Authors: Nora Roberts
Hot Rocks (10 page)
“No, Laine’s a redhead.”
“Ah well, hardly matters. This is a lovely piece.” He picked up an elegant china cat. “Do you ship?”
“We certainly do. I’d be happy to . . . Oh, hi, honey,” she said when Vince walked in. “My husband,” she said to the customer with a wink. “I don’t call all the cops honey.”
“I was heading by, thought I’d stop in to see if Laine was here. Check on her.”
“No, I don’t think she’s coming in today after all. Got her hands full. Laine’s house was broken into last night,” she said.
“God, how awful.” The man lifted a hand to the knot of his tie, and the dark blue stone in his pinkie ring winked. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, she wasn’t home. Sorry, Vince, this is Mr. . . . I never did get your name.”
“It’s Alexander, Miles Alexander.” He offered a hand to Vince.
“Vince Burger. Do you know Laine?”
“Actually, we were just trying to determine that. I sell estate jewelry and wondered if I’ve met Ms. Tavish along the circuit. I’m sorry to hear about her trouble. I’m very interested in the cat,” he said to Jenny, “but I’m going to be late for my afternoon appointment. I’ll come back, and hopefully meet Ms. Tavish. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Burger.”
“Jenny. Come back anytime,” she added as he walked to the door.
When they were alone in the shop, Jenny poked Vince in the belly. “You looked at him like he was a suspect.”
“No, I didn’t.” He gave her a return, and very gentle, poke in her belly. “I’m just curious, that’s all, when I see a guy in a slick-looking suit hanging around the shop the day after Laine’s house is broken into.”
“Yeah, he looked like a rampaging burglar all right.”
“Okay, what’s a rampaging burglar look like?”
“Not like that.”
His name was Alex Crew, though he had proper iden
tification in the name of Miles Alexander—and several other aliases. Now he walked briskly along the sloping sidewalk. He had to walk off his anger, his quietly bubbling rage that Laine Tavish hadn’t been where he’d wanted to find her.
tification in the name of Miles Alexander—and several other aliases. Now he walked briskly along the sloping sidewalk. He had to walk off his anger, his quietly bubbling rage that Laine Tavish hadn’t been where he’d wanted to find her.
He despised being foiled, on any level.
Still, the walk was part business. He needed to get the lay of the land on foot, though he had a detailed map of Angel’s Gap in his head. He didn’t enjoy small towns, or the burgeoning green view of the surrounding mountains. He was a man for the city, its pace, its opportunities.
Its abundance of marks.
For rest and relaxation, he enjoyed the tropics, with their balmy breezes, moon-washed nights and rich tourists.
This place was full of hicks, like the pregnant sales-clerk—probably on her fourth kid by now—and her ex- high-school football hero turned town cop husband. Guy looked like the type who sat around on Saturday nights with his buddies and talked about the glory days over a six-pack. Or sat in the woods waiting for a deer to come by so he could shoot it and feel like a hero again.
Crew deplored such men and the women who kept their dinner warm at night.
His father had been such a man.
No imagination, no vision, no palate for the taste of larceny. His old man wouldn’t have taken the time of day if it wasn’t marked on his time sheet. And what had it gotten him but a worn-out and complaining wife, a hot box of a row house in Camden and an early grave.
To Crew’s mind, his father had been a pathetic waste of life.
He’d always wanted more, and had started taking it when he crawled through his first second-story window at twelve. He boosted his first car at fourteen, but his ambitions had always run to bigger, shinier games.
He liked stealing from the rich, but there was nothing of the Robin Hood in him. He liked it simply because the rich had better things, and having them, taking them, made him feel like he was part of the cream.
He killed his first man at twenty-two, and though it had been unplanned—bad clams had sent the mark home early from the ballet—he had no aversion to stealing a life. Particularly if there was a good profit in it.
He was forty-eight years old, had a taste for French wine and Italian suits. He had a home in Westchester from which his wife had fled—taking his young son—just prior to their divorce. He also kept a luxurious apartment off Central Park where he entertained lavishly when the mood struck, a weekend home in the Hamptons and a seaside home on Grand Cayman. All of the deeds were in different names.
He’d done very well for himself by taking what belonged to others and, if he said so himself, had become a kind of connoisseur. He was selective in what he stole now, and had been for more than a decade. Art and gems were his specialties, with an occasional foray into rare stamps.
He’d had a few arrests along the way, but only one conviction—a smudge he blamed entirely on his incompetent and overpriced lawyer.
The man had paid for it, as Crew had beaten him to bloody death with a lead pipe three months after his release. But to Crew’s mind those scales were hardly balanced. He’d spent twenty-six months inside, deprived of his freedom, debased and humiliated.
The idiot lawyer’s death was hardly compensation.
But that had been more than twenty years ago. Though he’d been picked up for questioning a time or two since, there’d been no other arrests. The single benefit of those months in prison had been the endless time to think, to evaluate, to consider.
It wasn’t enough to steal. It was essential to steal well, and to live well. So he’d studied, developed his brain and his personas. To steal successfully from the rich, it was best to become one of them. To acquire knowledge and taste, unlike the dregs who rotted behind bars.
To gain entrée into society, to perhaps take a well-heeled wife at some point. Success, to his mind, wasn’t climbing in second-story windows, but in directing others to do so. Others who could be manipulated, then disposed of as necessary. Because, whatever they took, at his direction, by all rights belonged exclusively to him.
He was smart, he was patient, and he was ruthless.
If he’d made a mistake along the way, it was nothing that couldn’t and wouldn’t be rectified. He
always
rectified his mistakes. The idiot lawyer, the foolish woman who’d objected to his bilking her of a few hundred thousand dollars, any number of slow-minded underlings he’d employed or associated with in the course of his career.
always
rectified his mistakes. The idiot lawyer, the foolish woman who’d objected to his bilking her of a few hundred thousand dollars, any number of slow-minded underlings he’d employed or associated with in the course of his career.
Big Jack O’Hara and his ridiculous sidekick Willy had been mistakes.
A misjudgment, Crew corrected as he turned the corner and started back to the hotel. They hadn’t been quite as stupid as he’d assumed when he’d used them to plan out and execute the job of his lifetime. His grail, his quest.
His.
His.
How they had slipped through the trap he’d laid and gotten away with their cut before it sprang was a puzzle to him. For more than a month they’d managed to elude him. And neither had attempted to turn the take into cash—that was another surprise.
But he’d kept his nose to the ground and eventually picked up O’Hara’s scent. Yet it hadn’t been Jack he’d managed to track from New York to the Maryland mountains, but the foolish weasel Willy.
He shouldn’t have let the little bastard see him, Crew thought now. But goddamn small towns. He hadn’t expected to all but run into the man on the street. Any more than he’d expected Willy to bolt and run, a scared rabbit hopping right out and under the wheels of an oncoming car.
He’d been tempted to march through the rain, up to the bleeding mess and kick it. Millions of dollars at stake, and the idiot doesn’t remember to look both ways before rushing into the street.
Then she’d come running out of that store. The pretty redhead with the shocked face. He’d seen that face before. Oh, he’d never met her, but he’d seen that face. Big Jack had photographs, and he’d loved to take them out and show them off once he had a couple of beers under his belt.
My daughter. Isn’t she a beauty? Smart as a whip, too. College-educated, my Lainie.
Smart enough, Crew thought, to tuck herself into the straight life in a small town so she could fence goods, transport them, turn them over. It was a damn good con.
If Jack thought he could pass what belonged to Alex Crew to his daughter, and retire rich to Rio as he often liked to talk of doing, he was going to be surprised.
He was going to get back what belonged to him. Everything that belonged to him. And father and daughter were going to pay a heavy price.
He stepped into the lobby of the Wayfarer and had to force himself to suppress a shudder. He considered the accommodations barely tolerable. He took the stairs to his suite, put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign as he wanted to sit in the quiet while he planned his next move.
He needed to make contact with Laine Tavish, and should probably do so as Miles Alexander, estate jewelry broker. He studied himself in the mirror and nodded. Alexander was a fresh alias, as was the silver hair and mustache. O’Hara knew him as Martin Lyle or Gerald Benson, and would have described him as clean-shaven, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
A flirtation might be an entrée, and he did enjoy female companionship. The mutual interest in estate jewelry had been a good touch. Better to take a few days, get a feel for her before he made another move.
She hadn’t hidden the cache at her house, nor had there been any safe-deposit or locker key to be found. Otherwise he and the two thugs he’d hired for the job would have found them.
It might’ve been rash to burgle her place in such a messy fashion, but he’d been angry and so sure she had what belonged to him. He still believed she did, or knew where to find it. The best approach was to keep it friendly, perhaps romantic.
She was here, Willy was here—even if he was dead. Could Jack O’Hara be far behind?
Satisfied with the simplicity of the plan, Crew sat in front of his laptop. He brought up several sites on estate jewelry and began to study.
Laine woke in lamplight and stared blankly around her
bedroom.
bedroom.
What time was it? What day was it? She scooped her hair back as she pushed herself up to peer at the clock. Eight-fifteen. It couldn’t be A.M. because it was dark, so what was she doing in bed at eight at night?
On the bed, she corrected, with her chenille throw tucked around her. And Henry snoring on the floor beside the bed.
She yawned, stretched, then snapped back.
Max!
Oh my God. He’d been helping her clear out the worst of the guest room, and they’d talked about going out to dinner. Or ordering in.
What had happened then? She searched her bleary brain. He’d taken the trash downstairs—outside—and she’d come into her bedroom to freshen up and change.
She’d just sat down on the bed for a minute.
All right, she’d stretched out on the bed for a minute. Shut her eyes. Just trying to regroup.
And now she was waking up nearly three hours later. Alone.
He’d covered her up, she thought with a sappy smile as she brushed a hand over the throw. And had turned on the light so she wouldn’t wake in the dark.
She started to toss the throw aside and get up, and saw the note lying on the pillow beside her.
Max
“Could he be more perfect?” she asked the still snoring Henry. Lying back, she pressed the note to her breast. “You should immediately suspect perfection, but oh boy, I’m enjoying this. I’m so tired of being suspicious and cautious, and alone.”
She lay there another moment, smiling to herself. Sleeping Beauty wasn’t sleepy anymore. In fact, she couldn’t have been more awake or alert.
“You know how long it’s been since I’ve done something really reckless?” She drew a deep breath, let it out. “Neither do I, that’s how long it’s been. It’s time to gamble.”
She sprang up, dashed into the bathroom to start the shower. On second thought, she decided, a bubble bath was more suited to the occasion she had in mind. There was time for one, and while it ran she’d look through her choices and pick something to wear most suited for seducing Max Gannon.
She used a warm freesia scent in the tub, then spent a full twenty minutes on her makeup. It took her nearly that long to decide whether to leave her hair down or put it up. She opted for up because he hadn’t seen it that way yet, and fashioned a loose updo that would tumble at the slightest provocation.
This time, she went for the obvious and the little black dress. She was grateful for the shopping spree months before with the not-yet-pregnant Jenny that had netted them both some incredible lingerie.
Then, remembering that Jenny credited her current condition to that lingerie, Laine added more condoms to the ones she’d already tucked in her purse. It brought the total up to half a dozen, a number she giddily decided was both cautious and optimistic.
She slipped a tissue-thin black cashmere cardigan, a ridiculous indulgence she didn’t get to wear nearly often enough, over the dress.
Taking one last study in the mirror, she turned to every angle. “If he turns you down,” she stated, “there’s no hope for mankind.”
She whistled for the dog to follow her downstairs. After a dash into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine, she took Henry’s leash from the hook by the back door.
“Wanna go for a ride?” she asked, a question that always sent Henry into leaps and dashes of wild glee and shuddering excitement. “You’re going to Jenny’s. You’re going to have a sleepover, and please, God, so am I. If I don’t find an outlet for all this heat, I’m going to spontaneously combust.”
He raced to the car and back three times by the time she reached it and opened the door for him. He leaped in and sat grinning in the passenger seat while she strapped the seat belt over him.
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