Too Damn Rich (35 page)

Zandra stood there, staring. She felt as if a
minitornado had swept her up and then left her, whirling on to
wreak havoc upon whoever—or whatever—lay in its path.

Moseying on along Madison, she thought about
the evening ahead.

The Russian Tea Room and a Broadway show.

Why not? It wasn't as if she had anything
better to do.

Will you stop pacing and settle down?"
Charley snapped irritably.

A"Christ, Kenzie. You're as nervous as a cat
in heat. What d'you think I'm gonna do? Bite?"

"Nervous? Who's nervous?" challenged Kenzie,
lowering herself onto a slipper chair with lofty affront—no way was
she going to sit beside him on the couch. Unh-huh. Hell would have
to freeze over first!

Too, she wisely sat on her hands in order to
make it impossible to fidget, for, words to the contrary, her body
was a veritable human tuning fork of nervous energy. If she'd known
that Zandra—some friend!—was going to desert her in this, her
greatest hour of need, she would never have agreed to meet Charley
here, alone in her apartment.

No. She would have been careful to choose
neutral turf. After all, it only made sense to confront a lecherous
deviant in a crowd, and not in private quarters.

But now here she was: alone with the world's
number one bastard— that incomparably egotistical sex maniac who
thought he was God's gift to women.

"Look, Charley," she said in a brisk,
businesslike tone, "let's keep this discussion on a purely
professional keel, shall we? The only reason we're both sitting
here is because we have a mutual problem to solve."

"Oh?" he said, fingering one end of his
droopy, Sam Elliott of a mustache. "Is that so?"

"It is," she replied crisply.

"Unh-unh. No, Kenzie." Abruptly he stopped
worrying his mustache. "No. It is not so. You see, you are looking
at this from a fundamentally wrong angle." Charley flicked an index
finger between himself and her. "We do not have a problem. Granted,
Burghley's may well have a problem, ergo—" He leveled the index
finger at her, "—you have a problem. But neither the NYPD art theft
squad nor I has one."

Lounging back on the sofa, he crossed his
arms behind his head and made himself comfortable. "Now, the sooner
you digest that minor fact," he said smugly, "the better off we'll
both be."

Kenzie's face stung. How dare he lecture me!
she thought, with rising fury. Who the hell does he think he
is?

And, more to the point, had he forgotten that
the police department

was—in theory at least—an organization
comprised of public servants? And that Burghley's, as a tax-paying
institution, had as much a right to its services as the Artisteria
Gallery, that second-rate peddler of dubious prints by Leroy
Neiman, Erte, and Dali?

Damn right it did! However, she knew that
this was neither the time nor the place to let the fur fly.

Let Charley be smug, she told herself. He can
act as immaturely as he wished; she, Burghley's appointed
representative in this matter, would remain outwardly calm,
businesslike, aloof, and entirely above reproach—so unflappably
above reproach that it would drive him clear up the wall.

"Sorry, Charley," she said. "Like it or not,
you're on this case. And, if it turns out that the Holbein was
indeed stolen—"

"Aha. Hold it right there." Charley held up a
hand, palm facing out: a cop stopping traffic. "You're saying it
had to have been smuggled into this country. Am I right or am I
right?

"
If
it was stolen, yes." She
nodded.

"Then it's a matter for Interpol and the FBI.
Or need I remind you that international trafficking in stolen art
is way beyond NYPD jurisdiction?"

"You do not. And you're wrong. Granted, it's
a matter for Interpol and the FBI. But it also concerns the NYPD.
That painting's in our Madison Avenue vaults, Charley. On New York
City soil. Moreover, it was brought in to our New York galleries by
a Manhattan attorney representing the seller who, for reason or
reasons unknown, prefers to remain anonymous."

"A dead giveaway that something's not kosher,
hmm?"

"Charley," she said, as patiently as she
could, "I didn't take that painting on, okay? Also, I don't need to
tell you that we deal with intermediaries all the time. Lawyers,
art consultants, private dealers ... we both know why sellers use
them."

"In order to remain anonymous."

"Right. Whether for fear of thieves or
kidnappers, or because the owner's fallen on hard times and doesn't
want to broadcast that fact, or because he's some mad recluse
who'll go to any lengths to maintain his priva—"

"Aw right, aw right!" Charley said testily.
"Just tell me what you want me to do. Arrest someone we don't even
know exists?"

"On the contrary. For now, your job is to
help expedite our own investigation. In short, you have access to
information we may be unable to obtain. Also, we might need you to
liaise—"

" 'Liaise'?" He gave a mock start; made a
little pretense of looking impressed. "That the word of the day
now?"

"Ha ha, the smartass surfaces. Now then. I
take it we can count on your, uh, expertise?"

"Why not just hire a detective?"

"Because you are one," she pointed out
inexorably.

"Yeah, but I meant a private dick."

"Is that why we're taxed out the whazoo?" she
asked indignantly. "To pay the private sector for the same services
for which we already pay the city?"

"Shoulda known you'd have an answer handy,"
he muttered darkly.

Tilting her head, she smiled with great
sweetness.

"Okay," he sighed. "Would you mind telling me
exactly what information I'm supposed to procure, and who I might
need to, er, liaise with?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." She was all
smiles. "You're the cop."

He mashed a hand into his face. "Christ.
Walked right into that one, didn't I?" He gnashed his teeth in
frustration. Of all the creatures vile and evil, this she-devil
really, truly took the cake! How like her to use his own words
against him. And how incredibly phenomenal that so much ruthless
calculation—so much devious selfishness!—could be contained in such
a deceptively cute and petite package. There really ought to be a
law about people's outsides matching their insides, not that it
mattered much anymore. She'd fooled him once, and he'd learned his
lesson the hard way. Still, in retrospect, it was difficult to
imagine he'd once been so gullible as to have granted this cunning
bitch the all-encompassing warmth of his body and soul. Well, at
least there was no danger of that ever happening again!

"Aw right," he sighed, reluctantly firing up
his gray cells. The quicker he got this over with, the sooner he'd
be gone. "Who's the intermediary?"

"An attorney named Zachary Bavosa."
"Shit."

"Why 'shit'?" Kenzie asked, giving him a
strange look. "I take it this means you know something about
him?"

"Yeah. Matter a fact, I do."

"Like?"

He showed some teeth. "Like you're dealing
with a real scumbag."

Takes one to know one, she thought, but
didn't articulate.

"A true, world-class lowlife," he reiterated.
And frowning thoughtfully, added: "Better count me out."

"Whoa!" Kenzie said heatedly, feeling warmth
prickling her cheeks. "Back up there." Her hands were itching to
crawl out from under her buttocks, and it was all she could do to
keep sitting on them. But sit on them she must: the urge to grab
him and shake information from him was altogether too great.

"Look, Kenzie." He rested his forearms on his
thighs and leaned across the kilim-draped coffee table. "Bavosa
might be a lowlife, okay? But he's strictly small time. The
Artisteria robbery ... yeah. I could see him acting as an
intermediary for their kinda stuff. But a Holbein?" He shook his
head. "No way."

"Ah! So you admit to putting a penny-ante
heist above what's possibly a major theft!"

"Like hell I am! A robbery's a robbery.
People were bound and gagged at the Artisteria Gallery. For your
information, they coulda easily been killed."

"Yeah," she smirked. "And for Lex Buggs or
Ertes. God. Imagine the insult."

He wasn't amused. "You realize how many
people a day are killed for less?"

"Lots, I'm sure. But how," she demanded, "do
you know someone wasn't killed acquiring the Holbein?"

"I don't, but that's a lifetime and four
thousand miles ago. Meanwhile, the Artisteria robbery's here and
now."

"So's the Holbein," she snapped, not in
anger, but with conviction. "At least, according to Washington and
Bonn it is. And, penny-ante or not, Bavosa's the intermediary."

"Probably through sheer luck, and because
there's no conspiracy involved."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because anyone with half a brain would steer
clear of him, that's why. Tell you what—I'll inform Officer
Kopensky that you'll be in touch. She's eminently capable, and you
can work with her. Now, I've got more pressing things to do, so
unless there's something else, I'm outta here."

He rose to his feet.

She jumped to hers. "Oh no you don't!" she
huffed. "You're not going anywhere, Charles Gabriel Ferraro. Not if
I can help it."

He snatched his overcoat from the sofa and
started past her. "Then you just watch me," he said grimly,
striding to the front door.

"Like hell I will!"

With the speed of lightning, she darted
unerringly in front of him, reached the door first, and stood
there, splay-legged, barring his way. Her arms were crossed in
front of her, and she stared up at him, amber eyes shining like
coals.

"Kenzie," Charley sighed wearily, "when are
you gonna stop playing games? Will you please step aside?"

Her nostrils flared as she tossed her head.
"Not if my life depended upon it." Her feet were firmly planted and
she stood there, resolute as a rock.

He stared down into her upturned face. "Does
this mean I must physically remove you from my path?"

"Oooooh!" she taunted, her eyes growing wide.
"So now you're into police brutality." She barked humorless
laughter. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Kenzie," he sighed, "c'mon. You're leaving
me no choice."

"Charley, if you so much as lay a ... a
goddamn finger on me, so help me God I'll ... I'll ..."

"You'll what?"

Her pupils dilated. "I'll physically restrain
you!"

"You? Restrain me?" He laughed. "Don't tell
me. You into jujitsu now?"

"Go ahead." She sniffed loftily. "Make fun of
me if you want."

"I'm not making fun," he said quietly. "I'm
asking you nicely. Now, for the last time, will you please step
aside?"

She kept her chin raised. "No fucking
way."

"Then you leave me no other option." He
reached out for her, but again, she was quicker.

Unthinkingly, and totally without
premeditation or warning, she launched herself directly at him,
grabbing him around the neck with her arms while jackknifing her
legs and scissoring them tightly around his waist.

She caught him so utterly unaware, so
entirely by surprise, and impaired his vision so completely, that
he staggered backward and dropped his coat.

"Are ... you ... mad?" he gasped, pulling at
her thighs with both hands in an attempt to wrench her loose.

Instead of replying, she clung to him like a
monkey, but with one vast difference. No simian on earth had so
unyielding a grip, or was so smooth-skinned, so ripely,
voluptuously, and undeniably feminine. Under the circumstances,
there wasn't a red-blooded, heterosexual male on earth who stood a
chance, especially not with the crotch of her red jersey sweats
pressed right up against the crotch of his twills. Despite his
angry curses, he could already feel something stir beneath the
layers of fabric, and so could she.

He was definitely getting hard.

"Get ... the hell ... off me!" he gasped
hoarsely. In vain, he tore at the drawstring waist of her
sweatpants. "Let ... go!"

"Never!" she panted. Her hold around his neck
and middle tightened.

"You ... fuckin' ... bitch!" Even as his
penis swelled, he made one last ditch attempt to free himself.
Grabbing the back of her sweats with both hands, he yanked the
waist apart with all his might. A sudden ripping noise ensued as
fabric rent; seams and drawstring gave way, ragged cotton drooped.
Instantly Kenzie felt the rush of cool air as all that stood
between her and bottomless nudity were the briefest of red
briefs.

"You ... you barbaric Neanderthal!" she
huffed, shaking with rage.

Unable to see past her, he staggered around
blindly.

Savagely she pummeled his buttocks with both
feet and beat his back with her free fist. "Defiler!" she ranted,
biting his ear with knife-sharp teeth for good measure.

He yelped in agony. "Lunatic!"

"Pervert!" she screamed. "Rapist!"

And then his foot caught on the edge of the
carpet. Letting out a yell, he teetered dangerously, lost his
balance and toppled over backward, landing heavily on the floor.
Air whooshed out of his lungs.

Fortunately for her, he'd landed on his back,
so she wasn't squashed. However, she had rolled off him. Now, being
the first to recover, she scrambled right back atop him, in her
haste not noticing that she was straddling him upside down, in the
classic position universally known as the sixty-nine. Damn! Talk
about facing in the wrong direction!

She tried to scoot around, but it was already
too late. Charley was coming to, his hands pushing on her buttocks
and trying to lift her, while his face, pressed against that most
glorious of all obstructions, the mound of her barely covered
pubis, exhaled radiant warmth right into the core of her being.