Hidden Riches (29 page)

In a vulnerable and weary gesture, she brushed a hand through her hair. “Maybe I did,” she repeated softly. “Because even though I understood how you might react, I’m just not used to bottling my feelings inside. But they are my feelings, Jed. They don’t ask you for anything.”

“When a woman tells a man she loves him, she’s asking for everything.”

“Is that how you see it?” She smiled a little, but her eyes were dulled with sadness. “Let me tell you how I see it. Love’s a gift, and can certainly be refused. Refusing doesn’t destroy the gift, it simply puts it aside. You’re free to do that. I’m not asking for a gift in return. It’s not that I don’t want it, but I don’t expect it.”

She rose then and, crossing the room, took his face gently in her hands. Her eyes were still sad, but there was a bottomless compassion in them that humbled him. “Take what’s offered, Jed, especially when it’s offered generously and without expectations. I won’t keep throwing it in your face. That would only embarrass us both.”

“You’re leaving yourself open, Dora.”

“I know. It feels right to me.” She kissed him, one cheek, the other, then his mouth. “Relax and enjoy, Skimmerhorn. I intend to.”

“I’m not what you need.” But he gathered her close and held on. Because she was what he needed. She was so exactly what he needed.

“You’re wrong.” She closed her eyes and willed the threatening tears away. “You’re wrong about the house, too. You’re both just waiting.”

He kept losing his train of thought. Jed knew the details he and Brent discussed were vital, but he kept seeing Dora sitting on the window seat of his old, hated room, with sunlight pooling around her.

And he kept remembering the way her hands had felt against his face when she’d smiled and asked him to accept love.

“Jed, you’re making me feel like a boring history teacher.”

Jed blinked, focused. “What?”

“Exactly.” Blowing out a breath, Brent leaned back in his desk chair. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing.” He washed the mood away with some of the station house’s atomic coffee. “What you’ve picked up on Winesap makes it look like he’s another underling. I still think the best way to handle this is to approach the top man, Finley. Not directly. The longer we can keep the smuggled painting under wraps, the better.”

“What I can gather on the guy wouldn’t fill a teacup,” Brent complained. “He’s rich—rich enough to make you look like a piker, pal—successful, single, obsessively private.”

“And as the head of a large import-export firm, would be the perfect warehouse for smuggled goods.”

“If wishing only made it so,” Brent murmured. “We’ve got no hard evidence on Finley. Sure, the shipment was addressed to his assistant, and DiCarlo works for him.”

“DiCarlo’s small-time, a hustler. You’ve only got to look at his rap sheet.”

“And Finley has no rap sheet. He’s the American ideal, a modest self-made man and a solid citizen.”

“Then a little digging shouldn’t hurt him,” Jed pointed out. “I want to take a trip to LA.”

“I thought that was where this was leading.” Uncomfortable, Brent shifted. “Listen, Jed, I know you’ve got a personal investment in this. The department wouldn’t have diddly without you.”

“But,” Jed interrupted, “I’m not with the department.”

Feeling miserable, Brent pushed at his glasses, fiddled with papers on his desk. “Goldman’s asking questions.”

“Maybe it’s time you answered them.”

“The commissioner thinks so.”

“I’m a civilian, Brent. There’s nothing to stop me from taking a trip to the coast—at my own expense, on my own time.”

“Why don’t you cut the crap?” Brent blurted out. “I know you’ve got a meeting with the commissioner in an hour, and we both know what he’s going to say. You can’t keep straddling this. Make my life easier and tell me you’re coming back on the job.”

“I can’t tell you that. I
can
tell you I’m thinking about it.”

The oath dried up on Brent’s tongue. “Seriously?”

“More seriously than I ever thought I would.” Jed rose and paced to the frosted glass door, to the scarred file cabinets, to the coffeepot thick with dregs. “Goddamn, I miss this place.” Nearly amused at himself, Jed turned back. “Isn’t that some shit? I miss it—every minute of the tedium, the fucking reports, the candy-assed rookies. Nine mornings out of ten I reach for my shoulder harness before I remember it’s not there. I even thought about buying one of those frigging police scanners so I’d know what the hell’s going on.”

“Hallelujah.” Brent folded his hands, prayerlike. “Let me tell Goldman. Please, let me be the one.”

“I didn’t say I was coming back.”

“Yeah, you did.” On impulse Brent leaped up, grabbed Jed by the shoulders and kissed him.

“Christ, Chapman. Get a grip.”

“The men are going to welcome you back like a god. What does Dora think about it?”

Jed’s foolish grin faded. “She doesn’t think anything. We haven’t talked about it. It doesn’t concern her.”

“Oh.” Brent tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Uh-huh. Mary Pat and I have a bet. She says I’ll be renting a tux as best man by the end of the school year. I say Easter vacation. We tend to mark time by the school calendar.”

The quick flutter of panic in Jed’s stomach staggered him. “You’re off base.”

“Come on, Captain, you’re crazy about her. Ten minutes ago you were staring into space daydreaming. And if she wasn’t the star of the show, I’ll kiss Goldman on the mouth.”

“You’re awful free with your affections these days. Drop it, will you?”

He knew that tone of voice—the verbal equivalent of a brick wall. “Okay, but I’ve got dinner for two at the Chart House riding on you.” Brent leaned back on the edge of his desk. “I’d appreciate a rundown of what you and the commissioner come up with. Whether you go to LA officially or not, I can arrange some backup.”

“We’ll touch base tomorrow.”

“And, Captain,” Brent added before Jed made it to the door. “Do me a favor and let them bribe you back, okay? I can make you a list of the things we could use around here.”

Brent grinned and settled down to fantasize about breaking the news to Goldman.

It was nearly midnight when Dora gave up the attempt to sleep and bundled into her robe. An ordinary case of insomnia. It wasn’t because Jed hadn’t come home, or called.

And things were really bad, she admitted, when she started lying to herself.

She switched on the stereo, but Bonnie Raitt’s sultry blues seemed entirely too appropriate, so she turned it off again. Wandering into the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil.

How could she have blown it like this? she wondered as she debated without interest between Lemon Lift and chamomile. Hadn’t she known that a man would head for the hills when he heard those three fateful words? Nope. She tossed a tea bag into a cup. She hadn’t known because she’d never said them before. And now that she was in the real show, she’d rushed her cue.

Well, it couldn’t be taken back, she decided. And she was sorry she and Jed hadn’t read the same script.

He hadn’t echoed the words back, or swept her up in delight. He had systematically and subtly withdrawn, inch by inch, since that fateful moment some thirty-six hours earlier. And she was very much afraid he would continue to withdraw until he had faded completely away.

Couldn’t be helped. She poured the hot water into the cup and let the tea steep while she rummaged for cookies. She couldn’t force him to let her show him what it could be like to give and take love. She could only keep her promise and not throw it in his face again. However much that hurt.

And she had some pride left—Bonnie Raitt was wrong about that, she thought. Love
did
have pride. She was going to pull herself together and get on with her life—with him, she hoped. Without him, if necessary. She figured she could start now by going downstairs and putting her wide-awake brain to work.

Carrying her tea, she headed out, remembering at the last minute to slip her keys into her robe pocket and lock the door behind her. She hated that, that sensation of not being completely safe in her own home. Because of it, she felt compelled to switch on lights as she went.

Once settled in the storeroom, she picked up the tedious task of continuing the reorganization of the files DiCarlo had upended.

As always, the steady work and the quiet relaxed and absorbed her. She enjoyed putting the proper thing in the proper place, and pausing occasionally to study a receipt and remember the thrill of the sale.

A paperweight commemorating the New York World’s Fair, at $40. A marquetry toilet mirror, at $3,000. Three advertising signs, Brasso, Olympic ale and Players cigarettes, at $190, $27 and $185, respectively.

Jed stood midway down the stairs watching her. She’d set all the lights burning, like a child left home alone at night. She was wearing the green robe and an enormous pair of purple socks. Each time she leaned down to read a piece of paper, her hair fell softly over her cheek and curtained her face. Then she would push it back, the movement fluid and unstudied, before she filed the paper away and reached for another.

His heart rate, which had spiked when he’d seen the hallway door open, settled comfortably. Even with the desire that seemed to nag him whenever she was close, he was always comfortable looking at her.

He’d already settled his weapon back under his jacket when she turned.

She caught a glimpse of a figure and stumbled back. Papers went flying as she choked on a scream.

“What are you doing?” she said furiously. “Trying to scare me to death?”

“No.” He came down to the base of the steps. “What the hell are you doing, Conroy? It’s after midnight.”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing the minuet.” Humiliated by her reaction, she crouched down to pick up scattered papers.

“You were very graceful.” He bent down, placed a hand over hers. “I’m sorry I scared you. I guess you were too involved to hear me.”

“Never mind.”

“You should be in bed.” He tilted her face up toward the light. “You look tired.”

“Thanks so much.”

“And you’re bitchy, too.”

“I am not bitchy.” She sucked in an insulted breath. “I resent that term both as a feminist and as a dog lover.”

Patiently, he tucked her hair behind her ear. She’d managed to cover it remarkably quickly, he mused. But her eyes had been worried and wary after the first fright had faded. He’d hurt her already, and was very likely to do so again.

“Come on upstairs, baby.”

“I haven’t finished yet.”

He lifted a brow. There was the faintest edge of resentment in her tone. It made him feel small and incredibly stupid.

“You’re pissed at me.”

“I’m not.” She straightened, drew a deep breath and, with an effort of will, made the statement the truth. “I am not,” she repeated, calm again. “If I’m out of sorts it’s because I feel useless having to keep the shop closed, and deceitful because I’m lying to my family.”

“You don’t have to do either of those things. There’s no reason not to open tomorrow, and you’d feel better if you came clean with your family.”

She considered it. “I will open,” she decided, “but I’m not telling my family. Not yet. It’s for me to deal with.”

He started to argue and found he couldn’t. Wasn’t that the same rationale he was using to ease his conscience? He wasn’t going to tell her about his meeting with the commissioner or his decision to pick up his badge. Not yet.

“Come upstairs,” he repeated. “I’ll give you a back rub.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re tense,” he said between his teeth. “Damn, Conroy, why do you care why? All you have to do is lie there and enjoy it.”

Eyes narrowed, she stepped back. “You’re being nice to me. Why? You’re setting me up for something, Skimmerhorn. You’re planning on doing something you know I won’t like.” She raced up the steps after him.

“Don’t keep things from me.” She laid a hand on his arm as he unlocked his door. “Please. It’s something about DiCarlo, isn’t it? About the painting, the whole mess.”

It was more than that. And less. He wondered if it was
the coward’s way out to give her that one part.

“I’m going to LA to have a talk with DiCarlo’s boss.”

“Winesap?” Her brow creased as she concentrated. “That’s who the shipment was supposed to go to, wasn’t it?”

“The top man’s name is Finley, Edmund G.,” Jed told her. “I’ll start with him.”

“And you think he—Finley—was expecting the shipment, that he arranged for the smuggling?”

“Yeah.” He poured whiskey, for both of them. “That’s what I think.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Enough to buy a ticket for LA.” He handed her the glass, then offered a brief rundown.

“Import-export,” she mused when he’d finished. “Then he’s probably a collector. They almost always are. It’s possible that he was unaware of DiCarlo’s sideline—after all, you said it was a big company. But if he isn’t . . .”

He caught the gleam in her eye and bit back a sigh. “Don’t think, Conroy. You can be dangerous when you think.”

“But I am thinking.” She lifted the whiskey, tossed it back in one burning swallow. “And what I think is, you aren’t the one who should talk to Finley.” She held out the glass for a refill. “I am.”

“Y
ou’re out of your mind.”

“That is a perfectly sane, rational statement.” Since Jed made no move to share, Dora took the bottle and refilled her glass herself. “And if you’d put that male ego on hold a minute, you’d see why.”

“It has nothing to do with ego.” Although it did, however slightly, and that fact burned the hell out of him. “It has to do with simple common sense. You’re in no position to tackle something like this.”

“On the contrary.” She was warming up to the idea now, and began moving around the room, swirling her whiskey, relishing the part to be played. “I’m in the perfect position. I, after all, was the victim of his employee. I, the baffled innocent, will appeal to Finley’s sympathies if he, in turn, is innocent and, since I too am a collector, to his imagination if he’s guilty. In short, Skimmerhorn—” She circled
back and tapped her glass to his. “This part is tailor-made for me.”

“It’s not a damn audition, Conroy.”

“But it is, essentially. Lord, when are you going to get some furniture in here?” In lieu of a decent chair, she scooted up to sit on the table. “What was your plan, Captain, to barge into his offices, gun blasting?”

“Don’t be any more ridiculous than necessary.”

“I thought not. You would, if I may interpret the scene, request a meeting to discuss the ugly situation informally, possibly soliciting his help to locate DiCarlo?”

She lifted a brow, waiting for his denial or assent, and got neither. Undaunted, she plowed ahead. “Meanwhile, you’d be looking for a chink in his armor, if indeed he has any armor or chinks. While doing so, you’d get a firsthand view of his operation, his style, and develop an informed opinion as to his culpability.”

“You sound like a freaking lawyer,” he muttered. “I hate lawyers.”

“That’s the cop talking. I have some very good friends who are lawyers—and my father was an excellent Clarence Darrow in a production of
Inherit the Wind.
Now, let’s see.” She crossed her legs; the robe shifted open over long smooth thighs. “How would I play this?”

“You’re not, Conroy.” Because he felt something essential slipping neatly out of his fingers, he spoke with a snap and caught her chin in his hand. “You are not going.”

“Yes, I am,” she said, unperturbed. “Because we both know it’s the perfect solution.” Smiling, she took his hand off her chin then kissed it. “You can come with me. Keep me away from Rodeo Drive.”

There was only one way to deal with her, Jed thought, and that was calmly. “Dora, I don’t have a handle on this guy. We can’t get any hard data. He might be some nice, grandfatherly type who collects stamps in his spare time, and has nothing to do with smuggling. Or DiCarlo might just have been the trigger on his gun. Walking onto his turf
is risky, and I’m not taking risks with you.”

“Why?” She said it softly. “One would almost think you care.”

He jammed his frustrated hands in his pockets. “Damn it, you know I care.”

“I know you want, but caring is entirely different. Still, it’s nice to hear.”

“Don’t circle around me on this.” She wasn’t going to lure him into a dangerous discussion of feelings again. “The point is Finley. If he’s involved, he’s going to take one look at you and see through that pretty face of yours like plate glass.”

“My, my, you tell me you care and that I’m pretty in one night. My heart swells.”

“I ought to smack you,” he said through clenched teeth.

“But you won’t.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Lots of bark and little bite, that’s you, Skimmerhorn. Let’s get some sleep. We can hash this out in the morning.”

“There’s nothing to hash. I’m going. You’re not.”

She let her hand fall away. “You don’t trust me. That’s it, isn’t it?” She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to still the trembling, but her voice thickened and shook even as her eyes filled.

“It’s not a matter of trust.” He dragged a hand out of his pocket, through his hair. “Don’t take it so personally.”

“How else can I take it?” The first tear spilled over, ran a lonely trail down her cheek. Her eyes were glistening with more, combined with fragile hurt. “Don’t you understand that I need to do something? That I can’t just sit in the background after me and my home have been violated this way? I can’t bear it, Jed. I can’t bear having you think of me as some helpless victim who only gets in your way.”

“Stop it.” Her tears weakened him, unmanned him. “Come on, baby, don’t.” He awkwardly lifted a hand to her hair. “I can’t stand that.” Gently he kissed her quivering lips. “I don’t think of you as helpless.”

“Useless, then,” she said on a hitching sob.

“No.” He brushed her tears away with his thumbs and was nearly ready to beg. “You’re not trained to do this. If he suspects anything, the whole sting could fall apart before it gets started.”

She sniffled, pressed her face to his throat. “Do you suspect—?”

“What?”

“Do you suspect?” she demanded in a perfectly controlled voice. Leaning back, she grinned at him without a trace of remorse. “Fell for it, didn’t you?” Laughing, she patted his cheek while he stared at her through slitted and infuriated eyes. “Don’t feel too stupid, Skimmerhorn. I told you once I was good.” She lifted her glass again to toast herself. “And I am very, very good. And that was just an impromptu performance.”

“Maybe I will smack you. You ever turn on tears again like that, I swear I will.”

“Made you feel like a heel, didn’t I?” She sighed, lustily. “Sometimes I do miss the stage.” Then she shrugged. “But not very often. Be assured, Captain, that our Mr. Finley will see exactly what I want him to see. I’ll play him like an accordion.”

She could do it. He hated the fact that he was certain she could do it perfectly. “And if I lose my mind enough to consider agreeing to this harebrained idea, you’d do exactly as you were told?”

“No—but I’d try to do exactly as I was told. It’s just a fishing expedition, Jed.”

He’d thought so, but he preferred to know his water, and bait his own hook. “I don’t want you hurt.”

She softened all over, eyes, mouth, heart. “That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“If he hurts you, I’d kill him.”

Her easy smile vanished. “Don’t put that weight on my shoulders. Okay? It scares me.”

He lifted her off the table, set her on her feet. “Conroy, I said I didn’t think you were helpless, and that I didn’t
think you were useless, but I never told you what I think you are.”

“No, you didn’t.” She grimaced, braced.

“Important,” he said simply, and melted her heart. “Very important.”

By noon the next day, Dora felt at least one part of her life was shifting back into normal gear. The shop was open for business. The first sale warmed her soul so that she gave her customer an impulsive ten percent off. When Lea walked in to help with the afternoon flow, Dora greeted her with a fierce hug.

Laughing, Lea untangled herself. “What’s all this? Did you win the lottery?”

“Better. We’re open.”

Lea peeled off her coat and fluffed her hair. “You never explained why we were closed.”

“Too complicated,” Dora said breezily. “I needed a day or two of downtime.”

“That break-in bothered you more than you let on.” Lea’s nod was self-satisfied. “I knew it.”

“I guess it did. Anyway, we’ve got a couple of browsers, and I just bought those tea cookies from the bakery again—the ones with the chocolate filling.”

Lea took a deep breath. “How am I supposed to lose the four pounds I gained during the holidays?”

“Willpower.”

“Right. Oh, Mom said to ask you about the painting.”

The cookie box nearly slipped out of Dora’s fingers. “Painting?”

“Something about you lent her a painting and had to take it back.” Lea gave up on willpower and chose a frosted cookie. “She’s thinking about buying it for Dad for Valentine’s Day. Seems he really took a shine to it.”

“Oh . . . I, ah, sold it.” At least that was true, she reminded herself. She still had Jed’s $80 tucked in her jewelry box like love letters.

“Are you okay?” Lea’s keen eyes scanned Dora’s face. “You look a little flustered.”

“Hmm? No, I’m fine. Just getting back in the swing. Actually, I’m a little scattered. I may have to go to LA for a couple of days.”

“What for?”

“There’s an import business out there that I may want to cultivate. I don’t want to close the shop again.” No reason to, she assured herself. Since Brent was still pulling strings to ensure police protection.

“Don’t worry about it. Terri and I can keep things going.” The phone on the counter rang twice. Lea raised a brow. “Want me to get that?”

“No.” Dora shook off the guilt and lifted the receiver that was an inch away from her hand. “Good afternoon, Dora’s Parlor.”

“I’d like to speak to Miss Isadora Conroy, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Miss Conroy.” From his desk in Los Angeles, Winesap turned to his meticulously rehearsed notes. “This is, ah, Francis Petroy.”

“Yes, Mr. Petroy,” Dora said as Lea turned to greet a customer.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I was given your name and number by a Mrs. Helen Owings of Front Royal, Virginia.”

“Yes.” Dora’s fingers tightened on the receiver. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope it’s what we can do for each other.” Winesap read the words “genial chuckle” in his notes and did his best imitation of one. “It concerns a painting you bought at auction in December. A Billingsly.”

All moisture evaporated in her mouth. “Yes, I know the piece. An abstract.”

“Exactly. As it happens, I’m a collector of abstract work. I specialize in unknown and emerging artists—in a regretfully small way, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“I was unable to attend that particular auction—a family emergency. It gave me some hope when Mrs. Owings informed me that the painting had been sold to a dealer, rather than an art collector.”

“Actually,” Dora said, playing for time. “I’m a little of both.”

“Oh dear.” He shuffled through his papers. Nothing in his copious notes addressed that particular response. “Oh dear.”

“But I’m always interested in a legitimate offer, Mr. Petroy. Perhaps you’d like to come in and see the painting. It would have to be sometime late next week, I’m afraid.” She paused and mimed flipping through an appointment book. “My schedule’s rather hectic until then.”

“That would be excellent. Really excellent.” Relieved, Winesap mopped his sweaty neck with a handkerchief. “What day would be good for you, Miss Conroy?”

“I could fit you in on Thursday, say at two?”

“Perfect.” Hurried, Winesap scribbled down the date. “I hope you’ll hold the painting until then. I’d hate to miss the opportunity.”

“Oh, I’d hate you to miss it, too.” She smiled grimly at the wall. “I promise, it won’t go anywhere until we have the chance to discuss terms. Do you have a number where I can reach you in case something comes up?”

“Certainly.” As his notes instructed, Winesap recited the number for one of Finley’s fronts in New Jersey. “During business hours,” he said. “I’m afraid I keep my private number unlisted.”

“I understand perfectly. Next Thursday then, Mr. Petroy.”

She hung up, almost too furious to enjoy the sense of elation. He thought she was an idiot, Dora fumed. Well, DiCarlo or Finley or Petroy or whoever the hell you are, you’re in for a rude surprise.

“Lea! I have to go out for an hour. If Jed comes in, tell him I have to talk to him.”

“Okay, but where—” Lea broke off, fisting her hands on her hips as she stared at the closing door.

She should have called ahead. Dora turned back into the parking lot after a fruitless trip to the police station. Lieutenant Chapman was in the field. Sounded as though he were out hunting pheasant, she thought grumpily.

How was she supposed to tell anyone she’d made contact if there wasn’t anyone around to tell? Then she spotted Jed’s car and allowed herself a smug smile. He was about to learn that he wasn’t the only one who could think on his feet.

She found him in the storeroom, calmly painting shelves.

“There you are. I hate to use a cliché, but where’s a cop when you need one?”

He continued to paint. “If you’d needed a cop, you should have called nine-one-one.”

“I went to the source instead.” Wanting to prolong the excitement, she peeled off her coat. “But Brent was out. How come they call it a field? I don’t recall passing through any fields in Philadelphia.”

“Just our little way of impressing civilians. Why did you need Brent?”

“Because.” She paused for drama. “I made contact.”

“With what?”

“With whom, Skimmerhorn. Don’t be dense. I got a call from Mr. Petroy—only I don’t think it was Mr. Petroy. It could have been DiCarlo, but the voice didn’t really jibe. Maybe he disguised it, but I’m pretty good with voices. He could have had someone else make the call,” she said, considering. “Or it could have been Finley, but—”

“Sit down, Conroy.” Jed laid the brush across the top of the paint can. “Try a Jack Webb.”

“A Jack Webb? Oh.” Her eyes brightened. “Just the facts. I get it.”

“You’re a real whip. Sit.”

“Okay.” She settled and imagined herself filing a report. As a result, she related the entire phone conversation
precisely, thoroughly and without embellishments. “How’s that?” she asked when she was done.

“What the hell were you thinking of, making an appointment to meet him without checking with me?”

She’d expected him to be impressed, not irritated. “I had to do something, didn’t I? Wouldn’t he have been suspicious if a dealer had seemed reluctant to meet with him?” Her back stiffened defensively. “But it’s definitely fishy. An art collector inquiring about a painting from an artist who probably doesn’t even exist. I checked on Billingsly. There isn’t any Billingsly, so why should anyone go to the trouble to track down a Billingsly painting? Because,” she said, and lifted a finger for emphasis, “he wants a Monet.”

“That’s brilliant, Conroy. Just Goddamn brilliant. And it’s not the point.”

“Of course it is.” She blew out a breath, stirring her bangs. “He thought I was stupid. He thought I was some money-grubbing junk dealer who doesn’t know her butt from a delft vase, but he’s going to find out differently.”