Loose and Easy (2 page)

Esme hoped to even that number out a bit before the night was through.

“You…you are crazy,” Otto said under his breath. “A crazy American whore.”

Not really.

“You will regret this,
Shiksa
,” he swore sotto voce, having apparently found a theme. “You…you crazy American bitch. I…I will find you, and beat you…beat you to death, you crazy whore.”

Fat chance. Old Otto couldn’t catch her on her worst day, but he wasn’t the one she was worried about, not on this deal.

“I don’t know what you are looking for,” he went on, “but there is
nothing,
I tell you,
nothing
here.”

Yes, there was. He hadn’t hauled his butt to Denver empty-handed. He’d come to make a deal, expecting to walk away with five hundred thousand dollars for a painting worth two million, if it could have been sold at a legitimate auction.

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, she quickly quartered the room, looking for an art case, or a mailing tube, or something, anything, that might hold the Meinhard.

Four years of following the painting. Six months of following Otto, including the four weeks since she’d gotten involved, the four weeks needed to set up a “sale” in Denver, and about five minutes in a hotel room to put seven decades of loss right—not to mention saving her dad’s butt. Again.

If she could find the painting.

Dammit.
Esme let out a short sigh and closed the knife, her gaze searching the room again, more slowly. All Otto had brought with him, that she could see, was the suitcase and the clothes on his back.

She dropped a glance at the mostly-naked man trussed at her feet. Without the black leather thong he’d strapped on with all its buckles and snaps, he’d be completely naked.

She was so grateful for the thong.

The rest of his clothes were in a neatly folded stack on a chair next to the bed—except for his suit jacket.

She looked to the open armoire near the door leading out into the hall. Sure enough, he’d hung up his jacket, and it was looking very tidy.
Very tidy, indeed, and rather stiff.

Pushing off the bed, she walked over to the armoire and reopened the knife in a single smooth move.

“No,” Otto said from the floor, panic rising in his voice, his understanding of the situation finally dawning. “No. No. No, you…you crazy whore.
Nein
.”

Oh, yes,
she thought.

“Y-you can’t. You don’t know. You can’t…no, no. Not the Meinhard.”

Yes, the Meinhard. She came to a stop in front of the armoire.

“Sí, policía.”
The man outside the door was talking again, the guy with no towels.

Policía?
Hell, it was possible, she guessed, and the last damn thing she needed was to get busted for vice.

“Puedes abrir la puerta? Es muy importante—por favor,”
he said.

Puerta
was door, and even she knew
importante
meant important.
Por favor
was another no-brainer—please.

Without a doubt, her time was running out fast. He was obviously speaking to somebody with a key, and given his choice of language, she was guessing one of the maids. Everybody manning the front desk spoke English.

Without rushing, she didn’t waste a second, taking hold of Otto’s suit jacket and neatly slicing open the side seam. Her hand went in between the silk lining and the English tweed, and her smile came out—
voilà
! Success.

On the floor, Otto was apoplectic, twisting and turning, struggling against his bonds.

“No,”
he insisted. “You cannot…
cannot
leave me like this. Cut me loose…
goddamn
you.”

She slipped the painting free from its hiding place and closed her knife. Bold strokes of red, orange, gray, and green on copper were visible beneath a protective sheath inside a narrow frame, a blue dress, a woman’s face smudged in pink—she’d done it, recovered the Meinhard.

Pocketing her knife first, she began unsnapping the latches on the thin case she’d brought with her in the white vinyl tote. She was heading toward the window that opened onto the alley even as she was sliding the painting into the case.

“Du verstehst nichts!”
the old man all but growled in frustration.

Whatever.

She met his eyes for a brief moment as she passed him, then wished she hadn’t. Otto was so hung up in his leashes, he’d had to twist himself to an unnatural angle to pin her with his gaze—and he was melting in fear, the sweat running off him, following the fatty folds of his body.

“Sie kommt…lass mich lohs, du Hündin!”
He pulled against the leash tied to the bed. “
Sie kommt sofort!
”

He was afraid. She understood that much, if not his actual words, and yeah, she would have been afraid in his situation, too.

The Oxford was an old historical hotel, and the windows did open. In room 215, where fifty bucks to the reservation clerk had guaranteed Otto would be put, the window not only opened, it opened onto an old fire escape which she’d personally checked out two nights ago. It had held her then, and it held her tonight.

By the time she heard the commotion of the no-towel-guy and the maid discovering a dog-collared, thong-clad foreigner short-leashed to the bed, she was in the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

CHAPTER
TWO

Sonuvabitch,
Johnny thought when the maid finally opened the door. He took the room in with a glance: one mostly naked guy wearing a dog collar leashed to the bed; one destroyed suitcase sliced open every which way; absolutely zero size-four hookers; and one open window. His gaze slid over the suit jacket hanging in the closet and the neatly split seam, and he guessed Easy Alex had gotten whatever she’d come for—and she’d gotten it quick.

Behind him, the maid let out a small scream and ran back down the hall. He understood perfectly.

He also understood the next thing he heard, spoken by a woman the maid must have run into on her headlong flight.

“Entschuldigung,”
the woman said in a high, light voice with a singsong accent not normally associated with the German language.
Excuse me.

Johnny crossed the room in five long strides, heading for the open window and reminding himself never to buy a black leather thong. Dudes did not look good in black leather thongs. All the proof he needed was squirming around on the floor, swearing in German, handcuffed and hog-tied.

Geezus,
and he’d thought he’d seen it all. Fifteen years of running wild on the streets of Denver, four years of busting his butt in the Steele Street garages, and another five working hard in Uncle Sam’s army, most of it spent fighting in the world’s hottest spots, and yeah, he’d seen some pretty disturbing shit, the kind that stuck with a guy.

And now this poor slob on the floor wearing a spiked dog collar—
fuck
—Johnny figured he was going to be stuck with that damn image until he drew his last breath.

A small grin curved the corner of his mouth.
Geezus. People.
They never failed to amaze him. And Esme, good God, she’d frickin’
hog-tied
this guy in damn near record time. He could have used her in Afghanistan.

He got to the window and checked the alley.

Sure enough, the little size-four hooker was hoofing it toward Sixteenth, still limping, her two-inch black patent-leather platform heels snap-snapping on the alley asphalt.

Johnny didn’t hesitate. He was through the window and heading down the fire escape before she could get away from him. Dog-boy was the hotel’s problem, not his, and if they wanted to track down the hooker, they could start with the valet, a fact of street life they knew as well as any vice cop on the force. He just wanted to get to her first.

At Sixteenth, Esme turned northwest and went half a block to Wynkoop before turning southwest again. There were plenty of people on the streets in LoDo on a Friday night in August. It was easy to blend in, keep his distance, and still keep her in sight. When she turned into an alcove on the east side of Wynkoop, he closed in.

She wasn’t going to be glad to see him. He didn’t have any illusions about that. She’d hit the skids, turning sadistic tricks and stealing from her johns for a living, and he’d become one of the most elite and highly skilled soldiers in the world. It was the only reason he’d been tagged for SDF, not because he’d grown up in Denver and knew the guys. The personal association was a bonus, not a prerequisite. Johnny knew who and what he was, and so did Dylan Hart. Dylan knew how he’d been trained, where he’d been, what he’d done, and how he’d survived. It was more than enough to earn him a slot on the team—and Dylan knew that, too.

Methamphetamines, Johnny guessed, crossing Sixteenth at Wynkoop. Maybe crack cocaine, maybe heroin. Whatever had derailed Esme Alden’s life was probably something she was popping, putting up her nose, or shooting into her veins. He’d seen enough drug-induced destruction to know the score, and nothing else could have sunk her so low.

At least that was his best guess until he reached the alcove.

Two glass doors with transoms were set back from the sidewalk, with the words
FABER BUILDING
and a date,
1937,
chiseled in stone on the lintel above them. Flanked by an Oriental rug store on one side, and a pizza place called The Joint on the other, the doors each opened onto a long set of stairs leading up to the building’s upper floors—two doors, but there wasn’t any guesswork involved in which one she’d taken. B & B INVESTIGATIONS, ROBERT BAINBRIDGE, PROP. was painted in gold letters on the north door, along with three other businesses.

Yeah, Johnny remembered her old man had been a private investigator working for Bainbridge, and he remembered one day back in high school when Christian Hawkins, the SDF operative known as Cristo on the streets of Denver and Superman everywhere else, had let him know some gumshoe from B & B was snooping around, asking questions about him. Her old man’s instincts had been good. Johnny had definitely had designs on the PI’s daughter. He never had known, though, what Mr. Alden could have come up with, other than the same facts everybody already knew about Juan Ramos—that he’d spent time in juvie, dropped out of school twice before he’d decided to stick it out, and that he’d been with his older brother the night Domingo had been killed in City Park, capped by a Parkside Blood in a turf war.

Old news.

But Esme Alden dressing up like a hooker to do some work for her father—well, that was good news, in a bad sort of way, if that’s what had been going on at the Oxford. And if that was what had been going on, what the hell was her old man thinking? Sending her to deal with guys like that German? For that matter, what the hell was Bainbridge thinking? Of course, Robert Bainbridge had to be in his eighties by now, maybe even his nineties. He’d been older than dirt since forever, so maybe he wasn’t thinking too clearly about anything anymore.

Johnny stepped back onto the sidewalk and looked up. Of the eight windows stretching across the second floor above the rug store, two were lit. He stepped back into the alcove and pressed all the intercom buttons next to the north door.

“Carlson Services,” a man answered one of the intercoms.

“Delivery,” Johnny said, giving it his best shot, and a couple of seconds later, the door buzzed.

Esme closed the door of B & B Investigations behind her and immediately pulled the heart-and-sequin shirt off over the top of her head. The gloves came next. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The streetlamps on Wynkoop gave off enough light for her to see the main office, not that there was much to see beyond a bunch of old filing cabinets, a couple of beat-up desks, and a couple of mismatched, overstuffed chairs she knew were tucked in the corners somewhere. A door flanked by two bookcases led into another, smaller office, Robert Bainbridge’s private office, otherwise known as her father’s storage room. There was no Robert Bainbridge at B & B Investigations anymore. Failing health had landed him in a nursing home a few years back, and his business had been hanging by a financial thread ever since, a situation that had taken an even sharper downhill turn since her father’s ill-fated involvement with the Mountaineer Dog Track, a badass bookie in town named Franklin Bleak, and the truly hapless Otto Von Lindberg.

She had the painting now, though, and that was a start toward sorting this mess out. Once she made her delivery of the painting to Isaac Nachman, Otto wouldn’t have any choice but to hightail his deviant butt back to San Francisco to deal with his boss as best he may. Esme didn’t envy him the job. Erich Warner didn’t suffer fools gladly, and he suffered losers even less well.

Tossing the shirt and gloves onto a chair, she checked her watch.

Eight-thirty. The night was still young, and she was on schedule—a ridiculously tight schedule. Getting all her players in place in time to meet Franklin Bleak’s deadline had left her with a very small window of opportunity.

The sudden buzzing of the intercom on the security system brought her to a standstill, all her senses on alert. Then the intercom in the office next door buzzed. When she heard Pete Carlson buzz back, she relaxed.

Pizza delivery,
she thought. Pete liked his Friday night pizza, The Joint’s version of Chicago-style. She’d gone over and shared it with him more than once as a kid, when her dad had been working late and her mom had been pulling the night shift at the hospital. Nothing had changed there either. Her mom still worked the night shift at Denver General.

Bending over, she released the straps on her platform heels and kicked them off her feet. Timing was everything tonight. As long as she kept moving, she could pull this deal off. On her way across the office, she lowered the zipper on her skirt and let it fall to the floor.

It hadn’t been Otto on the intercom. She knew that for damn sure, and if by some chance, for whatever reason, somebody had been tailing her tonight, they were hell and gone out of luck if they thought they were going to find a shopworn hooker with a limp in the Faber Building. That girl was disappearing fast.

As she passed her desk, she leaned over and hit the play button on the phone, then continued on to the bathroom, where she did turn on a light. She set the white vinyl tote on the floor, keeping it close, and left the door open, so she could hear the messages come off the machine.

The first one was dearly predictable.

“Esme, you’re not answering your cell, honey, and I need you to stop at the Sooper’s to pick up your father’s prescription and a watermelon. Aunt Nanna forgot to get a watermelon for the twins’ birthday tomorrow. Everyone is just thrilled that you were able to get home for the party. And that’s the Sooper’s just off Federal, not the new one. Oh, just a second…”
The line went quiet for a moment, then her mom came back on.
“Okay, honey, I just pulled into the hospital, and I’ve got to get to work. Don’t forget the watermelon. Thanks, baby.”

Geezus,
her mother was so clueless, so sweet and clueless, and that was for the best. Burt Alden worked hard to keep her in the dark, with varying degrees of success, and far be it from Esme to shine a klieg light on her father’s less-than-kosher activities. She loved her mother too much for that—but a watermelon? Honest to God, there was a helluva lot more at stake tonight than a damn watermelon, and she sure as hell hadn’t come all the way from Seattle for Danny and Deb’s seventeenth birthday party. Not that she didn’t love them, but
geez.

The answering machine beeped for the second message.

“Burt, this is Thomas in Chicago. I have the name you’re looking for. Call me
.”

Score,
Esme thought, kneeling down and reaching into her tote for her personal cell phone. She’d needed that name days ago. She’d left her anonymous, prepaid phone in the tote, the one whose number she’d given to the Oxford’s valet.

The machine beeped again, and a third recorded message came on.

“This call is for…BURT ALDEN…A courtesy reminder for your dental appointment on…”

She punched a couple of buttons on her phone, speed-dialing her dad. Then she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and began shimmying out of the fishnet hose.

“…
MONDAY, AUGUST 23, at…two o’clock
P.M.
…with…DR. STEVENS…”

“Dad,” she said, when he answered. “Thomas called from Chicago. He’s got the name we need. Call him. Then call me back.”

She pulled a black half-slip off the towel rod and pulled it up to her waist.

“Did you get the Meinhard?” he asked, his voice tense with the strain of the last few months. His deal with Otto had hit the fan in San Francisco, and he’d been playing a game of high-stakes pickup sticks ever since—and losing, up until she’d come on board.

“Yeah. I got it,” she said, pulling a meticulously tailored black skirt off one of the hangers on the door and stepping into it.

“And Otto Von Lindberg?” he asked.

“Compromised.” She finished zipping the skirt and shrugged into a shoulder holster, slipping it on over her red push-up bra.

“And you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. I’m okay.” He knew what her plan had been—and he knew she’d been right, no matter how much he’d disliked it. “Get the name and call me back.”

She ended the call and set the phone on the sink.

There was no way to play nice and come out ahead, not in this game, and still, Von Lindberg had gotten off lightly. He was alive, a condition she wasn’t putting any money on him maintaining, not once Warner found out old Otto had lost the Meinhard. She’d gone up against Warner before, a couple of times, and both times had been intensely educational. Hard, hard lessons had been learned.

Like in Bangkok eighteen months ago.

Yeah, she thought. That had been a real damn touch-and-go situation, real damn touch-and-go. If there was any one reason to permanently get out of the art-recovery game, its name was Erich Warner.

Christ.
She instinctively squeezed her right hand into a fist, feeling all five fingers band together—and she was grateful, so damn grateful. The scars on her right shoulder were another matter. There was no getting away from them, no fixing them. They were a brand, the price she’d paid for not being quick enough to make a clean getaway.

So what was she doing here, getting within a thousand miles of another of Warner’s deals? He’d kill her this time, if he caught her, and that was if she was lucky. If she wasn’t lucky, if he was in a bad mood, which she had all but guaranteed by stealing his Meinhard, well, then things would get messy again—damn awful messy, and then they’d get worse.

Geezus.
What in the hell
was
she doing here, dressing up like a hooker and hog-tying some guy in a thong and a dog collar at the Oxford Hotel? The act itself was at the top end of her EZ scale, but the fallout—hell, the fallout could be her very own personal nightmare, the one that snuck up on her in her dreams when her defenses were down.

She swore softly under her breath. Burt Alden had a lifelong habit of getting in over his head and more often than not sinking like a stone. But he’d never been sunk the way Warner could sink him—and that was why she was well within Warner’s thousand-mile limit. Her father didn’t have a clue what he was up against. Bainbridge would have known. Robert Bainbridge would have connected the dots on the Meinhard deal, realized Otto was no more than a messenger boy, and been on the lookout for the big fish, the shark, but Burt didn’t consult with Mr. Bainbridge anymore.