Foxy Roxy (30 page)

“Easier than what?”

If he wasn’t mistaken, she looked frightened. But the second bottle arrived, and it took a few moments for the cork and tasting ritual. By the time it was over, Arden looked more strained and anxious.

Henry filled her glass nearly to the rim. “What are you working on at the moment?”

Arden’s head must have been fuzzy indeed. “I’m creating a master list—an inventory of Dodo’s art collection for Daddy to present to the insurance company. At least, I’m trying to. Monica gave things willy-nilly to museums. And God only knows what Uncle Julius did. Daddy asked me to try piecing together a list—a complete inventory. I’m the only one who can do it. Tomorrow I have to go back through Monica’s tax returns to find out what she claimed as charitable deductions, and who knows what’s been stored away.”

“There must be hundreds of items.”

Another waiter appeared with a water pitcher. But he bobbled it, and water went splashing across the tablecloth. “Oh, wow. Sorry, dude.” He had two small folders pinned in the pit of his arm, and he pulled them out. “Dessert, anyone?”

Henry used his own napkin to mop up the worst of the water spill. “I’ve never known a woman who didn’t want to end a meal with a taste of chocolate. Or what about the baklava? I understand it’s excellent here.”

Arden shuddered. “Oh Lord, not baklava! Nothing Greek!”

“The apple tart instead?”

“Okay.” She handed the menu back to the waiter. “One apple tart, two spoons, please.”

“Coffee?”

“Espresso.”

“Espresso?” the waiter said. He was a callow kid with a black eye.

“Yes, two espressos,” Henry said firmly, annoyed and ready to be rid of the intrusion. “And the apple tart. That’s all.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”

When the blasted waiter departed, Henry counted to ten and then gently prodded Arden back on course. “Did you mention your inventory to Dorothy today? I imagine she’s the real expert on the family collection.”

“I didn’t have a chance. Daddy had business to discuss with her.”

“What sort of business? Julius’s will, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, his will and Dodo’s will and I forget who else’s will. You know all about that stuff, I guess?”

“It’s my job. Did Quentin discuss changes in Dorothy’s estate planning? Now that Julius is gone?”

“He wanted to talk to Dodo about the amendments to her will.”

Henry felt his stomach go cold. “He knew? About amendments?”

“I guess so. Daddy wanted to know what the changes were. Whether the steel mill was in play, because the city will pay millions for it now.”

“Did Dorothy tell him?”

“She didn’t know about any changes. She said if Uncle Julius had been scheming, it must have backfired. Daddy wondered if maybe you were in cahoots with Julius.” Arden rested her elbow on the table to steady her grasp on her wineglass. “That’s what he said. In cahoots.”

“Did he?” Henry said.

“Something wrong?”

“Not a thing.” Henry managed to smile. “You mentioned the art collection.”

“Oh, yes. I’m doing the inventory. But I can’t find the most wonderful piece of all. My grandmother’s Achilles.”

“Her—?”

Arden slurped more wine. “A marble sculpture of the Greek warrior. He’s magnificent. He was standing in the garden before I went to Florence. But now he’s missing.”

“I don’t remember any Greek warrior.”

“No? Out by the pool. He had one raised arm.” She lifted her own hand as if to hold a spear.

Henry forced himself to sound calmly intrigued. “Did anyone else notice he’s missing?”

“I think he might have been sold or given away or maybe stolen.” Arden lowered her voice confidentially. “But I talked to someone who may know where he went. She came out of the blue, asking me about Greek antiquities. In Pittsburgh, of all places! How strange is that? At the exact time we’re missing a rare statue, what are the chances? It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Who was this person?”

“A kid, really. A girl. Smart, but just a kid.”

“Name?”

“Sage. Isn’t that a pretty name? Sage Abruzzo.”

Henry felt another frisson of electricity, followed by a long moment in which all his brain synapses seemed to fire in perfect sequence.

With perfect calm, he touched her hand conspiratorially. “Arden, darling, I wonder if we couldn’t help each other.”

She smiled uncertainly. “To do what?”

“To find this statue you’re talking about. We might make a good team, you and I.” He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, drawing gentle, hypnotic circles on her skin. “And I could help you with your father.”

Her smile loosened at the edges. “With my father? I don’t need help with my father.”

“That’s the cocaine talking, sweetheart. You need more help than you know. Let’s be honest. You’d like to go on keeping your cocaine use a secret from Quentin, wouldn’t you?”

Her hand had stiffened beneath his.

Henry murmured, “And I’d like to find that statue. For Dorothy, of course. It’s rightfully hers. And I think you’re just the person to help me locate it.”

Very pale, Arden said, “I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do.” He turned her hand over and stroked her palm. “I’ll help you keep the coke a secret from your dad. And you’ll help me find the statue.”

Like a snared rabbit, she tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold.

“Do we need to go into the particulars of your drug problem?” he asked. “I don’t think so. The bottom line is that you’d like to keep it to yourself, right?” With the noise and activity of the restaurant busy around them, Henry said, “We should make a pact, the two of us. You help me, Arden. I’ll help you.”

23

In the restaurant kitchen, Roxy grabbed Zack as he came back from the dining room, clumsily carrying a tray and nearly tripping over the trailing ties of his hastily acquired waiter’s apron. He dropped two menus on the kitchen floor and automatically bent to retrieve them.

Roxy yanked him up by his collar. Over the noise of the kitchen, she snapped, “Forget those! What are they talking about in there?”

“Art.” Zack tugged at the bow tie they’d hastily fastened around the collar of his borrowed white shirt. “They’re talking about paintings or something, I don’t know. And they want a damn apple tart, too.”

“What are they saying about the art?”

“About how priceless it is and— How should I know? A statue that belongs to somebody—”

“A statue?”

“Where’s the espresso in this place?”

Flynn appeared with a butane torch in one hand. He said, “Carl will get the espresso. Here’s the tart. I just need to put a crust on it.”

Zack’s eyes went wide as Flynn fired up the torch.

Roxy seized the kid by the front of his shirt to keep him upright while Flynn brandished the blue flame. “Don’t screw this up, kid. I need you to remember every detail of what they’re saying in there.”

“It’s hard! I have to hold the tray, take their order—I can’t keep everything straight.”

“I thought you wanted to be a cop! Think of this as your first undercover job!”

“Here.” Carl hustled over with two espresso cups. An instant later, Flynn finished torching the dessert and skimmed it onto the tray, too.

Roxy spun Zack around by one shoulder and shoved him back into the dining room. “Stay around the table as long as you can,” Roxy hissed after him. “Memorize their conversation.”

The kitchen was controlled chaos. Jammed with many moving bodies, it felt much smaller to Roxy than before. Around her, waiters called orders, ran the computer, and moved fast to get back to the dining room. Runners carried hot food out of the kitchen to the tables. Busboys lugged tubs of filthy dishes back in. The cooks—all dressed like ninjas—wielded knives, flipped flaming pans and slapped steaming food onto hot plates, squirted sauces and wiped drips. If the dining room felt like an oasis for sophisticated palates, the kitchen was more like a downtown intersection at rush hour.

Roxy sidestepped the pastry chef and turned to Flynn. “Thanks for calling me.”

“No problem.” Flynn peeled the skullcap off his head. In his black T-shirt and black jeans, with a stiff set to his jaw, he suddenly looked less like the kitchen master and more like a marine dropped behind enemy lines. “We need to talk. My office.”

He led her past the stove, where giant pots of soup and polenta steamed down to their last dregs of the night. One of the kitchen boys was scrubbing the burned remains of veal shank and ribeye off the grill with a wire brush. Wordless, he stood aside to let them pass.

Flynn’s office was barely big enough for the two of them. His desk had enough space for a laptop and an empty coffee cup, nothing more. A couple of clipboards hung from hooks, very tidy. He kicked the swivel chair under the desk. With the windows and glass door, there wasn’t much privacy, but he closed the door anyway. “I heard what happened to the Falcone girl. You okay?”

“Just peachy.”

He turned his unamused gaze on her. “The police know who killed her?”

“Not yet.”

“Same guy who killed Hyde?”

“The cops would be idiots to think otherwise.” Roxy took a deep breath, surprised to feel shaky inside. “She shouldn’t be dead. Not on my watch.”

His stormy expression softened. “Don’t talk like that.”

Emotion welled up in Roxy’s throat. “I was supposed to be protecting her.”

“You gave her a place to stay, that’s all.”

Roxy shook her head, unable to say more. She felt guilty. And pissed.

Flynn squeezed her neck and released. “I know how you feel about this. But don’t get all crazy, okay?”

“Yeah, well, you called me.”

“I did.” He folded his arms over his chest. “At the staff meeting before service, the hostess always tells us if we have any big names in the reservation book—anybody who needs special treatment. When she said we had a Hyde booked—I don’t know, my radar kicked in. Do you know the guy?”

“Yeah. But he’s not really a Hyde. He’s Henry Paxton. Interesting that he used the name to get a good table, though.”

“Happens all the time. Who is he?”

“He’s old Mrs. Hyde’s lawyer. I met him a couple of days ago.”

“You sleep with him?”

Roxy didn’t answer.

“Forget I asked.” Flynn leaned against his desk, the picture of cold control. “Okay, who’s the girl with him?”

“No clue who she is.”

“Zack said they’re talking about art. What’s this about a statue?”

“Statue?”

Flynn laughed shortly. “Cut the crap, Roxy. I heard you talking with Sage about a statue, and now this. You’re a good liar most of the time, but you were always the first to lose your shirt in strip poker. What have you got going on?”

Roxy hesitated. Flynn’s tone meant business, and she could see the pilot light of his temper flickering.

She said, “The night Julius got killed, I picked up a bunch of stuff at the Hyde house. There might have been a statue in the load.”

“What kind of statue?”

“Big. Made of marble. You know, like a lot of the stuff I get.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Something tells me this statue isn’t exactly your usual haul. And Sage was talking about something really valuable.”

Roxy tried to push past him to get out of the office. “You don’t need to know.”

“No, hold it.” Quick as lightning, he grasped her upper arm and spun her around to face him. “What do the police say about it?”

“The police?”

“You told the police about the statue, didn’t you?”

“The statue has nothing to do with Kaylee or Julius dying.”

“Are you sure?”

No. Roxy almost said it out loud. No, she wasn’t sure anymore. Slowly, she said, “I took the statue because it was going to get destroyed when they blew up the house. They were demolishing everything, so I took it.”

“And then?”

“They didn’t blow up the house. Nobody mentioned the statue until now.”

Flynn locked his gaze with hers. “You need to tell the cops.”

“I can’t. I wasn’t the only one who hauled the statue away from the Hyde house.”

Flynn released her and groaned. “You’re protecting Nooch, aren’t you?”

“His probation hearing is Friday. It’s been ten years since his last arrest, and he’s been clean. He deserves to get off. But this—this would be a felony, the real deal.”

“Roxy—”

“I can’t admit anything. Not yet.”

“You’re keeping your mouth shut so Nooch stays out of jail.”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re lucky,” Flynn said, “you’ll get away with stealing an expensive statue.”

“Put it any way you like.” She noted his expression and snapped, “I’ve got bills to pay. Look, there was a day when you weren’t lily white. You joined the service because your other choice was jail. That’s why you and all your pals here went to Afghanistan in the first place. The guns and the action—it’s legal over there. Well, things are a little hot for me at the moment, but not—it’s not too bad.”

“Yet.”

“Shut up. The only reason I’m telling you is…”

When she didn’t say more, he prodded, “Is why?”

“Because you get it. About Nooch. About me. You won’t go blabbing to the cops. And…”

“And?”

Roxy blew a sigh. “Earlier today I put the statue in your refrigerator.”

He stared at her, anger dissipating like air from a balloon. “What?”

“I had a couple of free hours, so I moved it. Nobody’s going to look here.”

Flynn opened the office door and went out into the kitchen. Roxy followed him over to the vaultlike door of the walk-in cooler. He yanked on the door handle, and they went inside. Behind a hanging slab of beef at the back of the cooler stood a giant naked man.

Without a word, Flynn left the cooler and closed the door. He put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. “I must be crazy.”

She tried to smile. “You always had a crazy side. It was one of your best qualities. That, and you let me be on top.”

“I let you be on top only long enough to catch my breath.” Flynn continued to glower at her. “What about the Cleary kid? What are you doing with him?”

“He’s a volunteer.”

“Has it occurred to you that he may not be a cop yet, but his dad is the chief of police?”