The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (11 page)

I was studying the final results with satisfaction when I realized J.X. hadn’t called the night before. In fact, he hadn’t called all day. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was already six, which meant he’d be sitting down to his awards banquet. I could always call him, of course, but he’d be busy schmoozing.

He’ll be gone to greener pastures as soon as the novelty wears off, as soon as it becomes clear to him that your careers—your lives—are going in two different directions.

I could still hear the ghostly echo of that prophecy. Add in a wicked witch cackle, and the scary home movie would be ready for the nightly screening room in my brain. Not a word of it had faded from my memory. But I wasn’t going to let someone else’s warped and poisonous world view dictate my future with J.X. I trusted him.

That wasn’t to say I was sure we’d make it as a couple, but I did believe it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on J.X.’s part.

I defrosted the fried chicken and ate dinner at my laptop, which was how I spent most of my meals. Although, I guessed that would be changing once J.X. got home. Out of curiosity, I tried to find out what I could about the gallery robbery in Sausalito. Only one incident popped up, but it appeared in a number of online articles. Quercus Gallery had been robbed early Sunday morning in late May. The thieves had cut a hole in the roof of the one-story building and lowered themselves inside. Ignoring the tempting display of paintings and sketches, they’d headed straight for the exhibition of rare Scandinavian coins on loan from local collector Alan Lorenson. Ten million dollars worth of Scandinavian coins.

I nearly swallowed a chicken bone.

The two thieves wore gloves and ski masks, and once inside the store had immediately disabled the security cameras. The existing footage amounted to a short and grainy replay of two very large and fuzzy figures in black, descending from the ceiling of the gallery on ropes. They dropped to the floor, moving with efficient speed, each man knowing his job. One figure loomed up into the lens of the camera. Cold, colorless eyes stared straight at me. Then the camera went black.

Unbeknownst to the intruders, John Cantrell, the gallery owner, had been working late. There was no video record of his encounter with the thieves, but he had been left dead on the floor of his private exhibition room. His neck had been broken.

My stomach knotted reading that.

The break-in and murder had taken less than ten minutes. By the time the police had arrived, the intruders were long gone—and with them a Viking’s hoard of old silver and gold coins, including a Swedish 1632 Gustav II Adolf gold dukat, two 1898 Swiss Helvetica coins, and nearly 1,000 coins from the 1060s, mostly German, English and Danish. Some of the coins were only worth a few hundred dollars. A handful of them were worth a million each.

Thanks to
Miss Butterwith Shows Uncommon Cents,
I knew a little about rare coins. Well, not so much about coins as coin collecting. Along with artwork and wine, rare coins were very popular with investors in the new economy, skyrocketing a staggering 248 percent in value over the past ten years. A handful of legendary coins like the Brasher Doubloons broke records every time they came up for auction.

Some investors considered coins and other collectibles safer than stocks, although “treasure assets” were speculative and therefore risky. Their only value was the hope of a future sale to another collector at a still higher price, and in a troubled economy that was a bigger gamble than usual. Plus the market was unregulated. Rare coins could be traded or purchased from individuals, dealers or auction houses, which left a lot of room for fraud. And fraud was rampant. There was also the problem of theft. Even in a plastic protective case, coins were small and easily pocketed.

On the other hand, rare coins received favorable tax treatment. As capital assets, no tax was imposed as the coins appreciated in value until the point of sale, and once the coins were sold, the tax rate was significantly lower than the highest individual tax rate.

But collecting was never just about tax savings and investments. Collecting was an emotional thing. Coins were beautiful and interesting and rich with history. To handle an old coin was to touch the past.

Ten million dollars worth of past in this case. Viking treasure to boot.

And every penny of it still missing.

What the articles did not say was that Elijah Ladas—and possibly his industrial-sized brother—were suspected of the theft. There was no mention of Ladas at all. In fact, the investigating detectives had only vouchsafed that they had a suspect and hoped to make an arrest soon.

By nine o’clock J.X. still hadn’t phoned. Celebrating in the host hotel bar, no doubt. I’d been there and done that myself a few times. I didn’t begrudge him.

But I felt restless. Uneasy.

I wandered around the house, but I didn’t feel like unpacking any more boxes. Every time I saw the door to the cellar, a shivery sensation crept down my spine.

Though the house was beginning to feel familiar during the daylight hours, at night it grew foreign and unknown once more. The pretty rooms turned to sharp angles and dim corners and the uneasy suspicion that something important was missing—or worse, that someone was watching.

Welcome to a writer’s imagination. The gift of being able to scare yourself silly behind your own locked doors. Although in all honesty, it wasn’t so much the fear of intruders or physical danger that had me wandering from room to room like a lost soul. No, it was the second thoughts, the second guesses, the coulda-shoulda-wouldas that turned a home into a foreign landscape.

Maybe some fresh air was in order. I decided to take a turn around the garden, walking out through the breakfast nook doors. The city lights glittered beneath a crescent moon hanging low in the purple-black sky. Ornamental grasses threw sharp and spiky shadows across the still-warm bricks. The night air felt satiny and smelled of the city and mysterious flowers.

At the back end of the garden, there was a tall and dense hedge. Behind the hedge, the property line dropped away to a series of steep hillside terraces belonging to the houses behind Chestnut Lane. Not inaccessible, but definitely a hike. Reassured, I turned away and wandered up a series of small patios to where the pool was tucked away. The lights were on and the turquoise water looked crystal clear and inviting. It was almost warm enough for night swimming. Did J.X. like night swimming? I had no idea. There was so much we didn’t know about each other.

I stepped closer, and as I did, I spied movement out of the corner of my eye.

Something rose up from the shade of a tall urn. My heart stuttered in fright and tried to crawl out through my ribcage. My first horrible suspicion was that Jerry Knight was sneaking around my backyard. That was followed by the more horrible—and more likely suspicion—that Beck Ladas had returned.

But a girl’s voice exclaimed, “Oh! You startled me.” She sounded both shaken and mildly outraged.

I quit clutching my chest and glared, though it’s hard to glare effectively in the dark. “I startled
you
? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Astonishingly, she shot back, “You’d have to have a heart for that.”

“Excuse me?” I knew that voice. I peered more closely at her. She stared warily back. “You’re that reporter. Something Nightingale from KAKE.”

I could see her chin lift defiantly. “Yes. Sydney Nightingale.”

“Ms. Nightingale, what the hell are you doing skulking in my backyard? What part of no comment do you not get?”

“All of it,” she said impatiently. “I’m only asking for a few words. What’s so hard about that? Why are you being so mysterious?”

“I’m not being mysterious. I don’t like being hounded.”

“Hounded! Well, if you weren’t acting like you had something to hide—”

“Wait a minute. The fact that you’re crawling around in my backyard is
my
fault?”

“Kind of! Yes. My editor sent me out here for a story. All I need are the answers to a few simple questions. And maybe a photo of the crime scene.”

“Go.” I pointed like Death in a Bergman film to the street beyond. “Leave. Now.”

I would have to work on my silent menace because she didn’t so much as waver. Like a good general, she did change tactics. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry I said you were hiding something. And I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Honestly. But you don’t understand how it is for me. For any woman journalist these days. We’ve got to comp—”

“I feel for you, Nellie Bly,” I interrupted. “But there’s no story here.”

“You found a body in your basement. How can there not be a story there? Even if you weren’t a famous crime writer, there’s a story.”

Famous crime writer.
I tried not to soften. Anyway, she probably had me confused with J.X.

“I’m just looking for a little human interest angle, that’s all. How can you be a writer and not want publicity for your books?”

Oh, touché. Or ouché. I could practically see Rachel’s scolding image materializing behind her, taking me to task for missing this golden opportunity to promote myself and my work.

“Because this is the wrong kind of publicity,” I said to both Rachel and Sydney.

Sydney shot that feeble protest down like someone picking off pop-up ducks in a shooting gallery. “There’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Believe me, I’ve covered enough of people’s embarrassing moments to know. You’re a mystery writer involved in a real life mystery. That’s
great
publicity.”

“I’m not involved in a mystery,” I protested. “I found a body. That’s not the same thing. I didn’t know him. I have no connection to him. He just happened to end up in my house. Which was unfortunate for both of us.”

“Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.” She held out a card.

I stared at the pale square for a moment. The crescent moon slipped shyly behind the pewter-edged clouds and there was only darkness and silence. And the gurgle of the pool pump.

Reluctantly, I took the card. “I’ll think about it.”

Her smile glimmered. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Holmes.”

I said gloomily, “Sydney, they
all
say that.”

Chapter Eight

“…
worry about that. Just call when you—”

J.X. was leaving a message on the answering machine when I came through the breakfast nook doors, and I knocked over a kitchen chair in my haste to get to the phone before he hung up. I’d have been willing to crawl across the dining room table after our last round of phone tag.

I snatched the receiver off the hook. “Here! I’m here!” I gulped. “It’s me. Present and accounted for.”

“Hey! I thought I’d missed you.” J.X.’s voice was warm and cheerful. “Sorry for not calling earlier. It seems like every time I start to phone you, there’s some interruption.”

“I know how that goes,” I said. And I sort of did.

“How’s everything there?”

I said at the same time, “I guess congratulations are in order?”

“Oh.” His laugh was a little strained. “I didn’t win.”

“What? Those
bastards
.” I was only half kidding. I actually did feel an unfamiliar surge of protective anger on J.X.’s part. “Who won?”

“Crais.”

“Oh.” It was hard to get too riled up because, well, Robert Crais. But still. I said, “Good. I’m still a couple of awards ahead then. That’s a relief.”

He joked, “How is it you always know to say the right thing?”

“My next project will be a book on etiquette for writers. I believe Rachel is selling Swedish translation rights this very minute.”

J.X. made an amused sound. But he sounded serious when he said, “I wish you were here.”

I was surprised by how much I wished I was there too. Not that he really needed me there, but if it would have helped? Yes. Because he
was
disappointed. I knew him well enough now to hear that infinitesimal huskiness in his voice.

An idea flashed across the arid landscape of my brain. “Hey, what if I drive down to L.A. and meet you for your signing at Cloak and Dagger? We could come back together. Kind of a mini road trip.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I am. Would you like that? Can you get your plane ticket changed?”

“I don’t care if I can change it or not. Hell yeah, I’d like that. But are you sure? You just made that drive a couple of days ago.”

My back winced in anticipation of another nine hours behind the steering wheel. “I know. Crazy, right? I guess I miss you or something.”

He made a sound. Not exactly a laugh. More like…I don’t know. Like I had caught him off guard. It was such a small sound, but somehow revealing. It actually closed my own throat for a second. Did it mean that much to him?

“Well, if you’re really willing to do that, I’ll book us a room somewhere nice for Monday night. Adrien invited me out to dinner after the signing. I know he’d love you to come.”

“Sure. That sounds fine. I remember Adrien.” Who didn’t remember Adrien English after the thing with Paul Kane? Not that it was an isolated incident. Crime writers experienced their share of violence like everybody else. Sometimes they were the victims. Sometimes, like Anne Perry or Richard Klinkhamer, not. The only difference was, for us crime was just work experience. Grist for the mill.

J.X. said wryly, “You’re sure this isn’t all a clever ruse to sneak back into Southern California?”

“Nope. I mean, yep. I’m sure.”

“How are you? Is everything okay?”

I opened my mouth to tell him about last night’s intruder, but it was just going to worry him. It wasn’t like he could do anything. “I’m fine. The house is fine. The bed is set up and rarin’ to go.”

He said in a deep, sexy voice, “I like the sound of that.”

I did too. But there was no point in getting ourselves worked up. “It’s a beautiful house,” I said instead. “I don’t think I made that clear. But I know you tried hard to find the right place and I think this is it.”

His laugh was a little self-conscious. “Now I
know
you feel sorry for me not winning.”