Secret Combinations (23 page)

“Don't you worry. I'm going in with back-up,” said Kenyon.

After arranging the rendezvous with
Ricci, Kenyon left the gallery and returned home by taxi. It had been a tiring day, and though his wound was healing well, his head still hurt from being bumped by the door. He wanted to lay down and rest before evening.

He was almost through Lydia's front door when he suddenly realized that Harry wasn't around. He glanced up and down the street, but the cabby's distinctive taxi was nowhere to be seen. He went inside and called Harry's cell number, but only got his voice mail. Kenyon left a message, then ascended the steps, worried.
If Harry doesn't get back to me in time, I'm screwed
, he thought.
There's no way I'm going to see Ricci without someone at my back
.

Kenyon laid down on the bed, exhausted. Fatigue overtook his worries, and he immediately passed into a sleep that was heavy, but not dreamless. The agent found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Lydia's Morgan sports car. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the top was down. Alpine mountains towered above, and the air was full of the smell of summer forests.

As the Morgan roared through a steep canyon pass, Kenyon slowly turned toward the driver. It was Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand. She was driving with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a sharpshooter's pistol. The wind was blowing her hair around, and she carelessly brushed it back into place with the barrel of the gun.

Suddenly, Ilsa took her eyes off the road and turned to stare at Kenyon. It wasn't mere hatred in her ice blue eyes, it was something deeper, darker. She lifted the gun and pointed it at him.

Kenyon tried to leap from the car, but his legs were frozen. He scrabbled at the door, but he couldn't find the latch. He turned back toward Ilsa, but she had disappeared; the car was careening down the road without a driver. It slowly turned toward the chasm to the right.

Kenyon awoke with a start; he was covered in sweat, and his hands trembled. It was sometime in the evening. The sound of the phone had broken the nightmare's evil spell. The agent picked up the receiver, with relief.

“Jack, it's 'Arry calling back.”

Kenyon glanced at the bedside clock; it showed just after 9:00
PM.
“Where you been all day?” he asked.

“Sorry, 'ad to take a day-fare out-of-town,” said Harry. “Any problems?”

“No,” said Kenyon. “I was calling about something else. You available for some back-up tonight?”

“You got it, mate. What's the plan?”

Kenyon outlined what he wanted, and Harry agreed to pick him up at 11:20
PM.

Later that evening, Kenyon was still turning the nightmare over in his mind when Harry rang the buzzer. He grabbed his coat and headed to the front door. Once again, he wished he had his sidearm. In his gut, he felt Ricci was too much of a coward to threaten him to his face, but he also knew the Italian was perfectly capable of any sort of skullduggery.

Kenyon joined the cabby in his taxi. “You get the stuff?” he asked.

“Right here.” Harry took out a wafer-thin cell phone and a thin, black cord. “It's all charged and ready to go.”

Kenyon took the black cord and pinned the end to the inside of his coat. He plugged the other end of the cord into the hands-free extension on the tiny cell phone, dialed a number, then tucked the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Harry's cell phone rang. The cabby closed the partition and answered.

“Can you hear me?” asked Kenyon, holding his head erect.

“Clear as a bell,” said Harry. He re-opened the partition.

Kenyon turned off the cell phone. “I'll keep my unit on when I'm upstairs in Ricci's apartment,” he said. “If I yell for help, you call in the cavalry, okay?”

“Got it, mate.”

Ricci's address was in Knightsbridge, about a mile from Lydia's home. The taxi drove east on Cromwell Road, past the immense, ornate Natural History Museum and the equally lavish Victoria and Albert Museum, until they came to a busy commercial sector lining Brompton Road. The street was crowded with interior decorator outlets, travel agencies, and fashion boutiques.

Just ahead of them, a young woman with short auburn hair pulled up in a silver Porsche and dashed into an all-night pastry shop. Something about the pretty woman reminded Kenyon of Tanya. He thought about her smile, her green eyes, and her smooth white skin pressing against his. Since their argument over Lydia, they hadn't spoken. Kenyon thought about calling her, but what would he say? I'm sorry I bugged you by trying to find Lydia's killer? The thought depressed him.

Harry slowed the cab as they approached the address. Ricci's apartment was located in a large, modern brick building on the south side of Brompton Road. The front of the building was lined with antique stores, draperies, and a chic cafe. Harry turned at the corner and drove down the side street paralleling the building, and parked.

Kenyon glanced at his watch. They were about twenty minutes early. “Wait here, I'll be right back,” he told the cabby as he got out of the cab and entered Ricci's building.

The entrance to the apartment portion of the building was reached by walking down an aisle between the cafe and an antique shop specializing in clocks. The glass door leading to the apartment's tiny foyer and elevator was locked. A row of buzzers by the door indicated about twenty apartments in the building, and Kenyon spotted Ricci's immediately. The penthouse, naturally.

A little old lady with a ginger-colored Pekingese came out of the elevator. Kenyon helped hold the door open for her as she exited. “Thank you, young man,” she said. Kenyon noticed that the collar on her jacket was made of fox. The head of the animal, still on one end, made it look like roadkill.

Kenyon returned to the street and walked up to Brompton Road. The sidewalk was still crowded with tourists in garishly colored running shoes, most of them gawking at the floodlit facade of the nearby Harrod's department store. The tiny patio of the corner cafe was full of customers enjoying cappuccinos and French pastries.

Kenyon sauntered past the cafe to a newsstand. He bought a
USA TODAY
, noting that, even though it was two days old, he was still charged the full price. He stood beneath a street lamp and flipped through the pages. The Giants had lost their last game to the Angels, eight to seven. Damn, they gotta get a bullpen, he thought.

His reading was interrupted by squealing tires. Kenyon glanced up to see a scuffed-looking Range Rover come around the corner and tear off down Brompton Road at a fast rate. He had only a second to peer at the driver, but even a quick glance was enough to confirm that it was Raymond Legrand.

Kenyon walked back to the road where Harry was parked. “That Range Rover that just drove by—you see where it came from?” he asked.

“Yeah, it must have been parked behind the building,” said Harry.

“It was Legrand,” said Kenyon. “Think he was following us?”

“Not a chance,” said Harry, puzzled. “I'd a spotted him in a second.”

Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was almost midnight. “We'll worry about it later,” he said. The agent took out his cell phone and dialed Harry's number. “We got work to do.”

With phone contact established, Kenyon headed for the front door. He pushed the button for Ricci's apartment, then waited. There was no answer. He pushed again and waited for another minute, but still no response. Kenyon turned and glanced out toward the street, wondering if Ricci hadn't come home yet.

Their nightly promenade done, the old lady with the dog came walking up to the entrance. She unlocked the door, and Kenyon held it for her again.

“Who are you here to see?” the old woman asked.

“Mr. Bruno Ricci,” Kenyon replied.

“Oh, such a delightful young man,” responded the woman. “He is so fond of my little Pierre.” She held up the Pekingese, who tried to nip Kenyon's hand when he gave it a pat on the head. Since Ricci hadn't answered the buzzer yet, Kenyon simply entered behind the pair.

The foyer was done in a reddish marble, with large, stuffed chairs that looked too uncomfortable to sit in. The little old lady headed down the hallway of the first floor; Kenyon got onto the mirror-lined elevator and rode up to the fifth.

Kenyon found Ricci's apartment door at the end of the hall and rapped twice on the brass knocker. He stood quietly and listened, but couldn't hear anyone moving around inside. He waited for a few moments, then knocked again. Frustrated, he leaned forward and glanced through the peephole, though he couldn't see anything. He rapped on the door once more, this time, harder. Still no answer. Kenyon reached forward and tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked. He swung the door open and leaned in. “Ricci? It's Jack Kenyon.”

The apartment faced east, toward Harrod's. Advancing slowly into the foyer, Kenyon could see the upper-most part of the department store's façade: a thousand tiny lights twinkling in the darkness.

Off to his right, Kenyon could hear Latin music playing on a stereo. It sounded like the Gypsy Kings. He cautiously moved in that direction.

A wide arch marked the entrance to the living room. The carpet was a pale lilac, and the furniture was finished in a rich green fabric. Several modern abstracts hanging on the wall added bright splashes of red and blue. Kenyon didn't recognize the artists. The overall impression was expensive and outlandish.

A pale oak dining table rested in a large bay window facing north over Brompton Road. A cup of tea and a plate with bread crumbs sat beside a copy of the
Times
. Kenyon walked over to examine the paper; this morning's edition. He continued through the kitchen. There was a pot of tea brewing on the counter; it was still warm to his touch.

Kenyon came to the main hall and headed toward the bedroom door, which was ajar. The deserted room was dominated by a queen-sized bed on a modern sculpted steel frame. A large duvet was jammed to one side, and several pillows spilled to the floor. Articles of men's clothing were tossed haphazardly about the room. A wallet and keys sat atop a bleached wood bureau. The agent could hear water running in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Kenyon thought Ricci was in the shower and hadn't heard him at the door.

“Ricci?” he called out again, louder, but there was still no reply. Kenyon moved cautiously forward. The agent came to the closed door of the bathroom; he noticed a dark puddle running from under the door. He pushed the door open; a thin veneer of pink water was lapping the black and white tile floor.

Ricci rested in the bathtub, nude, his head rolled back, his eyes closed, his lips pursed in silent thought. It looked as though he were asleep, except for the slashed wrists and the bloody knife on the floor.

Kenyon moved forward. Ricci's wrists were a mass of blood. He checked for a pulse on the gallery manager's neck, just below the left jaw. The skin was warm to the touch, but there was no pulse. Carefully, Kenyon lifted one eyelid. Ricci's sockets had rolled up, lifeless.

Kenyon stepped back into the bedroom and lifted the cell phone out of his pocket. “Harry? You there?”

“Yeah,” replied the cabby. “What's up?”

Kenyon took a deep breath. “You better call the cops. Ricci killed himself.”

The police arrived fifteen minutes
later. The man in charge, a heavyset detective sergeant named Ruffy, asked Kenyon to wait in the living room while his men dealt with Ricci.

Kenyon sat at the dining room table, staring absently at the unfinished toast on the plate. Before the police arrived, Kenyon had done a quick search through the apartment. He had hoped that Ricci might have written something down detailing Lydia's death, but he hadn't found a scrap. Whatever Ricci had known about Lydia's death, he had taken it to his grave.

An assistant forensic practitioner was just carrying his photographic equipment out the front door when Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel arrived. Arundel didn't even glance in Kenyon's direction, but immediately went with Ruffy down the hall. They inspected the scene for several minutes, before Arundel returned and entered the living room.

The detective sat in the chair opposite Kenyon. He turned the
Times
, glanced at it, then returned it to its original position. “What, may I ask, is your relationship with Mr. Ricci?”

“He's the manager of Lydia's—my—gallery.”

“When did you last speak to him?” he asked.

“This afternoon.”

“Did he seem despondent? Depressed?”

“No.”

Arundel nodded, almost to himself. “When did you arrive?”

“Shortly before midnight,” said Kenyon. “I buzzed, but Ricci didn't answer. One of the residents let me into the building. When I got to his door, I knocked, but nobody opened the door.”

Arundel stood and walked over to the teapot and placed his palm against the side. “What did you do then?”

“The door was unlocked, so I opened it and called out. I could hear music playing, so I came inside.”

Arundel lifted the pot and glanced idly in. “What did you see?”

Kenyon pointed to the table. “Pretty much what you see here.”

Arundel sniffed at the contents of the teapot, then dipped a finger in and tasted the contents. “Did you touch anything in here?”

Kenyon thought for a moment. “The front door, then that teapot, to see if it was warm.”

Arundel returned to his place across from Kenyon. “How did you discover the body?”

“I spotted water coming under the door, and pushed it open.”

“Did you touch or disturb anything in the bathroom?”

“I touched his neck.” Kenyon indicated a spot below his own jaw. “He was still warm, but there was no pulse.”