A Touch of Minx (25 page)

"Okay, what?"

"Why did you take off? That's what."

He frowned, his eyebrows almost joining. "I told you last night."

"That shit about Toombs? Or the part where you said you didn't want to do security work anymore?"

Stoney looked out his passenger window for a long moment. "You know I love you, honey. So when you retired from the biz, I retired, too. Fewer split loyalties for you, I guess. But it's been a year."

"You didn't think I would last this long going straight?" she asked, her chest tightening. She knew he'd done it for her, and she knew he hadn't been universally happy about it, but did he resent it? Did he resent her for it?

"Actually, no, I didn't. I thought when you took the job restoring art at the Norton that that was as straight as you could go. And even then every couple of months you'd start asking about the requests I was getting for items, hunting around for something that interested you."

"That's my problem," she retorted. "Don't change the subject. You disappeared. And you owe me an explanation."

"Why do I owe you an explanation?"

"Because you're my damn family, Stoney. You don't get to take off without letting me know you're safe."

He took a deep breath and blew it out again. "I needed to think, okay?"

"Think about what?"

"About whether I'm willing to keep hitting up my old contacts for information so you can take down somebody they work with. It kind of shuts the door on my ass, too."

"Oh." She gazed at the steering wheel. "'Have they been threatening you?"

"Everybody threatens everybody, Sam. You know that. It's part of the game. But eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, I won't have anybody left who'll talk to me."

"I'll still talk to you."

"Oh. gee, thanks." He gave a brief smile. "This acquisitions retrieval thing you're doing. You really like it."

"So far. Except for seeing the creepy Toombs room."

"Tell me about that, will you?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now. I want to talk about how you're the only person I can say anything to. I missed you this week. You have no idea what's been going on here. I had to take Aubrey with me to scope out Toombs's house."

"I couldn't have gone in there with you legitimately, anyway. Aubrey's a good guy."

"So are you. So don't go around thinking that you're leaving me to face all this crazy shit alone."

"What happens when I run out of contacts? Then I'll just be the incredibly handsome black guy working in your security office."

"And my partner. If you get bored down the line, we'll find something else for you to do. Maybe open an antiques shop. You like that stuff, and you're good at it."

"You're working pretty hard at finding reasons for me to stick around."

"Well, you spent a couple of days figuring out that same thing, didn't you?"

"I did. I went down to Miami, talked with a couple of people, got some job offers for acquisitions, and tried to figure out what it would be like without you pulling those tricky jobs and earning us the really big bucks."

"Stoney, you—"

"I couldn't imagine it," he interrupted. "I don't like doing security installations, but I'd like working acquisitions without you around even less. And then I got mad at myself, because I figured you're like the butterfly out of the cocoon thing, and I need to let you go to make your life easier."

"You don't make my life harder," she retorted, her voice, and her emotions, a little unsteady. "You keep me from going crazy about all the law abiding."

"I'm glad you said that. Because last night—and this morning—I figured out that you do some things you don't like so you can hang around the English muffin, so I can do some things I don't like so I can hang around you. Of course I was buzzed at least part of the time, so it probably doesn't make any sense."

She leaned over and hugged him. "Thank you," she said, a tear running down her face.

"No, thank you, honey. Now tell me about the creepy room."

Samantha told him as she started the car again and headed back out onto the street. Jeez, for a minute there she'd thought she was going to lose him to the dark side again. She had Rick as an incentive to stay good, but he wasn't the only reason. Good luck lasted only so long, and she'd had a very long streak of it. Stoney's only incentive for staying legit seemed to be her.

"So he's been tracking your career for the last three years, and stalking you for one year."

"That's what it looks like. I can't even describe what… It was the creepiest thing I've ever come across. And I

don't even want to think about what he does in there." She shuddered.

"And he just walked into Jellicoe Security and wanted to hire you for a job. He probably would've been waiting in the bushes to take more pictures of you while you did your thing. He could have landed you in prison, Sam."

"Your own hire setting you up is pretty low," She agreed. "It's a good thing I retired."

She felt Stoney looking at her, and kept her gaze on the road. Yes, she still felt sick knowing her candid moments were in a locked room, but she had a break-in tonight where she would be accompanied by two novices. She needed to focus on that. She was actually glad to be able to focus on that.

"Anything else happen while I was gone?" Stoney asked.

Samantha cleared her throat. B and E's were so much easier to talk about than personal stuff. "Rick's been hinting around—or trying not to hint around—at something," she admitted reluctantly. "I think he wants to get married."

"Get married'?" Stoney repeated. "To you?"

"Donner's already taken," she said dryly. "Yes, to me."

"Huh."

He didn't sound all that surprised, considering that she broke into a cold sweat just saying it out loud. "That's all you have to say? 'Huh'?"

"Does he need a tax write-off or a publicity photo opportunity or something?"

"No."

"Then why'd he ask you?"

"He hasn't asked me. Not yet." She frowned, edging on being annoyed.

"Okay, why would he ask you, if he asked you?"

Her brow lowered further. "Whose side are you on?"

"Is there a side?"

"What? Step away from that body and bring me the real Stoney."

"The real Stoney's probably got my truck," he muttered.

"That is not helpful."

"What do you want? My advice? Honey, I was married once for about six weeks, thirty years ago. You have to figure this out for yourself. You definitely have some baggage, but if he's doing the asking, then I would have to say that he's probably figured out how this will—would—affect him. So you worry about what's best for you." He shrugged. "Either you're planning on staying, or you'e thinking of leaving. I'm with you, whatever you decide on."

"Thanks. I think." Stoney was right, but that didn't make it any easier to figure out. What was better for her? How the hell did she know? She knew what she liked and what made her happy, but chocolate did that, too—and that went straight to her hips.

"That's if he even asks you. You're kind of high maintenance."

She snorted. "Look who's talking, Mr. I Have No Money and I Can't Find My Truck."

He abruptly sat forward, pointing. "Ha. My truck's right th—"

Her cell phone rang to The Partridge Family theme. Donner's house. She hit talk as she pulled the car over. "Jellicoe here."

"Hi, Aunt Sam."

Oh, crap. How did somebody with a nearly photographic memory forget a six-foot-tal, gender-neutral dummy? She knew she needed to get it today. Or she'd known last night. Crud. "Hi, Livia. I'm glad you called. Clark will be back in your classroom tomorrow."

The ten-year-old shrieked happily. "Really? You found it?"

"I did."

"You're the bomb. Who took it?"

Samantha refrained from clearing her throat. "That's confidential, I'm afraid."

"Okay. Thank you so much, Aunt Sam."

"You're welcome."

"I love you. Bye."

"I love you too, sweetie."

As she closed the phone, Stoney was looking at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Livia. Donner's kid?"

"One of them. She hired me. I'm helping her out."

"Boy, you're just going all marshmallow, aren't you?"

"Go get your damn truck."

With a grin, Stoney opened the passenger door. "You're sure you want to go after the armor tonight? I can get you blueprints for the house by the end of the week."

"Viscanti needs the stuff by Wednesday. And if I'm wrong, I'll have a couple of days to figure out where the hell the pieces are."

"What's your feeling about the Picaults?"

"I think they've got the stuff. But then again I thought Toombs had it."

"Well, your odds are getting better." He held out his fist, and she knocked hers against it. "Call me if you need anything."

"I already do. I stuck a list in your pocket earlier." At his glare, she shrugged. "I'm keeping up on practicing my mad skills."

"Mm hm. What do you need?"

"You'll see. Just get it to me this afternoon. And call

Kim," she continued. "Aubrey and I are tired of telling her you had a family emergency."

"Okay, okay."

Samantha watched until he got the truck started and waved at her. Then she turned around to head back to Solano Dorado. Putting a blood-and-guts-covered Anatomy Man in the 'Cuda would be a very bad idea. She needed the incognito car—and maybe a partner who wouldn't mind helping her tote around a lifeless body for a little while. Or Rick, if she couldn't find that other guy.

Sunday, 3:18 p.m.

"What is the tarp in the back for?" Richard asked. "And the car rags and the five gallons of water?" Samantha grinned. "Make a left at the light."

"I'm going to find out eventually."

"Yep."

So they were apparently doing two burglaries today. It was definitely a record for him, especially after the break-in yesterday, though he wasn't certain it would be for her. "Will you at least tell me how you found Clark?"

"Trade secret. Pull in over there." He did as she asked, stopping in front of a locked chain-link fence that surrounded a pair of empty-looking warehouses. How in hell had she found the model here? "No one's in there, are they?" he asked as she hopped out of the SUV.

"Not today."

Closing the Explorer's door, she strode up to the fence like she owned the property. Almost faster than a normal human would be able to use a key, she had the lock open. Then she unwrapped the chain. Shoving the gate open, she motioned him in. Richard followed her to the warehouse on the right, waited again as she pulled up on the rolled door that didn't seem to be locked at all, and drove inside.

An old desk and a battered chair stood in one corner, a phone and a computer monitor and keyboard—but no CPU—on the desk. What looked like a makeshift hospital bed, complete with a coat rack filling in as an IV stand, rested in the opposite corner. "What the bloody hell is this?" he asked, leaving the driver's door open and joining Samantha in front of a rolled black tarp.

"It's a movie set," she answered, taking one end of the tarp. "Help me move this away from the wall, will you?"

Richard took the other end of the heavy, six-foot roll. Red liquid flowed out over his fingers and he let go, startled. "Sam, what the—"

"It's okay."

"Are you certain about that?" He showed her his red-slicked fingers. Neither of them wore gloves. If they were caught dragging a corpse around, they'd both end up in jail and featured on Celebrity Justice.

She flashed a grin at him. "Trust me."

Blowing out his breath, he bent down and grabbed the tarp again. They scooted it toward the middle of the ware-house. When it was clear of the worst of the clutter, Samantha quickly unwrapped it.

"Say hello to Anatomy Man,"she said, flipping back the last layer of tarp.

Richard looked down. Clark lay in a jumble of red stained wigs and clothes, most of them female undergarments, and sticky red organs. "Good God," he muttered.

"Just be glad he's anatomically neutral," Samantha said calmly, picking up the liver and a kidney and heading for the car. "Let's get these cleaned off."

Gingerly Richard retrieved the heart and a lung. "Why are we cleaning them?" he asked.

"Because we can't put Clark back in Miss Barlow's room looking like this. All the kids would need therapy."

"I think I need therapy after seeing that. He is very accurate, isn't he?"

"Except for where he's missing the good parts."

Richard gave a short laugh. "Saucy minx."

"Go get the brain, Igor. I'll start on these."

He went back and collected more internal organs. "I assume this was a horror movie?"

"That's my guess."

Richard watched her rinsing off the heart for a moment. "This was kids, wasn't it?"

She paused in her washing. "You can keep asking, and I'll tell you what I know. But you asked to be left ignorant, remember?"

"I remember." Whatever she didn't tell him, he could still make assumptions and draw conclusions. Did he want to know, though? And did the parents of this kid—these kids—want to know? Should they know? "What about the movie?"

"I guess it's going to be a cliffhanger, or they'll have to finish without their victim."

"I mean, where is the film? If you're keeping the identities of the filmmakers a secret, no one can see the results."

"Clark is kind of a standout," she said after a moment. "You're right; somebody might recognize him. I'll take care of it."

"How many break-ins are you doing this weekend?"

"I'm good with this one, the school, and the Picaults for today," she said briskly. "I'll leave a note."

'"A note,'" he repeated.

"Yes. Now let's get a move on. I don't know what time exactly August and Yvette will get back from their bike ride"

This time Richard frowned. "Did I miss something?"

"Very rarely."

He put a hand on her arm, making her look at him. "We're going to search the Picaults' house after the dinner party."

"I've been thinking about that. If we go in when they're not home, and then show up for dinner later, they really won't have a clue about what happened and who did it. If we go in after, they'll have better odds of figuring out you—we—had something to do with it."

"You've been connected with forged artworks and the failed theft of the jewel exhibit at my house in Devonshire, my love. I wouldn't say they won't have a clue."

"Well, they won't have anything they can prove. And you, Lord Rawley, are the kind of person that people don't accuse of much without proof."

"So you're using me as a shield for your misdeeds."

"My good deeds. I could use another kidney here."

Shaking his head, he retrieved the last of the internal organs, then went back for the bones that had been extracted.

Clark really was a font of information—and body parts. "How are you going to clean out his… body cavities?"

"I'll just have to flush him with water and then towel him out. I'm not aiming for perfection, just passable."

In half an hour they had Clark fairly well cleaned and lying on the tarp in the back of the Explorer, his body parts bagged and resting beside Mm. Samantha covered the pseudo-corpse with the end of the tarp, then dug around until she found a piece of paper in her jacket pocket and a pen in the glove box.

"What are you going to say?"

'"We've recovered your prop and returned it to the school,'" she said, writing as she went. '"If you want to avoid criminal charges, destroy the movie, as it is the only remaining evidence of your crime.'" She looked up at him. "Think that'll work?"

"I think so."

She set the note under the edge of the computer keyboard, then paused. "Aren't we missing a femur?"

He looked at Clark's leg and then went back through the bag. "Yes."

"Great. Check the old tarp again, will you?"

Of course he got the messy job. He searched through the folds of the faux-blood-spattered tarp while she went through the desk and the cardboard boxes of other props— fake handguns, plastic handcuffs, police badges and shirts, everything a good horror movie might need.

"Oh, cool," she said, lifting a small red-filled bag about the size of a candy bar.

"What is that?"

"A blood pack. Stuntmen put them under their shirts with a small explosive charge and whammo, you've been shot. A squib."

"You're very Hollywood, all of a sudden."

She laughed. "I like gadgets. No B and E use, but it's still fun."

Something white caught his eye under the edge of a broken pallet in front of him. "Got it. Either that, or there's a real body in here."

He put the second femur into the bag. Then they climbed into the SUV and Samantha directed him to J. C. Thomas Elementary School. Before he'd met Samantha he'd never spent a day like this in his life. Now, though, while he wouldn't precisely call it routine, it wasn't all that surprising. And he enjoyed it immensely.

Generally he discovered her about to do something dangerous and had to threaten or argue her into including him. This time she'd actually returned home to recruit his assistance. Yes, life was good. He glanced sideways at her. Her green eyes were unfocused, looking in the direction of the sky and probably seeing the layout of the Picaults' house, running through the robbery, gauging how much trouble she would have finding the armor, and whether it was even actually there.

"Do you think this is a wild goose chase?" she asked abruptly.

He considered her question for a moment. "If you had, say, six months instead of six days to decipher who your main suspects were, how would you go about it?"

"Well," she began, sliding down in the seat to prop her knees against the dashboard, "I would work on tracking the thief, even though for a job pulled ten years ago it probably wouldn't make much difference who did it."

"Even so, walk me through it."

"It would have to be an A list guy with a crew, to get in and out carrying two crates—the exact two crates and nothing else—out from under the noses of Met security, Japanese exhibit officials, and the U.S. contingent."

"How many A list guys with a crew are we talking about?"

"From ten years ago? Three." She pointed. "Make a right here."

"You're pretty certain."

"I was fifteen, just going out on big jobs solo." She shrugged. "I'd been learning everything I could, from anybody I could."

"Which three could have pulled it off, then?"

"Gabrielle de Souza, Mick McClane, and Martin."

Richard nearly overshot the turn. "Your father, Martin?"

"Yep."

Okay. This was about Yoritomo's armor, not about her colorful family history. "Who did the Met job?"

She drew a breath. "My guess would be Mick. Gabrielle mostly worked Europe, and when Martin pulled me into the Met fiasco this past spring, he was going over the blueprints as closely as everybody else. He'd never worked the Met before. I'm sure of it."

"Very well, now we have Mick McClane. Where do we go from there?"

"Not to Mick, because he's in a German prison for the next thirty-seven years. But like I said before, this had to be a commissioned job. Somebody would have had to specifically put in an order for Yoritomo's armor and swords. And both they and Mick would be really expensive."

"Someone with a very large interest in Japanese antiquities, a weak moral compass, and a very large pocketbook."

"Exactly. And I would still guess they were East Coast-based, or Mick would have done the job in London."

"Who are your top three candidates, then?" he pressed, turning into the elementary school's parking lot. "From ten years ago, of course."

"Since I did those four jobs for Toombs, he still makes the list. If not for the moral compass thing, I'd add you, just because of the quality of your collection. And—"

"Thank you, I think."

"You're welcome. Park up there. That's the closest entrance to Miss Barlow's classroom."

He turned up the row she indicated. "Who else?"

"The Picaults are still there. I've heard their names mentioned a couple of times, and they're not exactly straight arrows."

"So there's your top three."

"Well, if we exclude you, I'd bet on Leland Spicer. But ten years ago I don't think he had the spare change to afford it. I've gone through a list of about ten other potential buyers, but I can verify they never saw the samurai exhibit."

He put the car in park. "Considering, then, that we've eliminated me, and Spicer, and Toombs, I'd say the Picaults have that armor."

Samantha smiled, reaching over to touch his cheek. "You're sweet to say so."

Richard pulled her closer by her jacket collar and kissed her. "I'm betting that you know what you're doing. I know you don't want to go back to only security installations."

"No, I don't."

He opened his door, unwilling to break the mood by considering that tonight he intended to help her find a foothold in a career undoubtedly full of danger and mayhem, and only marginally legal, if that. Keeping her wrapped in security work, though, would probably kill her—figuratively if not literally—faster than an angry homeowner.

"The parking lot's empty," she noted, "so no security guys. Probably not, anyway."

"'That's reassuring."

"Mm hm. You get Clark ready, and I'll shut off the alarms."

And to think, he reflected as he lifted the back gate of the Explorer, this was the easy part of the day.

"Remember," Samantha said, keeping her voice calm and even despite the rush of adrenaline beginning to pump through her muscles, "just because August and Yvette are out biking doesn't mean the household staff is gone. Especially with a dinner party set for three and a half hours from now."

"Hence the mustache, I assume," Aubrey commented, adjusting the bristles of the red handlebars and goatee she'd pasted on him.

"Don't touch; the spirit gum's not set yet."

She stuck the last bobby pin in her own hair and then bent double to pull the long black wig on over her head. As she straightened to look in the mirror she felt like Cher, but more importantly she definitely didn't look like Sam Jellicoe. Especially with the glasses on. Pulling the hair back, she tied it into a ponytail.

"I don't think I've ever worn coveralls before," Rick noted, emerging from his dressing closet.