Glass Houses (18 page)

He could, Aiden thought, learn from Olivia FitzDurham. She wasn’t afraid to be wrong, or to admit ignorance. “Whatever. Those photos are key, I know that. This is ready to go. Boy, is she ready. What a beaut. Okay, the box goes in the trunk. Put your bag in the back seat. The more room up front, the better. What the—
”
Boss was doing his roadkill impersonation on the company couch.
“
Where did you come from, you big dope? Boss, you’re gonna be the death of me. Damn Vanni. Did you see Boss come in here, Olivia?”

“Yes.”

“For—
”
Shut it. Just control it.
“O-kay. We have a problem, a big problem. This is a sedan, but I just don’t see it as a family car.”

“Do you have a family?”

He worked his lower jaw. So the lady with the innocent brown eyes thought she could be funny.
“
This is wasting valuable time. I’m going to have to contact Vanni and tell him to come get Boss when he can. I don’t want anything extra to think about
.
”

“I'm not leaving Boswell here.”

“He likes it here.”

“How do you know? He’d pretend anything to keep you happy.”

“This is wild. That’s my dog. He can’t come with us because it isn’t convenient. He’ll be fine here until Vanni can pick him up.”

“N
o,” Olivia said. “You won’t stay here because you’re afraid bad people would find you here, but you’re prepared to leave a helpless animal. What does that say about you?”

“That is the least helpless dog you’re ever going to meet.” He slung the box in the trunk, marched to pick up Olivia’s bulging bag and cameras, and put them in the back. “Those teeth are steel and titanium. He could bite through bricks with the things.”

“You exaggerate. He absolutely could not. And he certainly couldn’t catch a bullet with them, unless it was on the way to his brain. There’s plenty of room for him in the car.”

“Omigod. I’d have thought photographers needed good special skills. Get in. We’ll take him to Brooklyn, dammit.”

He issued commands for Boss to go to the car while he opened the doors to the street.

By the time he got back to the Rover, Olivia was in the passenger seat, crammed against the door, with Boss wedged between her hip and the gears.

Both stared straight ahead.

He approached, picking up his fedora and the jacket Olivia loved so much on the way. He opened the driver’s door. Ducking down, he peered inside before tossing his jacket behind the seats. The hat he slapped on his head.

They still stared straight ahead.

Aiden got in and started the engine. “Listen to that,” he said.

No response.

“Traitor,” he said into Boss’s ear, and drove into the street. Leaving the engine running, he hopped out, closed and locked the warehouse, and got back in.

“There’s plenty of room,” Olivia said, aware that she wasn’t being entirely truthful, but they could manage. Men could be so stubborn, so difficult.

“No, there isn’t,” Aiden said. “In the back, Boss. Back! Now!”

Boswell’s eyes and jowls drooped, but he crawled slowly between Aiden and Olivia, sat behind Aiden, and stared out the window.

“In case you’re interested, we’re now about to head in the opposite direction from Interstate 80, which is the route we’re taking on our way to Seattle.”

That was another thing about men, Olivia decided, they fixated on unimportant details so they could avoid what really mattered. Once again she was going to ask a question she thought mattered. “Are you absolutely sure we should ran rather than stay and hide here?
”
No guts, no glory. That’s what Daddy always said.

“Yes. I’m still convinced we need to put distance between
us and Manhattan.” A Pontiac, gray rather than green like the one Vanni had been driving, turned off 11th Avenue and crawled toward them. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

Olivia looked at him, but Boswell pushed his head between them and watched the Pontiac.

He said, “Back and get
down,
”
to Boss and shoved the dog to the floor behind Olivia. To Olivia he said, “Kiss me, dammit,” through his teeth and pulled her face beneath the brim of his fedora.

There wasn’t even time for Olivia to take a breath before Aiden was kissing her. At first there was just the pressure of his mouth on hers, and the discomfort of being hauled across the shift and the hand brake. Within seconds he was doin
g it again, sucking her bottom li
p between his teeth, repeating the process with her upper lip, licking all sorts of sensitive places and making sounds that suggested he really liked what he was doing.

She really liked it.

Aiden took his mouth slowly from hers. Touching her was incredible. She was nothing like any woman he’d ever dated or wanted to date, or even imagined existed, and he couldn’t get enough of her. He kissed her brow lightly and rested his cheek there.

“Don’t look over your shoulder,” he told her, watching the Pontiac through the clouded-up back window. “We won’t be going to Brooklyn.”

Olivia opened her eyes slowly, more slowly than goose bumps sprang out all over her body. “What’s happening?”

“
You’re getting a lesson in knowing when to take directions from a professional. An ambitious cop just passed us and parked. Name of Fats Lemon. You’ve already heard the name. Good old Ryan Hill’s partner—probably in crime as well as on the force. I think he was too busy checking the numbers along here against what he’s got written down to notice there’s anyone in this car.”

She wondered if he always resorted to,
kiss me, dammit,
as a diversionary tactic.

“Fats is no big brain, but he’s found out about my warehouse, gotten the address, and he’s about to force his way inside. Does that give you a hint of how good an idea it would be to hide in New York?”

This was one time when he would not get the last word.
“
It gives me a hint of how long Boswell would have had before he was catching bullets with his teeth.”

Thirteen

“
Y
ou should never have got us involved with a New York policeman, Rupert.”

“I didn’t. You did. And this car’s a
bl
eedin’ boat.” Still in a stall at the Budget rental agency, they sat in a rather splendid black Cadillac with dark-tinted windows. “Let’s exchange it for one of those nice little things over there.”

“You don’t even know what those
nice little things
are. But they look cheap.” Winston intended to make absolutely certain there was no question about the chain of command here. “And none of this was my fault from the beginning. From the day you lost your nerve—right here in this city, at The Dakota. If you’d been more careful, we’d never have been seen going into the apartment there.”

“You panicked. Ryan Hill was a dolt, anyone could have seen that. A so-called detective doing
security
work at a New York apartment building. Anyone knows a good American detective should be able to find a less arduous way to augment his income.”

“You are not to mention that man’s name again,
”
Winston roared. “I thought you understood that. And what the devil are you talking about? An
apartment building?
It’s
The Dakota,
Rupert. Central Park West. Doing security work at one of the most salubrious addresses in New York could hardly be called anything but a highly intelligent manner of putting oneself in the way of good opportunities. In case you’ve forgotten, some very rich people live at The Dakota—including our very good customer, the one who wrote the checks you chose to give to the FitzDurham woman.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Winston? That a lot of rich people live there, I mean?”

“You know very well. There’s so much money in that building, it’s a wonder it doesn’t sink. That’s why
we
have done a good deal of business there. Those people have so much, they simply can’t keep track of it all. So, if one borrows a painting here and there from them, why should they complain— particularly if we only choose paintings that were previously stolen? Those greedy, underhanded people know they have no right to them anyway, so they can hardly report theft, can they?”

“You said it,” Rupert agreed. “We like the pieces they keep hidden away the best, don’t we? The really valuable stuff. Greedy farts. Owning for owning’s sake and getting their jollies from private viewings of what doesn’t belong to them anyway. Crooks.”

“Yes,” Winston said. “I didn’t panic, you know.”

“You did. Ryan—sorry—the detective said he’d seen everything, and he’d turn us in if we didn’t give him a share, and you agreed to whatever he asked for. The crook.”

“
They’re everywhere,
”
Winston said.
“
One begins to wonder how many honest people are left in the world. But you were the one who asked him not to report seeing you go into that apartment—even if it
wasn’t
your apartment. Those were your words. You as good as told the man you were planning to—well,
borrow
something.”

“You didn’t have to dissolve into a blubbering heap and promise him everything but our souls. Look what you accomplished with that.
”
Rupert indicated the Cadillac and pointed toward the exit where vehicles on East 43rd were so tightly
crammed, they could have been welded together. “Nothing but trouble ever since.”

“We weren’t to know he couldn’t be trusted, or that he wasn’t working alone and intended to turn on us.” Very soon, Winston knew, he would become miffed enough with Rupert to resort to less gentlemanly behavior. But then, Rupert was no gentleman.
“
Hurry up and drive. If we can believe the latest report, your Miss FitzDurham and friend have a good start on us by now.” Winston landed a smart cuff on Rupert’s ear. It made him feel better to see the lout cringe.

Rupert clutched his reddening ear and said, “You’ll regret that.”

“I doubt it,” Winston said. “Ought to give you comfy, familiar feelings. After all, when your mummy and daddy did that, you thought they were showing how much they loved you. Get on with it. This car is costing hundreds a day.”

“I know.” Rupert edged the Cadillac gingerly forward, repeatedly reaching for gears that weren’t there and feeling for the clutch, which also wasn’t there. “We could have saved a bit if you hadn’t insisted on an automatic transmission. Bloody awful nuisance, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Winston said. “You heard what the man said. You’re going to need whatever help you can get just to deal with the traffic and stay on the right side of the road. You’d never manage the shift as well. You’re a dreadful driver.” Amid blaring horns, a blur of shaking fists protruding from car windows, and yelled epithets, Rupert entered the traffic on East 43rd at a crawl. He hunched forward against the wheel, over which he could just see, and peered through the windshield. “Damn these tinted windows. Feels like being on the tube when the lights fail,” he told Winston.

“Stay on this street until I tell you to turn. Can’t you go faster, Rupert? You seem to be making other drivers rather upset.”

“No, I can’t go faster. Do we go past the Empire State Building? Now that’s a building, that is, and I’ve never had
time to take a good look at it. All we’ve ever done here is hang out in antique shops and apartments that don’t belong to us.”

“For crying out loud, Rupert,” Winston shouted. “You’ve got no sense of direction, you
git.
Empire State’s nowhere near where we’re going. Turn! Right on Lexington Avenue. No! Not Lexington, one more block,
then
right. Omigod, you nearly hit that bus. Wiggle your way around and keep Grand Central Station on your left. See it?”

Rupert looked out of his window.
“
Got it. More like a Roman bath than a station.”

“We’re on track,” Winston said.

Nervy little poofter, Rupert thought. Winston ought to drive while he, Rupert, snapped orders so quickly they ran together. “Left! Two blocks, then right on Madison.”

Winston would have to go. The opportunity would arise, and Rupert would take it. Winston would be no more. “Ree-ight. Right, right, right, moron.”

“Right you are, Winston,” Rupert said, feeling a calm spread inside his mind. He missed dear Soames. There was something so comforting about the spineless little body that it relaxed one. Just thinking about his ferret gave Rupert solace. If he saw a pet store, there were bound to be some nice rats to watch. He liked the white ones best.

“Tricky bit coming up,” Winston announced. “Left on 51st and past St. Patrick’s. Too bad there isn’t time to pop in and light a candle.”

“What for?” Rupert decided Winston was going a bit soft up top.

“I believe in hedging my bets,” Winston said.

Rupert ignored the comment.

“Turn right!” Winston pounded a pudgy fist on the dashboard and yelled, “Ouch. I can’t relax for a moment.
Right.
”

Rupert squeaked around as the lights turned red. “You’ve got to give me more notice. Can you turn right on red here?”

“How should I know? Shut up and do as you’re told. You’re the driver. I’m the navigator.” He rustled the maps spread over
his lap.
“
According to that man, Fats Lemon, we may have to cross the entire country.”

“I remember now,” Rupert said. “You can’t turn right on
red.”

“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

Rupert groaned, then yelped. An ambulance, lights flashing, headed directly toward them.

“On the right,” Winston screamed. “Get on the
right!”

“It’s a one-way street,” Rupert wailed. “And we’re going the wrong way, you blithering idiot.” He veered to the curb, narrowly missing first the ambulance, then several yellow cabs swerving in to pick up passengers, and slammed on the brakes. Sweat ran into his eyes and burned. Beneath his suit jacket, his shirt adhered to his back and the collar, already sopping, began to turn cold.

“What are you stopping here for?” Winston looked over his shoulder, his half-glasses steaming up. “Can’t you read the bloody sign?”

Rupert looked, too. “Which one? There are at least eight signs on that lamppost. No Parking Alternate Tuesdays? Is it Tuesday? Is it an
alternate
Tuesday? Or do you mean, No Parking During Loading Hours. How should I know when loading hours are?”

“I mean,” Winston said through gritted teeth, “the sign that says, DON’T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE! It’s the one at the top.”

“That’s mad,” Rupert said.

Winston made to hit him again, but Rupert covered his head and ducked. “Hit me one more time and you’ll drive.”

“Haven’t got a license with me.”

“We’ll get you one.”

“No time. Back up. Now.”

Rupert formulated an argument, but there was nothing for it but to get himself facing the right way as quickly as possible. Reversing slowly, following the endless stream of taxis swerving in and out to the
curb, he finally reached the corn
er and managed, by some miracle, to back around it.

“There,” Winston said, studying a map
through a magnifying glass. “
That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, keep your wits about you. Get out the toll money for the George Washington Bridge. We get to Interstate 80 and away we go.”

Very deliberately, Rupert turned off the engine and set the emergency brake. “This is a legal parking spot.”

“Congratulations.”

“You are at my mercy.”

“I can ruin you,” Winston told him hoarsely, taking hold of his sleeve. “Don’t you forget it. I can leave you with nothing. So don’t cross me.”

A wise man knew when to back off and save the heavy artillery. Rupert disengaged Winston’s hand, set it on top of the maps, and patted it. “We’re overworked. It’s getting to us. Let’s decide what we’re going to do. Specifics, Winston.”

“You push me,” Winston said, all petulance.

“We don’t know what kind of car the FitzDurham woman and her boyfriend are driving. Or where we’re supposed to intercept them.”

“Lemon said he’d be finding out soon. We’ve just got to get some miles behind us or we’ll never catch them, regardless of whether we find out about the car.”

“You’re right And we’ll get going as soon as we know what we’re doing. Exactly.”

“I’ve decided that once we’re past Chicago, we take Interstate 90 all the way.”

“I thought staying on 80 would be a better choice.”

“Why, dammit?” Winston said

Rupert hadn’t given the route any thought at all, but he was always proud of his ability to think quickly. “Well, since we aren’t sure exactly where they’re going, other than somewhere on the West Coast, if we haven’t already been told which road to take, we’ll be in a better position on 80, if they’re heading for California, which is very likely.”

“Why?”

“The weather, of course. Why would anyone go to the West Coast when winter’s starting, and
not
go to California?”

“Logical,” Wins
ton said, gratifying Rupert. “
Now can we
go?”

“Not until we decide.”

“We’ve decided, Rupert, old sport.”

“We haven’t decided how we’re going to do it when we catch them.”

“Do it?
You have such a crude turn of phrase.”

“We get what we want,” Rupert said. “The photographs, the checks, and what money she still has. Then we kill them both. I thought that was already decided.”

He could have predicted the shudder that jiggled through Winston.

“The question is, how?” Rupert continued. “When we go in after them, we’ve got to be armed and ready,”

“Armed?
No guns, Rupert. You know how I feel about guns, and with good reason. We don’t have one, anyway.”

“This isn’t the time to be squeamish. We’ll get a gun because that’s the most likely way for us to kill them.”

“No, no, no.” Winston shook his head, setting his jowls wobbling. “Absolutely not. They’ve changed things here. You have to wait before they’ll let you have a weapon. And they ask questions.”

Rupert restrained his temper. “Everyone who wants a gun, gets a gun. Still. This is a big, violent country. You still watch those John Wayne flicks. Nothing’s changed. We’ll kill them, and no one will even know. We’ll be out of the country again before some bumbling sheriff with a plate-sized star on his chest starts trying to solve the case.”

Winston said, “I think we should hire a hit man.”

A policeman walked toward them with measured steps. Rupert sat, absolutely unmoving, and said, “Winston. That policeman’s coming to us. Smile. No, don’t smile. They suspect you if you’re obsequious. Gimme that.” He pulled a map between them. “We’ll tell him we’re lost and ask him for directions.”

Winston plopped a stubby finger on the map and traced random lines there, leaving a damp trail as he went.