Restrike (16 page)

Coleman overslept, and awoke aching even more than she had the day before. She raced through her shower and pulled on a black knit turtleneck and matching slacks. The bruises showed above the turtleneck. She knotted a red and black silk scarf around her throat, making sure the marks were covered. She fed Dolly, gulped a cup of coffee, ate some lemon yogurt from the carton, and set off at a fast clip for the office, Dolly bouncing ahead of her.

Coleman usually arrived around six, but it was nearly seven thirty when she stepped off the elevator near the door to
ArtSmart
’s office. Her absence the day before meant she’d find lots of problems waiting, and she had to finish the piece she was writing about poor Chick for the March
ArtSmart.
The copy deadline was Friday. It would be a busy day.

She was not pleased to find Zeke and Bethany sitting on the floor in the corridor outside the locked door to the
ArtSmart
reception area. They were drinking coffee from cardboard cups, reading newspapers, and looked very much at home.

“What in the world—” she began.

“We’re here to check the office for bugs,” Zeke said. He stood up and pulled Bethany to her feet.

Coleman scowled. “Why so early? And why didn’t you call first?”

“I tried to call you last night, but your machine wasn’t on. We’re here early because Bethany has to be at the gallery by ten. Anyway, you were worried about bothering the staff, so we thought early was better.”

“Sorry, Coleman. Should we come back another day?” Bethany said.

Coleman was too busy for this foolishness. But now that they were here, she couldn’t send them away. “No, go ahead, but try and not disturb anyone.”

“We’ll work as fast as we can. But remember, you’ve cleared everyone who works here, right? The only possibility remaining was Chick, and he’s dead. If Chick didn’t do it—and you keep saying you don’t think he did—it has to be someone who
doesn’t
work here. If so, there’s only one way it could be done: with a listening device. I know it sounds strange, but as Sherlock said, ‘When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

“All right, all right,” Coleman said. “Let’s get it over with.” She unlocked the outer doors and headed towards her office, talking over her shoulder. “Do me a favor, will you? No progress reports. If you find a bug—and I can’t believe you will—tell me. If you finish checking and find nothing, tell me. But no blow-by-blows, okay? I’ve got an enormous amount to do today.” She went in her office and started to close the door, thankful that not many of the staff were in yet. Most of them rarely turned up before nine.

“Wait,” Zeke said. “We’ll check your office first, and we won’t have to bother you later.”

“Oh, my God! I’ll be in the conference room.” She grabbed a pile of papers from her desk and disappeared down the hall.

A few minutes later Zeke appeared in the conference room door. “Your office is clean,” he said.

Coleman sighed. Zeke was having a wonderful time playing detective. Bethany should have more sense than to fool around with this business, but she looked excited, too. Maybe they did have a future, despite their disparate backgrounds. They could open a detective agency together. Or write detective fiction.

She returned to her office and closed the door behind her. She soon finished her short, sad article on Chick’s career and his contributions to
ArtSmart
, and had started through the piles of mail and manuscripts on her desk, when her door crashed open.

“How dare you bring Zeke Tolmach and his slut in here to spy on me!” Tammy shouted. “I’m quitting, but not before I tell you how despicable I think you are. You and your damned sneaks can go to hell.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t make so much noise,” Coleman said, covering her ears. “Come in, and close the door. They’ll hear you in Queens. Zeke isn’t spying on you—”

Tammy’s face was beet red. “You’re lying. You can’t deny you’ve been checking up on people here.”

“Yes, to some extent I have,” she said. “I didn’t like having to do it, but—”

Tammy interrupted again, still at the top of her lungs. “And you found out I was leaving, didn’t you? And you pretended not to know, you sly bitch. You’re jealous. Some of us can have marriage
and
a career—I don’t have to be an old maid like you. You think you’re so terrific. Well, when I’m gone, you’ll see just how much of this magazine I’ve been carrying.” Her voice shook with rage.

“You told me you wanted to keep writing for
ArtSmart
from Chicago,” Coleman said, struggling to keep her voice level. “I gather that you
don’t
wish to continue writing for
ArtSmart
?” She didn’t like being shouted at, and she was appalled by Tammy’s rage. What had she done to incur Tammy’s wrath? She began to recite “If” in her head. “If you can keep your head when all about you…” It was one of her best calming tricks, but it wasn’t working. She was going to lose it, if only she could get a word in.

“You’re damn right! I told you that to buy a little time! I was going to wait another month to tell you to fuck off, but I can’t stand it any longer. I’m leaving today. And, for your information, I’m going to be Senior Editor of the
Artful Californian.
”

Coleman gave up trying to keep a lid on her anger, and stood up. “Ah! All is explained. You won your new job with my ideas. How long do you think you’ll keep it when your employer learns you don’t have ideas of your own? You haven’t had an original thought since I met you.”

“Oh, really? Ellen Carswell thinks I have good ideas—and with Ellen and me running the
Artful Californian
, we’ll bury
ArtSmart.
” Tammy stormed out.

Coleman picked up Dolly and sat down with the little dog in her lap. So Tammy was the spy, and Ellen Carswell the spy mistress. Ellen had certainly fooled Coleman. Coleman was irritated with herself for not seeing through Carswell’s nice girl act, but her strongest emotion was relief. She’d thought from the beginning that Tammy was the most likely person to be the spy, and now that Tammy had confessed, she had one less problem. But Coleman was sad, too. She’d never dreamed that Tammy hated her so much. This, after the attacks by Maxwell Arnold and Simon the mugger. Why was this happening?

Well, she could tell Zeke to drop the de-bugging operation. She was about to go in search of him when he appeared in her office door, Bethany at his side. They were both beaming. Could hearing Tammy’s confession have brought that glow to their cheeks? More likely they’d been canoodling in an empty office.

“Holmes and Watson, I presume,” Coleman said. “Did you hear two-timing Tammy scream her confession? She admitted she’s the leak, and she’s leaving, so the bug detection team can retire.”

Bethany’s smile broadened, and Zeke laughed. “We heard Tammy—who could help it? But we were on our way to tell you: the conference room
is
bugged,” he said.

Coleman stood up. “You’ve got to be kidding! Tammy admits she was the leak to
the
Artful Californian.
And now you’re telling me there’s a bug besides? Why would the
Artful
crowd have installed a bug when they had Tammy on their payroll?”

Zeke shrugged. “Maybe there’s another spy.”

“
Two
spies? I can hardly believe in
one.
Who else could possibly be interested?”

“Why don’t I ask Tammy?” Zeke said. “After I’ve questioned her, I’ll escort her out and get her keys to the office. She shouldn’t be allowed to take anything. If she’d steal your ideas, she’d steal your property, too.”

“Oh no, I don’t want you and Bethany involved in this. It’s all too ugly, maybe dangerous. Two people are dead, and now this. I’m going to call Mondelli, the guy Jonathan hired to investigate Chick’s death and everything else that’s been going on. He’s a pro, has a police background, he’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, I guess you should keep checking—if there’s one bug in the place, we might have more.”

She called the number Rob had given her the night before. “Rob, it’s Coleman Greene. Could you possibly come to the
ArtSmart
office right away? One of the staff has gone as crazy as a peach orchard pig. She’s leaving, and could be stealing
ArtSmart
property, and her departure involves Ellen Carswell. What’s happening here might be a piece of the mess you’re investigating.”

Mondelli arrived in less than twenty minutes. By then Coleman had calmed down and wished she hadn’t called him. She should have been able to deal with this herself. She hated having to ask others for help.

Coleman introduced Bethany and Zeke to Rob, and explained what had just happened.

Rob smiled. “I’m sure you have work to do. Why don’t you go in your office, close the door, and let me handle this?” His voice was gentle, soothing, and comforting.

Coleman looked at Mondelli, and, as if hypnotized, went into her office. The door closed quietly behind her. Before it closed, she heard Zeke speak. “Wow,” he said. “That was awesome. How’d you do that?”

Coleman was as surprised as Zeke was. Why had she followed Mondelli’s instructions without arguing? She didn’t like bossy men, and usually rebelled when they started ordering her around. Mondelli certainly had a way about him. Anyway, he was right. She had work to do.

Rob turned to Zeke. “Is this the device you’re using? Nice equipment, keep at it. Leave anything you find in place, and I’ll look at it later. But before you go back to work, what’s the name of the woman who admits being the leak, and where is she?”

Zeke explained who Tammy was, and pointed out the closed door of her office. Mondelli entered without knocking. “Ms. Isaacs, I’m Robert Mondelli, an attorney representing Coleman Greene and
ArtSmart.
I’ll escort you downstairs. Don’t take anything but your purse. If you leave any personal belongings here, we’ll deliver them to you.”

Tammy, surrounded by piles of paper, Bloomingdales bags, and file folders, glared at him. “You can’t do this.”

“Watch me. I’m going to empty your purse on the desk. I’ll take your
ArtSmart
keys and your key card. Do you keep all your ID in your billfold?”

She stared at the floor, and didn’t answer.

“I’m taking your
ArtSmart
ID, your business cards, this
ArtSmart
American Express card, and your cell phone,” Rob said. “If the phone turns out to be yours, not the company’s, I’ll return it. Put your other things in your purse, get your coat, and let’s go.”

In the hall outside her office, he locked the door behind them. “Within a few days, you’ll receive a termination agreement from Ms. Greene and
ArtSmart.
Sign it and return it promptly.

“Your response to my next few questions will influence how we’ll treat your offense. How long have you been giving the
Artful Californian
ideas? You were giving them, not selling, I assume?”

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“More than a year, since before the
Artful Californian
started publishing.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Who approached you about working for the
Artful Californian
?”

“Ellen Carswell.”

“Do you still claim they were your ideas? Remember, we can interview the other writers who were at the meetings when Ms. Greene presented them.”

“No, they were Coleman Greene’s ideas,” she said. “So what? I have plenty of ideas—she just wasn’t interested in any but her own. And Ellen wanted stuff that had already been assigned to
ArtSmart
writers.”

“Did you bug the place?”

Tammy shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything about any bugs, and I don’t believe there are any. Zeke and his crazy bitch probably made it up. Why would anyone bug the place? The
Artful Californian
didn’t do it. They were getting everything they wanted from me.”

They rode down in the elevator in silence, and left the building together. He hailed a taxi, and opened the door for her. When she was inside he said, “Ms. Isaacs, I urge you to get a lawyer. I taped our conversation,” he held up a pocket recorder, “and, in any case, I’m told you shrieked your confession loud enough for the entire office—maybe the entire building—to hear. Ms. Greene may decide to take legal action against you.

“One more thing: you should be very careful. Two people involved with the Print Museum, where Ellen Carswell worked until recently, have been killed.”

Simon slept late and called room service for croissants and coffee. He had breakfast in bed. The luxurious suite at the Carlyle had been home for months, and he would soon be giving it up. He already felt nostalgic about it. Fortunately, Ellen had tons of money, and he’d make sure she arranged comparable living space for him. And, he had much to look forward to.

After breakfast, pleased with life and with himself, he took a cab to 110th Street and Broadway.

She was waiting for him in the back of the coffee shop on the corner in what they’d come to think of as their booth. She was gorgeous, delicious, fabulous. He sat down opposite her. “Black coffee,” he said to the waiter, and turned back to her with a smile.

“Did Ellen get off all right?” she asked.

He added sugar to his coffee, and took a sip. “Oh, yes. We’ve spoken on the phone several times, and all is well with Ellen.”

“I’m going to be here a week,” she said, and puckered her lips, as if for a kiss.

“I know, my dear Kestrel. What would you like to do tonight?” He smiled, longing to touch her hand, her hair, to kiss her, but that was against the rules. He could do none of those things in public. He stepped out of a Gucci loafer and rubbed his stockinged foot against her leg.

“You know exactly what I’d like to do.” Her voice was low and throaty, and her eyes widened as his foot moved up her leg. “I can’t get enough of you. Every time I’m near you, I want you.”

“Where, then? Not at the Carlyle, of course.” It was important that he and Kestrel avoid being seen together.

“I took a room in Soho. It’s the kind of place you like—very decadent. Here’s the address.” She handed him a card. “Why don’t you bring food and drink? We don’t want to go out, do we?” Under the table, she rubbed her foot against his.

“Not at all. And we don’t want to talk business tonight. Bring me up to date.” He continued the movement of his silk-covered toes. He’d never met anyone who enjoyed sex as much as Kestrel.

“Well, for a while we stopped getting much out of
ArtSmart—
Ms. Greene has been holding her cards very close to her chest—but I’ve made some alternative arrangements. Taking over
ArtSmart
is essential to our plans. But best you know nothing, dear one. Did you hear Her Highness Coleman Greene was mugged?” She was crumbling her blueberry muffin into tiny pieces. Her breathing had quickened and her lips were parted. She was hot, but he could tell that she was also excited about Coleman’s injuries. Kestrel hated Coleman and her cousin Dinah.

“Good God, no! When? How? Was she badly hurt?”

“I don’t know the details. It happened Monday night. I don’t think it was serious. Are you worried about her?” He could see that she was annoyed that her news hadn’t thrilled him. She was jealous of Coleman Greene. He’d leave her now. He wanted her on edge, hungry.

“Of course not. Just curious. I’ll see you tonight, Kestrel. Unless there’s anything else?” He slipped his foot back in his loafer and smiled at her.

“I look forward to our meeting,” she said.

Simon took a taxi to the Metropolitan Museum at Eighty-Third and Fifth and walked the few blocks south to the Carlyle, enjoying the clear crisp day, the bright blue sky. He’d miss Manhattan when he was living in California, but he’d be back often. He’d never give up the joys of New York, no matter how many attractions California offered.

He stopped at the desk to collect his mail and messages. Manning, Rachel’s pet poodle, was trying to reach him—probably to nag him about money. He’d like to ignore the call, but Rachel could always cut off his allowance, and pathetic as it was, he couldn’t do without it. But he’d postpone calling Manning. He had a more important call to make. He was ready to invoke the criminal clause in his agreement with Rachel. Ransome’s would soon be his.

In his suite, he dropped his mail on the desk and glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon in Paris, a perfect time to reach the person he wanted. He sat down at the desk and placed the call.

“Good evening, Madame Jardin,” he said in his rich, plummy voice. “I understand that you recently sold a Lautrec poster,
The Midget
, to the Ransome Gallery for $30,000. Did you know Ransome’s sold it at auction in the United States for more than a million dollars? You were cheated out of a great deal of money.”

“You are misinformed, monsieur,” she said, her beautiful voice icy. “I asked the Ransome Gallery to dispose of the poster for me, and I received the full amount of the sale. Good evening.” She hung up.

Simon, four thousand miles away, was stunned. Why was this woman lying? No one knew better than he that she wasn’t telling the truth. Should he question Rachel? Raising the topic of the Lautrec with Rachel would be no joy. She’d been furious when she’d heard how he’d sold it, and at what price. He’d managed to shut her up by telling her that Yvonne Jardin would blame Rachel—of course! That was it! Rachel had reimbursed Jardin. Damn, damn, damn! She’d managed to wriggle out of the trap he’d set.

He’d better call the gallery. He punched in the familiar Ransome Gallery number and asked for Miss Manning.

When she answered, he was deliberately rude. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Ransome has asked me to inform you that it has been necessary to cut expenses. The country house, the cars, the horses are being sold. And the flat. All staff who don’t work for her or for the gallery have been dismissed.”

She’d hung up before he could respond. This was terrible. Rachel had every legal right to dispose of the properties, of course. They were all owned or leased by the Ransome Gallery, and she was the majority owner of the gallery. But Rachel had always consulted him about such decisions, and after all, everything she was selling, he used. He was angry, but he was also frightened.

He dialed Rachel’s private number.

“Rachel, what’s this I hear? How dare you sell—?”

“Do not say another word,” she interrupted. “I know about the Dürers. I have proof that you stole them. Our partnership is ended. I am invoking the criminal clause, and you are—or soon will be—wanted by the police.” She hung up.

Beads of sweat dampened Simon’s forehead. She was bluffing. She couldn’t have proof. That was impossible. But she must have something. By now, Rachel would have gone through his flat. Oh, hell, she’d have found his copy of
The Record
. Why hadn’t he brought it with him? He had a duplicate in California, but he’d rather she hadn’t learned that he’d copied it. He had plans for
The Record
, and she might interfere. Still, she wasn’t likely to anticipate what he had in mind. She never took her head out of her books.

He had to calm down. He took a Xanax and drank a hefty slug of scotch. Within minutes, he felt in control again. How much money had he? He began to calculate. Luckily most of his money was in Ellen’s name, where Rachel couldn’t find it. The company was safe—it, too, was in Ellen’s name. He even had a little money tucked away for his secret pleasures. Not even Ellen knew about that nest egg.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Rachel couldn’t have evidence against him—nothing solid, nothing that would give her the ability to invoke the criminal clause. He’d planned for every contingency.

He poured himself another drink and sat down. He should call his lawyer, but more important, he needed to come up with another way to get rid of Rachel: that should be at the top of his to-do list. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, considering possibilities.