Hidden Riches (37 page)

Jed gave an imperceptible nod as Brent's eyes met his. “I'll call the DA.”

 

“Why don't we sit down?” Finley kept his hand firm on Dora's arm as he pulled her into the living room. “And have a nice chat.”

“How did you get in?”

“There was such a lot of confusion this evening, wasn't there?” He smiled as he pushed her into a chair. “I wasn't at all sure that Abel—Mr. Winesap—could handle this matter efficiently on his own. I came to supervise. A very good thing, too.”

Finley took the chair beside her and folded his hands comfortably. He saw Dora's eyes cut toward the door and shook his head. “Please don't attempt to run, Isadora. I'm very strong and very fit. I'd hate to resort to physical violence.”

She would hate it, too. Especially since she was certain she wouldn't get two feet. Her best bet was to play for time and wait for help. “It was you who sent DiCarlo.”

“It's a long, sad tale. But I find you such good company.” He settled back comfortably and began to talk. He told her of the carefully planned robberies in several different countries. The network of men and finances it required to operate a successful business—legally and illegally. When he reached DiCarlo's part in it, he paused, sighed.

“But I don't have to go into that with you, do I, dear?
You're an excellent actress. One wonders why you decided to give it up. I realized quite soon after your visit to my office that you and DiCarlo had been in league together.”

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. “You think I was his partner?”

“I'm sure you found him an adequate lover.” Truly disappointed in her, Finley plucked at his cuffs. “And I can certainly see how you could have lured him into betraying me. A pity, too,” Finley added softly. “He had potential.”

“What I told you in your office was exactly the truth. He broke in here and attacked me.”

“I'm quite sure you had some sort of falling out. Greed and sex working against one another, I would assume.” His eyes narrowed, glinting dully. “Did you find another, more inventive man, Isadora, one you could maneuver and pit against poor Mr. DiCarlo so that he came to me with some feeble excuse for not returning my property?”

“The painting was not your property. You stole it. And I was never involved with DiCarlo.”

“And when he didn't return,” Finley continued as if she hadn't spoken, “you became concerned and decided to test the waters with me yourself. Oh, you were very clever. So charming, so distressed. I very nearly believed you. There was just one niggling doubt in my mind, which proved sadly true once I witnessed the events of this afternoon. I'm disappointed that you turned to the police, Isadora. Settling for a finder's fee.” He wagged a finger at her scoldingly. “I thought more of you than that. You've cost me two very good men, and a painting I wanted very much. Now how are we to reconcile?”

Too terrified to sit, she sprang to her feet. “They have your Mr. Winesap down at police headquarters. He'll be telling them all about you by now.”

“Do you think he would have the nerve?” Finley considered it a moment, then moved his shoulders in elegant dismissal. “Perhaps. But don't be concerned. Mr. Winesap will very soon suffer a tragic and fatal accident. I would
much rather talk about my painting, and how you think I can retrieve it.”

“You can't.”

“But surely, since you've been such a help, the police have told you where they've secured it.”

She said nothing, only because it surprised her so much that she hadn't thought to ask.

“I thought so.” Finley smiled broadly as he rose. “Just tell me where it is, Isadora, and leave the rest to me.”

“I don't know where.”

“Don't lie, please.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his Savile Row suit and pulled out a highly polished Luger. “Gorgeous, isn't it?” he asked when Dora's eyes fastened on the barrel. “A German make, used in World War II. I like to think that a Nazi officer killed quite efficiently with it. Now, Isadora, where is my painting?”

She looked helplessly into his eyes. “I don't know.”

The force of the bullet slammed her back against the wall. Even as the fire erupted in her shoulder, she didn't believe he'd shot her. Couldn't believe it. Dazed, she touched a finger to the worst of the heat and stared blindly at her blood-smeared fingers. She was still staring at them when she slid limply down the wall.

“I really think you'd better tell me.” All reason, Finley stepped up to where Dora lay in a boneless heap. “You're losing a great deal of blood.” He crouched down, mindful not to stain his suit. “I don't want to cause you unnecessary distress. It took DiCarlo hours to die after I shot him. But there's no need for you to suffer like that.” He sighed when she only whimpered. “We'll give you a little time to compose yourself, shall we?”

Leaving her bleeding, he began to methodically examine her treasures, one by one.

 

“The little bastard sure did sing.” Brent felt like singing himself as he cut through traffic toward South Street.

“I don't like cutting deals with weasels,” Jed muttered.

“Even for a big fat weasel like Finley?”

“Even for that.” He checked his watch. “I'll feel better when I know that LAPD's picked him up.”

“The warrant's in the works, pal. He won't be sleeping in his own bed tonight.”

There was some comfort in that. Some small comfort. Jed would have been happier if he could have taken the man down himself. “You didn't have to come this far out of your way. I could have caught a cab.”

“Nothing's too good for the captain. Not tonight. And if I were you, I wouldn't wait until morning to give a certain gorgeous brunette the good news.”

“She needs to sleep.”

“She needs some peace of mind.”

“She ought to get plenty of it in Aruba.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.” Jed turned to scowl at the light sleet that began to fall as they turned onto South.

 

“Now then.” Finley sat down again, pleased when Dora found the strength to push herself to a sitting position against the wall. The blood seeping out of the wound on her shoulder had slowed to a sluggish ooze. “About the painting.”

Her teeth were chattering. She'd never been so cold, so cold that even her bones felt like frigid sticks. While her arm and shoulder spurted fire, the rest of her seemed cased in ice. She tried to speak, but the words hitched one moment and slurred drunkenly the next. “The police . . . The police took it.”

“I know that.” The first sizzle of anger crept into his words. “I'm not a fool, Isadora, as you obviously believe. The police have the painting, and I intend to get it back. I paid for it.”

“They took it away.” Her head lolled on her shoulder, then rolled weakly against the wall. The room was losing its color, going gray. “To grandmother's house,” she said,
edging toward delirium. “Then away. I don't know.”

“I can see you need incentive.” He set the gun aside and loosened his tie. Dully, Dora watched him slip out of his jacket. When he reached for the gold buckle of his belt, slippery fingers of horror crept through the shock.

“Don't touch me.” She tried to crawl away but the room revolved sickeningly so that she could only curl in a ball in a congealing puddle of her own blood. “Please, don't.”

“No, no. Unlike DiCarlo, I have no plans to force myself on you. But a good whipping with this belt may loosen your tongue. It may be hard for you to believe, but I actually enjoy inflicting pain.” He wrapped the end of the belt around his hand, the buckle loose to add bite to the beating. “Now, Isadora, where is the painting?”

She saw him pick up the gun and raise the belt at the same time. All she could do to try to block both weapons was close her eyes.

 

“You can drop me out front,” Jed told Brent.

“Nope. Door-to-door service.” He whipped into the parking lot, spitting gravel. “If you had any heart, you'd ask me up for a beer.”

“I haven't got any heart.” Jed pushed the door open and glanced back at Brent's engaging grin. “Sure, come ahead.” If nothing else, it would put off the time he'd have to spend alone, waiting for morning.

“You got any of that imported stuff?” Brent slung a friendly arm over Jed's shoulders as they trooped toward the steps. “Mexican, maybe? I really feel like—”

When they heard the thin cry, they each slapped a weapon into their hands. They charged through the door in a dead run. Years of partnership clicked seamlessly into place. When Jed kicked open Dora's door, he went in high, Brent low.

The faintest flicker of irritation crossed Finley's face as he whirled. Two police issues fired simultaneously. Two 9mm bullets caught Finley high in the chest.

“God. Oh God.” With terror singing in his head, Jed
rushed to Dora. He said her name over and over like a prayer as he ripped off her blouse and used it to staunch the oozing blood. “Hang on, baby. You hang on.”

There was so much blood, he thought frantically. Too much. And because it had begun to clot, he knew too much time had passed. When he looked at her still, white face he had one moment of unspeakable horror when he thought she was dead. But she was shaking. He could feel the racking trembles of shock even as he peeled off his jacket to cover her.

“You're going to be okay. Dora, baby, can you hear me?”

Her eyes were wide and dilated and remained unfocused. The second bullet had gone through the fleshy part of her upper arm. She hadn't even felt it.

“Use this.” Brent pushed a towel into Jed's shaking hands and folded another to place under Dora's head. “Ambulance is on the way.” He spared a glance at the body sprawled on the rug. “He's dead.”

“Dora, listen to me. You listen to me, damn it.” Jed worked quickly as he spoke to her, using the towel to pad the upper wound and what was left of her blouse to fashion a pressure bandage. “I want you to hold on. Just hold on.” Then he could think of nothing else but to gather her close and rock her. “Please. Stay with me. I need you to stay with me.”

He felt the light brush of her hand on his cheek. When he looked down at her face, her lips trembled open. “Don't—don't tell my parents,” she whispered. “I don't want them to worry.”

H
e would have wept if it would have helped. He'd tried everything else. Swearing, pacing, praying. Now he could only sit, his head in his hands, and wait.

The Conroys were there. Jed wondered if Dora would be surprised at how tough they were. He doubted it. There had been tears, and there had been terror, but they had all drawn together, a solid wall, in the hospital waiting room to count the minutes while Dora was in surgery.

He'd waited for recriminations. They had given him none. He'd wanted blame. But it hadn't come from them. Not even when he had stood, smeared with Dora's blood, and told them that he'd left her alone, left her defenseless, had they blamed him.

He wished to Christ they had.

Instead, John had gotten them all coffee, Lea had gone
down to wait for Will to arrive from New York and Quentin and Trixie had sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands.

After the second hour had crawled by, Trixie murmured to her husband. When she received his nod of agreement, she rose and went to sit beside Jed.

“She was always a tough little girl,” Trixie began. “She used to pick fights in school—well, not pick them, precisely, but she never would walk away from one without dignity. It used to amaze me that she would scream like a banshee if she fell and banged her knee. But if she came home with a split lip or a swollen eye, you never heard a peep. A matter of pride, I suppose.”

“This wasn't her fight.” Jed kept the heels of his hands pressed hard against his eyes. “It shouldn't have been.”

“That's for her to decide. She'll want lots of pampering, you know. She was never sick often, but when she was—” Trixie's voice broke, betraying her. She mopped quickly at her eyes and steadied it. “When she was, she expected everyone's devoted attention. Dora's never been one to suffer in silence.”

Gently she touched the back of his hand. When he lowered it enough, she gripped it firmly. “It's so much harder to wait alone.”

“Mrs. Conroy . . .” But he didn't have the words. He simply leaned against her and let himself be held.

They all rose to their feet at the quick slap of crepe-soled shoes on tile. Still in her scrubs, Mary Pat stepped through the doorway. “She's out of surgery,” she said quickly. “It looks good. The doctor will be out soon.”

It was then Trixie began to cry, with hard, racking sobs and hot tears that burned through Jed's shirt. His arms went around her automatically as he met Mary Pat's eyes.

“When can they see her?”

“The doctor will let you know. She's a tough one, I can tell you that.”

“Didn't I say so?” Trixie managed. She stumbled blindly into Quentin's arms so they could weep out their relief together.

* * *

It wasn't until he was alone again that Jed started to shake. He'd gone outside, had fully intended on going home. It was a time for family, he'd told himself. Now that he knew she was going to pull through it, there was no need to hang around.

But he couldn't make it across the street to hail a cab, so he sat down on the steps and waited for the tremors to subside. The sleet had turned to snow that fell quick and light and damp. There was something otherworldly about the way it danced in the streetlights, something hypnotic. He stared at one beam of light as he smoked one cigarette, then another. Then he walked back in and rode the elevator to the floor where Dora lay sleeping.

“Figured you'd be back.” Mary Pat smiled at him out of eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “Damn it, Jed, you're soaked. Am I going to have to dig up a bed for you?”

“I just want to see her. I know she's sedated, I know she won't know I'm there. I just want to see her.”

“Let me get you a towel.”

“MP.”

“You're going to dry off first,” she told him. “Then I'll take you in.”

She was as good as her word. When she was satisfied he was dry enough, she led him into Dora's room.

Dora lay, still and white as death. Jed's heart careered into his throat. “Are you sure she's going to be all right?”

“She's stabilized, and there were no complications. Dr. Forsythe's good. Believe me.” She didn't want to think about the amount of blood they'd had to pump into Dora, or how long it had taken to get that feeble pulse to steady. “The bullet's out—and there's some tissue damage, but it'll heal. She's going to be weak as a baby for a while, and she's going to hurt.”

“I don't want her to hurt.” His control slipped a dangerous notch. “You make sure she gets whatever she needs so she isn't in pain.”

“Why don't you just sit with her for a while?” Mary Pat ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “It'll make you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

“I go off duty in an hour. I'll check back.”

But when she did, one look had her stepping back and leaving them alone.

He was still there in the morning.

 

She awakened slowly, as if swimming toward the surface of still, dark water. The air seemed too thick to breathe, and there was a whooshing sound in her head like waves lapping gently on the shore.

He watched her break through, every flicker of the eyelid. Her hand flexed once in his, then lay still again.

“Come on, Dora, don't go back yet.” He brushed his fingers over her hair, over her cheek. She was still too pale, he thought, much too pale. But her lashes fluttered again, then her eyes opened. He waited for them to focus.

“Jed?” Her voice sounded hollow, lifeless, and the sound of it almost broke him.

“Yeah, baby. Right here.”

“I had a nightmare.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, fighting the need to simply lay his head on the bed and let go.

“It's all right now.”

“It seemed awfully real. I—Oh God!” She shifted, sending an arrow of pain radiating through her arm.

“You've got to lie still.”

Like the pain, memory burst back. “He shot me. Jesus.” She started to move her hand to the fire blooming in her shoulder, but he clamped his fingers on hers. “It was Finley.”

“It's all over now. You're going to be fine.”

“I'm in the hospital.” The panic came quickly, surging along with the pain. “How—how bad?”

“They fixed you all up. You just need to rest now.” None of his fourteen years on the force had prepared him to deal with the terrified pain clouding her eyes. “I'm going to get a nurse.”

“I remember.” Her fingers trembled as she groped to hang onto his. “He was in the apartment, waiting for me. He wanted the painting back. I told him I didn't know where it was, and he shot me.”

“He won't ever hurt you again. I swear it.” He pressed his brow against their joined hands and felt himself crack. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry.”

But she was swimming down through the dark water again, away from the pain. “Don't leave me alone here.”

“I won't.”

 

The next time he saw her conscious, she was surrounded by flowers, banks and bouquets of them from sweet little nosegays to towering exotic blooms. Rather than the drab hospital gown, she was wearing something frilly and pink. Her hair was washed and she was wearing makeup.

But to Jed she looked horribly frail.

“How you doing, Conroy?”

“Hi.” She smiled and held out a hand. “How'd you break in? They're vicious about proper visiting hours around here.”

“I pulled rank.” He hesitated. The hand in his felt as fragile as bird wings. “If you're too tired, I can stop back by later.”

“No, if you stay you can chase them away when they come in with their needles.”

“Sure, my pleasure.” Miserably awkward, he turned away to study the forest of flowers. “Looks like you ought to go into a different business.”

“Great, isn't it? I love being fawned over.” She shifted, winced and was grateful his back was to her. “You ratted on me, Skimmerhorn.”

“What?”

“You told my family.”

“I figured it was better than having them read it in the papers.”

“You're probably right. So what's happening in your world? Mary Pat tells me you kicked Goldman out early and went back to work.”

“Yeah.” He'd had to have something filling his days, or go quietly mad.

“Can I see your badge?”

“What?”

“Really.” She smiled again. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.” He pulled out his shield as he crossed to the bed. She took it, studied it, opened and closed it a couple of times.

“Pretty cool. How does it feel?”

“Right,” he told her as he slipped it back into his pocket. There was no possible way he could stand there and make small talk when he kept seeing the stark white bandage peeking out beneath that frilly pink nightgown. “Listen, I just stopped by to see how you were doing. I've got to go.”

“Before you give me my present?” When he said nothing, she drummed up another smile, though it was becoming harder as her medication wore off. “That box you're holding? Isn't it for me?”

“Yeah, it's for you.” He set it on her lap. “I've been by a couple of times when you were zonked out. After I saw the flower shop in here, I figured you wouldn't need any more posies.”

“You can never have too many.” She reached for the fussy bow, then sat back again. “Give me a hand, will you? I have a little trouble using my arm.”

He didn't move, but his eyes were eloquent. “They told me there wouldn't be any permanent damage.”

“Right.” Her mouth moved into a pout. “Like a scar isn't permanent damage. I'm never going to look the same in a bikini.”

He couldn't handle it, simply couldn't. Turning abruptly, he strode to the window and stared blindly out with the heavy scent of roses tormenting him.

“I should have been there,” he managed after a moment. “You shouldn't have been alone.”

His voice was so angry, his shoulders so stiff, that Dora waited for the storm. When it didn't come, she plucked at the bow with her good hand. “From what Brent tells me, Finley slipped right through LAPD. Nobody had a clue he'd left California. I don't see how anyone could have imagined he'd waltz right into my apartment and shoot me.”

“It's my job to know.”

“So, it's going to your head already. What do they call that super-cop thing—the John Wayne syndrome, right?” She'd managed to pull and tug the ribbon off and was lifting the top off the box when he turned. “Well, pilgrim,” she said in a very poor Wayne imitation. “You just can't be everywhere at once.” Though her arm was beginning to throb, she dug happily into the tissue paper. “I love presents, and I'm not ashamed to say so. I don't particularly care to get shot to . . . Oh, Jed, it's beautiful.”

Stunned, really completely stunned, she lifted out the old wooden-and-gesso box, delicately painted and gilded with figures from mythology. When she opened the lid, it played “Greensleeves” softly.

“It was hanging around in storage.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and felt like a fool. “I figured you'd get a kick out of it.”

“It's beautiful,” she said again, and the look she sent him was so sincerely baffled he felt even more foolish. “Thank you.”

“It's no big deal. I figured you could put junk in it while you're stuck in here. I've really got to take off. You, ah, need anything?”

She continued to run her fingers over the box as she looked at him. “I could use a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Can you pull some strings, get me out of here?” It shamed her to feel tears pricking at her eyes. “I want to go home.”

 

It took him several hours, and a great deal of negotiation, but Dora finally laid her head down on her own pillow, in her own bed.

“Thank you, God.” Dora closed her eyes, sighed deeply, then opened them again to smile at Mary Pat. “Nothing against your workplace, MP, but personally, I hated it.”

“You weren't exactly the ideal patient either, kiddo. Open up.” She stuck a thermometer in Dora's mouth.

“I was a jewel,” Dora muttered.

“A diamond in the rough, maybe. Very rough. But I'm not going to complain; a few days of private duty suits me just fine.” Efficiently, she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Dora's uninjured arm. “Right on the money,” she announced when she took the thermometer out to read. But Dora caught the quick frown over blood pressure.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing that quiet and rest won't fix.”

“I've been quiet. I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'm tired of being in bed.”

“Live with it.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary Pat took her hand—and her pulse. “I'm going to be straight with you, Dora. You're going to be just fine with the proper rest and care. But this wasn't any skinned knee. If Jed hadn't gotten you in when he did, you wouldn't be here to complain. As it was, it was close.”

“I know. I remember it all a bit too clearly for comfort.”

“You're entitled to moan and bitch. I won't mind a bit. But you're also going to follow orders, to the letter, or I'll report you to the captain.”

Dora smiled a little. “You nurses have ranks?”

“I'm talking about Jed, dimwit. He's financing this operation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you've got round-the-clock home care for as long as you need it, courtesy of Captain J. T. Skimmerhorn.”

“But—I thought insurance was arranging it.”

“Get real.” Chuckling at the thought, Mary Pat plumped the pillows, smoothed the sheets. “Now, get some rest. I'm going to go fix you something to eat.”

“He shouldn't feel guilty,” Dora murmured when Mary Pat started out of the room.

Mary Pat stopped, looked back. “He feels a lot more than guilt where you're concerned. Did you know he didn't leave the hospital for the first forty-eight hours?”