A Touch of Minx (15 page)

"I feel as though I've walked into the Japanese Imperial Palace," Samantha said agreeably, wondering silently if he forced his maids to dress as geishas or something.

"That is precisely the feeling I wanted to evoke," Toombs agreed, smiling a little and then quickly putting his Mr. Spock face back on. "I had the feeling you would see the truth of it."

For a second she wondered whether he'd ever actually been to Japan, or whether he was basing his appearance and demeanor solely on The Seven Samurai and Black Rain. But then again, someone like Toombs wouldn't want to look stupid, and if he collected all of this without even having visited the country, he would look both stupid and weird. Weirder.

"I've divided the house into sections," Wild Bill continued, stopping in front of a well-displayed cabinet at the edge of the foyer, the case filled with teacups and pots and pestles. "Hearth, politics, religion, and war." He gazed at her. "I'm afraid I have very few Hina dolls, though one or two of them might be of interest to you."

"My interest in Hina dolls is on behalf of the girl who collects them," she returned with a warm smile, resisting the urge to demand that they head right for the war section. "My own interests are a bit broader. I'd love to see the entire house."

He bowed his head. "Then you shall."

Toombs led them from room to room, explaining the intricacies and cultural or historical importance of various pieces in his collection. While she'd started out thinking Wild Bill was an odd eccentric, it didn't take long for Samantha to be underwhelmed by the overall theme. It wasn't that his things were less than impressive—some of them would be worth a fortune on either the legitimate or the black market.

Rather, he seemed to view everything the same way. If it was Japanese, he revered it. Even collectors of modern pop culture knew that different items had different value. A 1978 Han Solo mint in its bubble pack was worth way more than a 1995 version in the same condition. And yet here the only criterion to make it into a display cabinet seemed to be that it was traditionally Japanese and in use before WWII.

If a thief came in here for a quick grab-and-run without knowing anything about Japanese antiques, it would be a crap shoot. She had enough experience to know what to look for, and because of the sheer quantity of items it was still a little confusing. Maybe that was his best defense, though; have so much stuff that because of time considerations at least some of the better-quality items were bound to get missed.

"These are arquebus," he said, gesturing at a dozen wall-mounted guns. "All of them work; I had the matchlocks repaired where necessary to meet the specifications of the Sengoku period when they were made."

"Impressive," Aubrey said, leaning in to look at one of the weapons more closely. "These are the front loaders with the balls and ramrods, right?" He straightened to send Samantha an amused glance.

"Yes. All of the accouterments are in the glass cases there. I even have some of the original match cord, though after all this time it would probably go up in smoke before you could light the powder with it."

"Do you have any of the gun powder?" Aubrey pursued.

She hoped he wasn't planning on setting the place on fire as a distraction or something. No way did she want that, and especially not before she'd found what she'd come looking for.

"Yes. Two of the powder pouches are full. I like to take the arquebus out and fire each of them once a year. It is what they were made to do."

As he said that last bit, he looked straight at Samantha. Her Spider-sense was tingling, but at the moment it seemed to be more because the guy creeped her out than because any danger was coming her way.

"How do you protect all of this?" Aubrey asked. "I'd hate for somebody to break in and then run me through with one of my own samurai swords."

"Are you about to recommend Jellicoe Security for my security needs?"

"Not at all," Samantha broke in. "I'm here because I'm fascinated, not to do business."

"In that case, if anybody ever tried to break in here, I think it would be very interesting," Toombs returned, his gaze on the wall of swords opposite the projectile-firing weapons. "Using a daitu sword is an art. Someone who studies that art is much more equipped to… deal with trouble than someone who thinks of it as a pointy stick."

All that bravado would only work if he was home to defend his territory, but Samantha refrained from pointing that out to him—especially if she was going to be the one doing the breaking in. "I love the way you've displayed the swords," she said aloud. "You see them as weapons, but also as works of art."

"Very perceptive, Samantha." He smiled again. "One more room to go, if you'll follow me." Toombs led them farther down the hallway to a large cir-cular room in the far corner of the house's second floor. Windows rimmed half the circle, while battle flags covered the walls of the other half, including one flag that pretty closely matched the description of the one from Gorstein's report. That, though, wasn't her problem or her concern. In the middle of the room on metal framework stands stood five Ml suits of samurai armor. Bingo.

"These are my pride and joy," he said. "The flags match the period of the armor—they might have been employed in battle together. I like to think that they were."

Covering her accelerated heartbeat, Samantha moved forward. Whatever Gorstein might have on his watch list, she frankly didn't care about battle flags. Not today. She was there to find a suit of armor.

As she walked the perimeter of the room, studying the armor, she compared it to the image she carried in her head of the one belonging to Minamoto Yoritomo, the first shogun. "What period are these?" she asked.

"The one in the center is Kamakura, the two closest to the window are both Azuchi-Momoyama, and the other two are Edo."

The Kamakura would be the oldest, but still a couple of decades short of the Heian period and Yoritomo. The armor was similar to the shogun's, but it obviously wasn't the one she was looking for. And given what she'd been discovering about Toombs's character, she didn't think he would lie to make a piece seem less valuable than it was.

She and Aubrey looked for another couple of minutes, until Toombs offered them lunch. "That's very kind of you," she said, imagining platters of raw fish and steamed rice and trying not to hurl, "but we have a client coming by the office in about an hour."

"I understand. I'll show you out, then."

They left the turret room, passing by a closed door directly to the right. From her look at the outside of the house, that would have been another turret room. "What's in there?" she asked.

"I'm doing renovations in there," he said, gesturing again to guide her toward the stairs. "Nothing inside but planks and paint cans, I'm afraid."

Hm. If she hadn't been pretending to be quiet and demure, she would have been saying, "Liar, liar, pants on fire." As they walked past the door she moved behind Aubrey, tapping him on the arm and angling her chin toward Toombs.

He glanced at the door, then nodded. "You know, Wild Bill," he said aloud, "I've been practicing my racketball skills."

"Are you asking for a rematch?"

Once the walker blocked Toombs's view of her, Samantha reached out and twisted the door latch. Locked.

It looked like she would be returning to Wild Bill Toombs's house after visiting hours. Hopefully while he was away and not guarding the doorway with one of his half a hundred samurai swords.

Thursday, 3:28 p.m.

Richard sat back, rotating his shoulders.

Video conferences had their own difficulties, and he remained unconvinced that the convenience of being able to sit in his own office in his own house outweighed them.

His cellular phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his belt and flipped it open. A text message from Samantha waited for his review, and he called it up on screen. '"M home,'" he read. "'RU free?'"

"Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen," he said, interrupting the latest argument, this one over supply priority be-tween ANDFA—A New Day for Africa—and the Humanity Project. He pushed to his feet. "May I get you anything, Tom, Jim?"

"I'm good," Tom said.

Jim Beeling, sitting opposite them and off camera, gave a thumbs up. Assuming that meant the technician was in agreement with Tom's statement, Richard left the conference room and closed the door behind him. Then he dialed Samantha's number. A few seconds later the James Bond theme began playing faintly from the direction of the stairs. Before she could pick up he closed his phone and headed that way.

"Hi," he said, as she topped the stairs in front of him.

"Hi. Are you finished?"

"Just taking a break. How was your tour?" He kept his voice easy and relaxed, hoping he didn't look as relieved as he felt. Whether Gabriel Toombs had stolen the samurai armor she was after or not, Richard didn't like him. Sixth sense, male rivalry, whatever it was, he was just glad Samantha was out of the man's house in one piece.

"Interesting," she returned. "If he'd pare it down to what was really rare and precious and not just old and Japanese, he'd have a pretty nice collection."

As she spoke, Richard watched her face. "So you didn't see Minamoto's armor, I take it?"

She blew out her breath, neither her stance nor her expression giving much away, even to him. "No, I didn't. There was a familiar-seeming samurai battle flag, but none of the swords or armor I'm looking for were in sight. Neither was the bridle I took for him, though. There was one pretty big room he wouldn't let us into, and that he had locked. He lives alone, with a pair of housekeepers who come in twice a week. Thursday's not one of their days to work there."

"So who locks a door when they're the only one home, unless they're paranoid about something inside?"

"You're good," she said with a brief smile, her mind still clearly on her tour. "He puts on this really calm, collected, uber-controlled demeanor, and I'm not sure he even real izes what kind of vibe a locked door puts out."

"Not to a former thief, anyway."

"Yep."

"Did he give any reason for not letting you in?"

"He said he was renovating the room."

"Hm."

This time she flashed her grin at him. "That's exactly what I said."

"He's definitely your suspect, then."

"I don't think locking a door in his own house would get him arrested or anything, but something hinky's going on. I'd put my own money on that."

And she meant to figure out what the hinky thing was. She didn't say that aloud, but he knew it all the same. He'd known her for a year, and he wasn't stupid, by any means. "And what happens if he catches you breaking into his house after he gave you a personal tour?"

From the quick flattening of her lips, she realized that she'd been figured out. Good. If she understood that he knew what she was likely to do under given circumstances, it might save him a great deal of worry.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Smart ass," she said easily. "Satsujin, I would guess."

"Murder? You think he would try to kill you?" Christ.

"He actually mentioned that if anybody ever tried to take his things, he would go after them with a daitu. He's apparently been trained in samurai swordsmanship." She took a step closer and fiddled with his tie. "But that would mean catching me, which won't happen."

So much for sparing him some worry. Richard wanted to grab her, and he clenched his fists to keep from moving. "One way to be certain it won't happen is for you to call the police instead of breaking in."

She gave his tie a last tug and released it. "I can't do that, because the statute of limitations has expired and there's nothing the cops can do."

"Samantha—"

"No. I didn't have to tell you anything about today, but I know you were worried, and I'm trying to do what's right and not keep secrets. Sure I could call Viscanti and tell him I found the guy, but the fact is, I'm still not sure. I can think he has the pieces, and I can look into it, but I can't go around accusing people without proof. I can't."

"I understand that. But do you really think Joseph Viscanti expects you to go in with guns blazing and take back the museum's property? Especially since the armor and swords technically belong to whoever's had them for the last ten years?"

"I don't know what he expects. But somebody saying, 'Oh, yeah, I know where your stuff is, now pay me' doesn't seem like it would satisfy anybody."

"Perhaps you should call him and find out precisely what he does expect. Especially since breaking and entering is illegal."

Samantha narrowed her eyes. "How about if I verify that Minamoto's stuff is in that room, and I'll take it from there? Figuratively take it, I mean."

"Why don't I believe that?"

His office door down the hallway opened. "Rick, ANDFA is ready to let the Humanity Project take on the overall supervision," Tom said.

"Right." Richard backed away from Samantha, reluctant to turn away from her in case she decided his exit meant that he'd given in. "I assume you won't be doing anything questionable while it's still daylight?'

She shrugged. "Probably not. I need to check out a couple of other things, anyway."

"I'm trusting you," he said, knowing that wasn't sufficient and hoping she would accept it until he had time to put together a more compelling argument. At least one of them hadn't thought this all the way through, and he had the growing suspicion that it was he.

Samantha blew out her breath as Rick vanished back into his office. What the hell was she supposed to do with something like "I'm trusting you"? Sit in a chair with her hands folded until he was free to chaperone her around the city? Fuck that.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the Donner residence. A couple of rings later, Olivia picked up. "Donner house," she said.

"Hi, Livia. It's Sam."

"Aunt Sam! Do you have any news for me? Our unit starts next week, and it's going to be so lame without Anatomy Man."

"I have a few leads, honey, but I need to check a couple more things out first. In the meantime, is Mike there? I have a baseball question for him."

"Hold on a sec." The sound became muffled, but Samantha could still make out the screech of "Mike!" Great. She'd been hoping he would be out, and that Ol-ivia would volunteer the information of where he might be. Now what?

"Sam?" Mike's voice came. "What's up?"

"Not much. I'm still trying to find that anatomy model for Olivia's class," she improvised. "I was just wondering if maybe somebody you know had mentioned anything about it."

"You think it was kids?"

"That's my guess," she said truthfully. "A prank or something. Somebody serious about stealing from the school would have taken computers or television monitors or something. Not just Anatomy Man."

"Wow. You're pretty good at finding stuff then, aren't you?"

"I try. Have you heard anything?"

"Not really."

She heard the lie in his voice, the hitch of his words, the shift in volume as he lowered his head to answer her. It was kind of reassuring, really; if he'd been hardcore, he wouldn't have been as nervous or guilty as he obviously felt. "Okay. If you hear anything, would you give me a call? You don't have to reveal any sources or anything. I just want to get it back in time for Livia's unit."

"It might show up on its own or something. You know, if it was a prank, maybe."

"Well, that would make things a lot easier." On everybody, though she didn't say that aloud. The school might want somebody to punish, but that wasn't her problem. A ten-year-old had asked her to get a model back. And so she would. "Thanks, Mike. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Sam."

Okay, did that mean that the Clark the Anatomy Man problem would take care of itself? That would be nice, but she didn't have much time to wait and see whether Mike's conscience or Jimmy Cricket or whatever it was would be his guide. A day. Tomorrow was Friday, so she could give him one day. And then she'd have to hunt him down and scare the location out of him—which she really didn't want to do, because Vie was a kid.

Kids had this aura around them that everything was okay and they were bulletproof, and she didn't want to dispel that from Mike Donner. She only wished she'd had one of those auras when she'd been young. The idea of wrecking somebody else's felt… icky.

For a second longer she glared at Rick's closed office door, then headed for the library. Rick had offered to have one of the upstairs sitting rooms or bedrooms made into a home office for her, but she had an office just two miles or so away, and according to at least one of her coworkers— currently missing—she didn't spend enough time there as it was. The library worked just as well, and she liked the tall windows and the big work table.

She snagged a couple of sheets of graph paper from a cabinet there and sat at the table to sketch a layout of Gabriel Toombs's house as she remembered it. It wouldn't be as slick as an actual blueprint, but since she had a deadline of next Wednesday to find the armor and swords, she didn't have time to scam—or even legitimately request—one from the Palm Beach city planning offices.

Mainly she wanted to figure out the best way to get into that room—and to be able to carry out sixty pounds of ancient armor and two very old samurai swords, if they happened to be in there. Much as she hated to admit it, she could probably use some help on this one. Which could be a problem if Rick's "I'm trusting you" was any indication.

Stoney could probably be wrangled into volunteering, except that he still hadn't called her, e-mailed her, faxed her, or left her a coded message in the Palm Beach Post or the New York Times. She'd said she wouldn't start worrying until Friday, but that was a big fat lie. It was strange, but in the old days when she was busy pulling jobs and ducking the heat from the authorities, any of her allies disappearing for a couple of days wasn't a big deal. Now, when things around her were calmer, when she wasn't so focused on her own safety, she worried about Stoney's. And Rick's. And that of a few select other people.

Her cell phone rang to the tune of Darth Vader's theme. The Jellicoe Security office. Frowning, she pulled it free and hit the talk button. "Jellicoe."

"Miss Samantha," Aubrey's low drawl came. "We just received a fax from Ortiz with his notes from the Glass house review. You said you wanted to know when they arrived."

"How do they look?"

"Like about ten thousand dollars' worth of work."

In the good old days she would have sneezed at a ten-grand job. "Cool. Has he called?"

"Yes. He told Cynthia we'd have an estimate for her tomorrow."

"Okay. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"I'll be here, hoping you're bringing a mocha frappaccino with you."

Samantha snorted. "Deal, if you'll look at the sketches I'm doing of Toombs's house."

"Why, I'd be delighted."

She dumped the phone back into her jeans pocket and rolled up the graph paper. On the way out to the garage she found Reinaldo and told him where she'd be in case Rick had doubts about his stupid trusting-her statement.

A block down the street from her office she stopped in front of the always-busy Starbucks. Because of her own intense dislike of coffee she'd been reluctant to learn the nuances of ordering the stuff, but with. Starbucks becoming the center of most peoples' universe, the knowledge had already come in handy a couple of times. She requested a tall mocha frap, ignoring the looks and the mumblings of "It's Samantha Jellicoe" from the other customers and the kids behind the counter.

As she hopped back into the Bentley, a jet black Miata rolled by and made a right at the next corner. With all the traffic on Worth Avenue she wasn't sure why she'd focused on that car, except that it was very shiny and it had driven past her pretty slowly. Convertible Miatas were pretty common in the environs of Palm Beach, even though they didn't have the show-off sticker price of a good Mercedes or a Jag or a Bentley.

She parked in the three-story garage next to her office building and went up the elevator to the Jellicoe Security suite in the far corner of the third floor. "Hi," she said, walking into reception and handing over the cup of so-called coffee.

"You are a diamond, Miss Samantha," Aubrey said with a smile, closing his eyes as he took a sip.

"Thanks. Where's the fax?"

"On your desk."

It took her twenty minutes to plug the specifications Ortiz had sent into the contract macro she and Aubrey had set up, customize where necessary, and print out two hard copies for Ortiz to pick up in the morning. That done, she stuffed them into a folder and brought it and the graph paper up front to Aubrey.