the man she'd grown up calling Uncle Bob. The man who she believed, had her mother been so inclined, would have become her stepfather after her own father had passed away.

But her mother had been a one-man woman to her dying breath and Bob Wheeler had respected that, even as it killed him to do so.

Uncle Bob hadn't wanted either her or her mother to come down to the same place where addicts, prostitutes and known felons passed through. He'd been very adamant about that. She'd eventually turned her curiosity in other directions. Uncle Bob would have been unhappy with her if he'd found out she'd gone against his wishes. Like her mother, she loved the man dearly. Maybe a little more so as she'd grown up and realized just how much he'd given up to be there for them. The man had never married.