Blood Rubies (33 page)

“Yes, that's right,” she said. “Now press hard to make certain the Velcro sticks.”

“That looks great,” I said. I turned toward Fred and Sasha. “Anything going on?”

“I have one more call to make about the skating snow globe,” Sasha said.

Fred pushed up his glasses. “I'm deep in catalogue copy. How many ways can I call mahogany beautiful?”

I smiled. “Let's see … gleaming, rich, burnished…”

He grinned. “I see that you, too, have some experience in this field.”

I laughed. “Just a touch.”

I headed upstairs only long enough to check messages. Just as I was closing up, Cara forwarded an e-mail that had been sent to our general “info” mailbox. It came from someone called Phillippe LaBlanc and read, “I have a Picasso. I would like to sell it quickly. I'm on my way out of town in the morning. May I receive an offer right away?”

My trouble meter whirred onto high alert. There were Picasso fakes aplenty, and I didn't want to buy one of them.

I e-mailed, “We'd love to take a look at it. How's 9
A.M.
tomorrow?”

His reply came in seconds. “I'm sorry. I must be on the road early. This painting, it is beautiful. From the Blue Period. I will tell you how I come to own it and why I need to sell it. How is 7:30?”

I stared at my monitor and shrugged. “Sure,” I wrote. “See you then.”

An unknown man e-mailing our generic address with a genuine Picasso and a story. Stranger things had been known to happen, but rarely.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I helped Jake, Zoë's thirteen-year-old son, set up a new professional-quality Winmau dart board in their basement rec room, then lost four games in a row.

“You're a shark,” I said as I relinquished the javelins.

“Nah. You're just bad.”

I laughed and promised to practice so I could give him a decent game next time.

“Although I'm not sure that will help any,” I told Zoë upstairs. “Practice doesn't make perfect. Practice only perfects what you're doing, and if I'm doing it wrong, I'm going to get really, really good at doing it wrong.”

She smiled empathetically. “You may not be as bad as he's implying. He's really good.”

“Go, Jake.”

I drank a watermelon martini and ate a slice of Boston cream pie and listened as Zoë told me all about how ten-year-old Emma had dropped out of ballet, choosing to pursue gymnastics instead, and how Jake wasn't merely good at darts, he was good at anything requiring hand-eye coordination, and how she was thinking about taking an online class in computer security, since maybe she'd want to go back to work part-time now that the kids were older, and I didn't think about fraud or murder at all. Instead, I had fun.

*   *   *

Tuesday morning around six thirty, I poured myself a cup of coffee and booted up my computer. Wes had found a series of line-art sketches showing wide-brimmed cowboy hats with patterned hatbands and feathers to illustrate his story. Overall, I thought it read well, as Wes's articles always did.

I called him, unconcerned about the hour. If Wes didn't want to take the call, he'd turn off his phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Good article, Wes. Love the art.”

“Thanks. Do any of those look like what Kovac described?”

I scanned the illustrations. “I don't know.” I walked back into the kitchen. “Any nibbles so far?”

“No, but it just hit. It's early.”

“True. How about on the woman who bought the phones?”

“Nope. But did you hear what Chief Hunter did? It's amazing, like a movie. You know, the emergency-haul-the-judge-out-of-bed scene. He amended his petition requesting access to Jason's financial records and presented it to the judge overnight, and—wait for it—he got it. He's driving down to the executor's office now with a forensic accountant on loan from the DA's office.”

“Jeez, Wes. You know too much.”

“As if. I don't hear my readers complaining. I don't hear you complaining.”

“What happens next?” I asked, skipping over his too-close-for-comfort comment.

“We see what the chief learns. We hope for nibbles. We keep pushing.”

I sighed. “I'm going into work, and I'm not going to think of theft or murder at all.”

“Right,” Wes said, chuckling. His tone made it clear that he didn't believe me and he didn't think I believed me either. “Catch ya later.”

*   *   *

I got into work at ten after seven and made a beeline for our walk-in safe. I couldn't wait to see the super-secret opening Fred had found in Marianna's elephant-head cane firsthand.

Hank meowed good morning.

“Hi, baby. Did you sleep well?” I reached down to pet him, stroking his back, adding a little pat to his bottom.

He mewed and rubbed my leg.

“You're right. Let me change your water before I get the walking stick.”

I refreshed his food, too, then walked to the safe. I signed out the cane, hurried back to the front office, and sat at the guest table to wait for Phillippe LaBlanc. I turned the walking stick upside down to view the elephant's head from the bottom up. Even knowing I was looking for a hinge, I couldn't see it. Hank jumped into the chair next to me and mewed. He wanted face petties. I rubbed his jowl and he purred.

“How on earth did Fred find it? Do you know, baby?”

I used my free hand to try to raise the elephant's trunk. Nothing. I pushed it to the left, then to the right, and the trunk didn't wiggle. I tapped the trunk lightly where it joined the face, and it opened outward a hair, just enough for me to see a tiny latch. I used my fingernail to spring it, and the trunk swung aside as smoothly as a well-fit door.

“Look at that, Hank.”

The abditory was small, about 3"
×
4". I opened the bottom one. It was even smaller.

“Given that this is an umbrella cane, what are these openings for? Any ideas, Hank?”

He was too busy purring to answer me.

“A cane that held cigarettes might have another opening for matches. One that hid a whiskey flask might also hold a glass. But what would go with an umbrella?”

I ran my index finger along the abditory's inside walls, looking for a second, deeper, inner opening, but the brass siding was smooth, without ridges, indentations, or hinges, any of which might indicate another hidden cubby. I shrugged and closed it up.

“It's a mystery, Hank. I'll tell you one thing, though. We need to examine every inch of this cane. There may well be additional openings.”

Gretchen's wind chimes tinkled. I looked up, ready to greet Mr. LaBlanc. A man wearing a black ski mask stepped inside and strode toward me, swinging a baseball bat like a hitter warming up. I gasped and stood up, slipping into crisis mode. My attention was concentrated, my focus absolute. I registered every detail.

The bat was made of blond wood, ash maybe. The man was taller than me but not as tall as Ty. Perhaps it was a man; possibly I only assumed it was.
Forget that,
I thought. The mask was wool, too hot for today, too hot for spring. He wore black leather gloves, black jeans, a black long-sleeved turtleneck, black socks, and black sneakers. The only skin that showed was near the eye and nose holes. He was white. He didn't make a sound. With the bat held shoulder high, like a cleanup man, he aimed for my head. I dropped the walking stick. It clattered across the table and rolled onto the floor.

Time slowed.

I dove for the floor, crawling to the side, away from him, scuttling toward Sasha's desk.

The bat missed me and connected with the table, shattering its edge. Bits of wood sprayed over me. I closed my eyes for a moment, avoiding sawdust and splinters, then crab-walked backward, into the narrow space between Sasha's desk and the inside wall. When I opened my eyes, I saw him moving toward me, circling the desk, holding the bat over his head like a hammer. I was trapped, my back to the wall, my knees drawn up to my chin.

The silence was terrifying, oppressive, overwhelming. I looked around wildly. There was nowhere to go.
Get away. Get out. Do it now.
I lunged forward back under the guest table, scurrying toward the front door. He swung the bat low, like a golf club, and connected with my thigh.

I screamed, a harrowing sound, as the pain shot up my leg to my spine to my neck, and into my jaw. Gold flecks danced in front of my eyes. They drifted away as the pain subsided. The bat swung up as he prepared to deliver another blow. I dragged my injured leg out of his line of fire.

Fight back,
I told myself. If I couldn't hide, if I couldn't run, I had to fight.

My eyes lit on the cane. I grabbed it and swung at his ankles, my only target. The brass elephant head connected as if I'd rehearsed it for a year, but with such a limited range, the blow lacked the oomph to do much damage. Still, he grunted, which fueled my confidence, and I swung a second time, and again I connected. He grunted again, louder this time, but I hadn't stopped him. I hadn't even slowed him down. I was annoying him, nothing more. I needed more power, and that required a more open area.

He stooped over to better his aim at me and swung at my head as if he were trying for the big green wall at Fenway. I scooted farther away, and he missed me, thudding on carpet instead.

I crawled another few feet, trying to reach the front door. Clear of the table, I stood up, but my timing was bad. He swung with the fury of a cyclone. I jumped away, but not far enough to avoid it completely, and I landed on my gimpy leg, sending shock waves of pain raging up my spine. The blow glanced off my shoulder, slamming me against the wall, leaving me dizzy and breathless from the pain.

Then I got mad.

I used the cane like he used the bat, swinging the elephant head at his stomach, and the blow landed perfectly. He grunted again but recovered quickly and took another swing, again aiming at my head. I saw it coming in time to duck aside. His bat crashed into the wall three inches from my head, leaving a deep gash in the plaster. I swung again, aiming at his right wrist, hitting his right arm. His bat fell to the floor. He clutched his arm to his stomach protectively, grunting loudly. I pulled back, ready to aim for his head, and he ran. He charged at the front door and ripped it open, and he was gone.

I lunged for the door and locked it, then fell back against the table, shaking. I grabbed Gretchen's phone, the closest unit, and punched 911. Out the window, I saw him running in a zigzag pattern across the parking lot, stumbling, recovering his footing, stumbling again. His ankles had to hurt. He made it to the woods, heading toward the church.

The operator answered, “What's your emergency?”

“A man in a ski mask,” I said, gasping for air as if I'd run a marathon. “I've been attacked. He tried to kill me.” I reported his route, then pressed the
END CALL
button. I waited two seconds, got a dial tone, and called Ted at the church. I knew he'd be there. His wife, a nurse, dropped him off each morning en route to her 7:00
A.M.
shift at Rocky Point Hospital. He didn't answer. I made a fist and pounded the desk, terrified that my attacker might take Ted hostage or worse.

“Ted,” I said, as steadily as I could into the church's general voice mail, “it's Josie. I've just been attacked. I scared him off, but he's running your way through the woods. Lock your doors.” I heard sirens, a welcome sound. “The police are en route.”

I hung up, then sank to the floor. I pressed my right hand against my left shoulder in a futile effort to stop it from throbbing. I rubbed it a little, which also didn't help. A bitter taste made me swallow hard. Adrenaline. I couldn't think of what I should do next, so I did nothing.

The sirens grew louder.

I got up, using a guest chair for support, and peeked through the window in the door, I watched as a Rocky Point patrol car roared into my lot. I unlocked the door and stepped out. I swayed and grabbed the frame.

Griff was alone and walking toward me. I didn't see him get out of his vehicle, but there he was, approaching.

“Are you okay?”

The question seemed too complicated to answer simply, so I stayed quiet, holding my shoulder, waiting for him to come up with an easier one.

He took a few more steps toward me. “What's going on, Josie?”

His tone was gentle, caring, but the question was still too complex.

“I'm worried about Ted,” I said. “At the church.”

“We've got someone there. What's going on with you?”

“I think maybe he broke my shoulder.”

He lifted his collar to talk into his microphone and called for an ambulance.

“I don't need an ambulance. I can walk. Not quickly, though. He got my leg, too.”

“Just in case,” he said. “Who attacked you?”

“I don't know.”

“What did he want?”

“I don't know. He didn't say a word. He left his weapon behind, though. Want me to show you?”

Griff approached the door. I pointed to the bat.

“How'd you get away?”

“I didn't. He ran off.” I smiled, a shaky one. “I made him. I used the cane to fight back.”

He looked at me, surprised, it seemed, that I could fight my way out of trouble.

“Okay, then. I want to get you into the patrol car until the ambulance gets here. Go ahead and lean on me.

We set off at a turtle pace.

“I want to talk to Ty. I need to call him.”

“I'll call for you,” Griff said.

I sat sideways on the backseat, my feet on the asphalt. I called out Ty's number, and Griff punched it into his phone.

“It's going to voice mail,” he said. “I'll leave a message.”

“I should.”

“Let me.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, willing the sharp barbs of pain to stop stabbing me. When I opened them, Griff was beside the car, talking to someone through his collar mic. Moments later, the ambulance turned into the lot, its lights flashing. Two men jumped out of the cab, one young, one older.