Hidden Riches (32 page)

“What the hell were you thinking of, making an appointment to meet him without checking with me?”

She'd expected him to be impressed, not irritated. “I had to do something, didn't I? Wouldn't he have been suspicious if a dealer had seemed reluctant to meet with him?” Her back stiffened defensively. “But it's definitely fishy. An art collector inquiring about a painting from an artist who probably doesn't even exist. I checked on Billingsly. There isn't any Billingsly, so why should anyone go to the trouble to track down a Billingsly painting? Because,” she said, and lifted a finger for emphasis, “he wants a Monet.”

“That's brilliant, Conroy. Just Goddamn brilliant. And it's not the point.”

“Of course it is.” She blew out a breath, stirring her bangs. “He thought I was stupid. He thought I was some money-grubbing junk dealer who doesn't know her butt from a delft vase, but he's going to find out differently.”

“That's also beside the point. You should have put him off until I got back.”

“I did very well on my own, thank you. I'm not an idiot.”

“Do you have star sixty-nine on your phone system?”

Her face went blank. “Excuse me?”

“Return call. You press a couple of buttons and your phone rings back whoever called you last.”

“Oh.” As the wind leaked out of her sails, she examined her nails. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

He studied her bowed head. “I don't suppose you thought to try it?”

“I can't think of everything,” she mumbled. Hopefully, she looked up. “We can try it now.”

“The phone's rung three times since I got back.”

“Oh.” She pushed up from the chair. “Go ahead, tell me I blew it.”

“I don't have to, you just did.” He gave her hair a tug. “Don't take it too hard, Nancy Drew, even amateur sleuths screw up now and again.”

She knocked his hand away. “Take a leap, Skimmerhorn.”

“Brent and I will work out how to handle Petroy on Thursday. We'll be back by then.”

“Back? Are you and Brent going somewhere?”

“No, you and I are.” He tucked his thumbs in his pockets. He still wasn't happy about it, but she'd made an odd sort of sense. “We're leaving for LA tomorrow.”

“I'm going to do it?” She pressed a hand to her heart, then tossed her arms wide and vaulted into his. “I'm actually going to do it.” Thrilled with the prospect, she raced kisses over his face. “I knew you'd see it my way.”

“I didn't. I was outvoted.” He wasn't going to admit he'd seen the simple beauty of her idea and had recommended it to Brent.

“Whatever.” She kissed him again, hard. “Tomorrow?” she said, rearing back. “God, that's so quick. I have to decide what I'm going to wear.”

“That's the least of your worries.”

“No, no, no, the proper presentation is essential to character. My navy pinstripe,” she considered. “It's very polite and businesslike. Or maybe the red double-breasted—more power and sex. I could distract him with my legs.”

“Go for the businesslike.”

Because she enjoyed the faint trace of annoyance in the tone, she smiled. “Definitely the red.”

“For all you know, he won't even see you.”

“Of course he'll see me.” She stopped, frowned. “How are we going to make him want to see me?”

“Because you're going to call him, and you're going to say exactly what I tell you to say.”

“I see.” She tilted her head, lifted a brow. “Have you written me a script, Skimmerhorn? I'm a quick study. I can be off book in no time.”

“Just do what you're told.”

* * *

In Los Angeles, Winesap entered Finley's office with a worried frown creasing his face. “Mr. Finley, sir. Miss Conroy, she's on line two. She's waiting to speak with you.”

“Is that so?” Finley closed the file he'd been studying, folded his hands on top of it. “An interesting development.”

Winesap's hands twisted together like nervous cats. “Mr. Finley, when I spoke with her earlier today, she was quite cooperative. And I certainly never mentioned my connection with you. I don't know what this might mean.”

“Then we'll find out, won't we? Sit, Abel.” He lifted the receiver and, smiling, leaned back in his chair. “Miss Conroy? Edmund Finley here.”

He listened, his smile growing wider and more feral. “I'm afraid I don't follow you, Miss Conroy. You're inquiring about one of my employees—Anthony DiCarlo? I see. I see.” He picked up a letter opener from his desk and tested the honed point with the pad of his thumb. “Of course, I understand if you feel a personal meeting is important. I don't know if I'll be able to help. We've told the police all we know about Mr. DiCarlo's unexplained disappearance, which is, unfortunately, nothing. Very well,” he added after a moment. “If you feel you can't discuss it over the telephone, I'd be happy to see you. Tomorrow?” His brows raised. Gently he scraped the point of the letter opener over the Conroy file. “That is rather short notice. Life and death?” He barely suppressed a chuckle. “I'll see if it can be arranged. Will you hold? I'll give you to my assistant. He'll check my calendar. I'll look forward to meeting you.”

With a flourish of wrist, Finley punched the Hold button. “Give her four o'clock.”

“You have a meeting at three-thirty, sir.”

“Give her four o'clock,” Finley repeated, and held out the phone.

“Yes, sir.” Winesap took the receiver in his damp hand,
engaged the line. “Miss Conroy? This is Abel Winesap, Mr. Finley's assistant. You'd like an appointment for tomorrow? I'm afraid the only time Mr. Finley has open is at four. Yes? You have the address? Excellent. We'll be expecting you.”

“Delightful.” Finley nodded approval when Winesap replaced the receiver. “Simply delightful. ‘Fools walk in,' Abel.” He opened Dora's file again and smiled genially at her dossier. “I'm certainly looking forward to this. Clear my calendar for tomorrow afternoon. I want no distractions when I see Miss Isadora Conroy. She will have all my attention.”

 

“Tomorrow, four o'clock,” Dora said, and turned to Jed. “He sounded puzzled but cooperative, pleasant but reserved.”

“And you sounded on the verge of hysteria but controlled.” Impressed despite himself, he tipped her face up with his finger and kissed her. “Not bad, Conroy. Not bad at all.”

“There's something else.” Though she wanted to, she didn't take his hand. If she had, he'd have seen that hers was chilled. “I think I just spoke with Mr. Petroy.”

“Finley?”

“No.” She forced a thin smile. “His assistant, Winesap.”

D
ora was pleased, and impressed, when the cab pulled up in front of the pink stucco villa that was the Beverly Hills Hotel. “Well, well, Skimmerhorn, you surprise me. This makes up for not springing for a night at the Plaza in New York.”

“The room's booked in your name.” Jed watched Dora gracefully offer her hand to the doorman. The gesture was one of a woman who'd been sliding out of limos all her life. “You have to put it on your credit card.”

She cast a withering look at him over her shoulder. “Thanks a bunch, big spender.”

“You want to advertise the fact that you're traveling out here with a companion?” he asked when she sailed through the doors and into the lobby. “A cop?”

“You left out the ‘ex.' ”

“So I did,” he murmured, and waited while Dora checked
in. The tony lobby of the BHH didn't seem exactly the right setting to tell her that the “ex” wouldn't apply much longer.

Dora covertly scanned the lobby for passing movie stars when she handed the desk clerk her card for imprint. “I'm going to bill you for this, Skimmerhorn.”

“It was your idea to come.”

True enough. “Then I'll only bill you for half.” She accepted her card, and two keys, passed one to the waiting bellman. “Some of us are not independently wealthy.”

“Some of us,” he said as he slipped an arm around her waist, “paid for the airfare.”

She was touched by the easy way he'd linked them together as they trailed the luggage to the elevator and up to the room.

Dora quickly slipped out of her shoes and padded over to the window to check out the view. There was nothing quite so Californian, she mused, as lush lawns, regal palms and cozy stucco cottages.

“I haven't been in LA since I was fifteen. We stayed in an incredibly bad hotel in Burbank while my father did a part in a small, forgettable film with Jon Voight. It did not distinguish either of their careers.”

She stretched her back, rolled her shoulders. “I guess I'm a snob. An east coast snob, because LA doesn't do it for me. It makes me think of unnecessary eye tucks and designer yogurt. Or maybe it's designer eye tucks and unnecessary yogurt. After all, who really needs yogurt in their lives?”

She turned back, her smile becoming puzzled when he only continued to stare at her. “What is it?”

“I just like looking at you sometimes, that's all.”

“Oh.”

When he saw that the statement had both pleased and flustered her, he smiled back. “You're okay, Conroy. Even with the pointy chin.”

“It's not pointy.” She rubbed it defensively. “It's delicately sculptured. You know, maybe we should have booked a
suite. This room's hardly bigger than a closet. Or maybe we can just go out for a while, get something to eat, soak up some smog.”

“You're nervous.”

“Of course I'm not nervous.” She tossed her bag onto the bed and undid the straps.

“You're nervous,” Jed repeated. “You talk too much when you're nervous. Actually, you talk too much all the time but there's a different quality to the babble when you're nervous. And you can't keep your hands still.” He laid his gently over hers.

“Obviously I've already become too predictable. The first death knell in any relationship.”

He simply turned her around, keeping her hands in his. “You've got a right to be nervous. I'd be more worried about you if you weren't.”

“I don't want you to worry.” Because she didn't, she willed her hands to relax in his. “I'm going to be fine. Classic opening-night jitters, that's all it is.”

“You don't have to do this. I can keep the appointment for you.”

“I never give the understudy a chance to steal my thunder.” She inhaled and exhaled twice, deeply. “I'm okay. Wait till you read the reviews.”

Since she so obviously needed him to, he played along. “What did you used to do before opening night?”

Thinking back, she sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, you'd pace a lot. Pacing's good. And you'd keep running lines in your head and going over the blocking. I'd get out of my street clothes and into a robe—sort of like a snake shedding. And vocalize. I used to do a lot of tongue twisters.”

“Such as?”

“Moses supposes his toeses are roses, that kind of thing.” Grinning, she waggled her tongue between her teeth. “You've got to limber the tongue.”

“Yours has always seemed pretty limber to me.”

“Thanks.” She laughed and looked back at him. “Good job, Skimmerhorn. I feel better.”

“Good.” He gave her hair a brotherly tousle, then turned to the phone. “I'll order up some room service, then we'll go over the routine again.”

Dora groaned and flopped back on the bed. “I hate heavy-handed directors.”

 

But he didn't let up. Two hours later they had eaten, argued, discussed every possible contingency, and he was still unsatisfied. He listened to her reciting tongue twisters in the bathroom and frowned at the door. He'd have felt better if she'd been wearing a wire. Foolish, he supposed, as she'd be walking into a fully staffed office building in broad daylight, but it would have eased his mind. If he hadn't been concerned that Finley's security might have picked up on it, he'd have insisted.

It was a simple job, he reminded himself. One with little to no risk. And he'd already taken the precaution of seeing that the minimal degree of risk was all but eliminated.

It was the
all but
that nagged at him.

The door opened, and Dora stepped out wearing the red suit that showed off every glorious curve in that sexy body, highlighting her legs in a way that would make any man this side of the grave salivate.

“What do you think?” She was holding two different pairs of earrings up to each lobe. “The drops or the knots?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“The knots,” she decided. “More discreet.” She fastened them on. “I'd forgotten how much better you feel once you're in costume. There's just those little ripples of nerves that keep the adrenaline up.” She reached for her bottle of perfume.

He frowned as she spritzed on scent—the throat, the back of the neck, the wrists, the backs of her knees. Something about the female ritual made his stomach jitter. When she picked up her antique silver brush and pulled it slowly
through her hair, he knew what that something was. It made him feel like a voyeur.

“You look fine.” He had to clear his throat. “You can stop primping now.”

“Brushing your hair isn't primping. It's basic grooming.” While she gave it another sweep, she caught his gaze in the mirror. “I'd swear you're more nervous than I am.”

“Just stick to the plan and try to remember everything you see. Don't bring up the painting. You haven't got a clue about the painting. Try to go through Winesap. We're running him down, but I want your impressions—not your speculations, your impressions.”

“I know.” Patiently she set the brush aside. “Jed, I know exactly what to do and how to do it. It's simple. Simpler because I might have done just this if I hadn't known about the painting. It's a very logical step.”

“Just watch your ass.”

“Darling, I'm counting on you to do that for me.”

 

Dora was impressed with the decor of Finley's outer office, trying to pick up helpful clues. As she'd suspected, he was a collector, and their mutual interest would give them a firm foundation. Her hands were chilled. That was good, too. The honest nerves she projected were just what she needed to set the tone for her visit.

It was difficult to hang on to those nerves, and character, when she really wanted to walk over and examine some of Finley's treasures firsthand. She felt favorably toward anyone who put malachite vases and Chiparus figures in his waiting area. And the settee she was using was no reproduction. Early Chippendale, Dora thought reverently, high-style rococo.

She sincerely hoped Finley would prove himself to be in the clear. She'd love to develop a business relationship.

But if he wasn't . . .

The thought of that had the nerves creeping back. She fiddled with the calla lily pin at her lapel, brushed at her skirt, looked at her watch.

Damn, it was four-ten, she thought. How long was he going to keep her waiting?

 

“Excellent. Excellent,” Finley murmured to Dora's video image. She was every bit as lovely as he'd expected from the faded newspaper photos Winesap had unearthed from old Show and Style sections. Her wardrobe showed a flair for color and line as well as an affection for the feminine. He respected a woman who knew how to present herself to her best advantage.

He enjoyed the way her hands moved restlessly through her hair, over her body. Nerves, he thought, pleased. A spider gained more thrill from a panicky fly than a resigned one. And despite the nerves, he noted, her eyes were drawn again and again to pieces in his collection. That flattered him.

They would do very well together, he decided. Very well indeed.

He buzzed his receptionist. It was time to begin.

“Mr. Finley will see you now.”

“Thank you.” Dora rose, tucked her envelope bag under her arm and followed the woman to the double doors.

When she entered, Finley smiled and stood. “Miss Conroy, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“I'm just happy you could see me at all.” She crossed the rug, that pool of white, and took his extended hand. Her first impression was one of vitality and health and of well-channeled power.

“It seemed important to you. What can we offer you? Some coffee, tea or perhaps some wine.”

“Wine would be lovely.” And would give her the prop of a glass to twist in her hands as she told her story.

“The Pouilly-Fumé, Barbara. Please sit, Miss Conroy. Be comfortable.” In a move calculated to disarm her, he rounded the desk and took the chair beside her. “And how was your flight?”

“Long.” Dora's smile was fleeting. “But I shouldn't
complain. The weather was turning nasty at home. But of course, I'll go back tomorrow.”

“So soon?” His bright eyes glinted with just the right touch of curiosity. “I'm flattered to have such a pretty young woman travel all this way just to see me.”

His receptionist had uncorked the bottle. Obviously, Dora mused, her duties included those of a wine steward. She passed Finley the cork and tipped an inch of wine in his glass for approval.

“Yes,” he said after rolling the wine on his tongue and swallowing. “That will do nicely.” When the wine was poured in both glasses, the secretary slipped soundlessly out of the room. Finley raised his glass. “To your health, Miss Conroy, and a safe journey home.”

“Thank you.” It was beautiful wine, silk on the tongue, with just a hint of smoke. “I know it might sound foolish, coming all this way just to see you, Mr. Finley. But I honestly felt compelled.” As if overcome, she looked down into the pale gold wine in her glass, let her fingers tighten on the stem. “Now that I'm here, I don't know where to start.”

“I can see you're upset,” Finley said kindly. “Take your time. You told me on the phone this had to do with Anthony DiCarlo. Are you . . .” He paused delicately. “A friend?”

“Oh no.” There was horror in her voice, in her eyes as she dragged them back to Finley's. She imagined DiCarlo's voice whispering in her ear to bring the rusty edge of revulsion into her voice. “No. He—Mr. Finley, I need to ask how much you know about him.”

“Personally?” Thinking, he pursed his lips. “I'm afraid I don't know many of my branch employees as well as I might. The company is very large now, and unfortunately that depersonalizes matters. We had a meeting here just before Christmas. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed as competent as always.”

“Then he's worked for you for some time?”

“Six years, I believe. More or less.” He sipped more wine. “I have studied his file since this odd disappearance, to refresh my memory. He has an excellent record with the company. Mr. DiCarlo worked his way up the corporate ladder rather quickly. He showed initiative and ambition. Both of which I believe in rewarding. He came from a poor background, you know.”

When she only shook her head, he smiled and continued. “As I did myself. The desire to better oneself—this is something I respect in an employee, and also tend to reward. As one of my top executives on the east coast, he's proven himself to be reliable and cunning.” He smiled again. “In my business, one must be cunning. I'm very much afraid of foul play. As Mr. DiCarlo's work record would indicate, he isn't a man to neglect his responsibilities this way.”

“I think—I think I might know where he is.”

“Really?” There was a flash in Finley's eyes.

“I think he's in Philadelphia.” As if to bolster her courage, Dora took another quick sip, and her hand shook lightly. “I think he's . . . watching me.”

“My dear.” Finley reached for her hand. “Watching you? What do you mean?”

“I'm sorry. It's not making sense. Let me try to start at the beginning.”

She told the story well, with several pauses for composure, and one significant break in which she described the attack.

“And I don't understand,” she finished, with her eyes wet and shimmering. “I don't understand why.”

“My dear, how horrible for you.” Finley was all baffled sympathy while his mind performed rapid calculations. It appeared DiCarlo had left out a few significant details, he mused. There had been no mention in his report of an attempted rape, nor of a knightly neighbor coming to the rescue. It explained the bruises on his face during his last, and final, visit, however.

“You're telling me,” Finley began, his tone lightly shocked, “that the man who broke into your shop, the man who attacked you, was Anthony DiCarlo.”