A Touch of Minx (4 page)

"Yes. Principal Horner gave me a copy of it. Would you like a photocopy?"

"That would be great."

The teacher went to her desk and pulled some papers out of the wire basket labeled For Miss Barlow in pretty, flowery letters. "I'll be right back. Olivia's desk is over here." She pointed at the seat in the front row, second from the left. "Thanks. No hurry."

As soon as Miss Barlow left, Samantha took out her digital camera and snapped photos going around the room. Then she walked back to the door and took a look at it. It had a lock, as did the one at the other end of the room. The second one stopped her for a second.

When she looked at the frame, she immediately noticed a tiny patch of sticky residue right above and another one directly below the latch plate. Someone had put a piece of tape across it to keep the door from catching and locking. If the classroom doors had been fitted with dead bolts it never would have worked, but these were interior doors, and the lock mechanism was part of the knob itself.

Hm. Somebody with access to the doors while they were open or unlocked, which meant during the day. An inside job, then, and planned in advance.

Just to be sure she wasn't jumping to conclusions, she checked the windows that lined the far wall. Rows of sprouting lima beans and tomato plants and crazy-painted ceramic pots crowded the shallow sill. No spilled dirt, no broken art projects, no footprints or smears—the thief or thieves hadn't come through this way.

"Here you are," Miss Barlow said, returning to the room and walking up to hand her two sheets of paper. "I had the feeling that taking down the report was as far as the police would go."

"You're probably right. Anatomy Man would be pretty low on their priority list."

The teacher sighed. "I understand that. We had a very exciting interactive unit planned. It's… it's aggravating."

"Aren't some of your parents willing to replace him?"

"Yes, though I don't think they realize that Anatomy Man is a very precise life-size model shared by six classrooms. We purchased him just a month ago, and he cost the school nearly three thousand dollars."

"Wow." Samantha folded the papers in half. "Thanks for the report. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you. If you could recover it, this would be a ter rific lesson for the kids about consequences and doing the right thing."

Gosh, maybe if she'd had a couple of those lessons, she wouldn't have fallen into a life of crime. "Livia said the unit starts a week from Monday?"

"Yes, though I'll have to switch it with the unit on electricity if Anatomy Man isn't returned. I had the whole three weeks planned out to coordinate with a hands-on experience. The kids retain so much more that way." She briskly restacked the police report, then slammed it back into the in-box. "Besides wasting my time to rewrite the lessons, it just… makes me very angry."

Another lesson in seeing the aftermath of a theft from the perspective of a victim. No wonder she never used to socialize with marks. Samantha forced a smile. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Miss Jellicoe. Sam."

"Don't mention it." Please don't mention it. Sam Jellicoe, elementary school sleuth. She'd never live it down. Even worse, every thief in the country would start hitting all the places where she'd done security work, because obviously she'd fallen on hard times.

The next step would be to get a list of people with access to the classroom during the day, though that list would probably include every single student, teacher, and janitor who attended or worked at J.C. Thomas Elementary School. Maybe Olivia would be able to help her out with that. That would have to wait until tomorrow, though, because she had a real job to get to work on—rare Japanese armor and samurai swords. Something she could actually put on her resume.

Samantha hummed to herself as she sat beneath the windows of Solano Dorado's library. The morning sun felt warm on her back as she flipped through one of Rick's books on antiques. She didn't consider herself particularly skilled at singing, but nobody except for the marble busts of DaVinci and Aristotle had to suffer through it, and they couldn't complain.

Japanese history, the whole honor versus death thing, fascinated her, and she took her time looking at the various photographs in the book. That was one of the things her father, Martin, hadn't gotten about her—when she contracted to steal something, she tried to learn everything she could about it first. As far as Martin was concerned, a theft was nothing more than a business transaction, and the item itself didn't matter.

But she liked to learn the age and provenance of items liked to know what she was holding in her hands and what it meant in the course of history. And apparently now this interest extended to items she meant to return to their proper owners as well as those she relocated to other interested parties.

"Gardening ideas?" Rick asked, indicating the book across her lap as he strolled into the room. He carried his cell phone in his hand; his chief assistant, John Stillwell, was in Los Angeles working on a plan to make Addisco the main subcontractor in an LAX computer upgrade project.

She shook her head. "Samurai and shogun armor," she replied. "Some of these pieces are amazing. You don't have any books on Japanese history, do you?"

"Probably. Check the list on the computer."

He sounded a little sour, but she ignored it. She liked this part of a theft, and he wasn't going to spoil it for her. "Okay."

Rick nodded. "Have you gotten the packet from the Met?"

"Not yet. Sometime today, though, according to Viscanti."

"So you're just doing some advance research."

Again she heard something in his tone that said he wasn't happy about something, but if he wasn't going to say, then she wasn't going to ask. "Can't be too thorough, I guess."

"Perhaps you can make time to talk about your garden plans at brunch tomorrow."

"Sure."

His phone rang, and he glanced down at the display. "Then I'll leave you to it," he said, vanishing down the hallway again.

As he left the library, Reinaldo, the head housekeeper, came in, a thick manila envelope in his hands. "Good morning, Miss Sam," he said in his light Cuban accent. "This just arrived for you."

She took the bulky envelope from him. "Thanks, Reinaldo."

"Of course. May I get you a fresh Diet Coke?"

"That would be great." All of Rick's employees knew she liked Diet Coke and detested coffee. There had probably been a memo or something.

Once he'd gone to fetch her soda, she took a moment to enjoy the abrupt feeling of anticipation, then opened the envelope from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Joseph Viscanti had enclosed a letter restating the circumstances of the theft, not very helpful but at least pretty concise.

He'd also included some crime scene photos, the police report, the book of the samurai exhibit, and a CD of the surveillance videos taken the night the theft had likely occurred. It actually amazed her how little the Met and the cops knew about what had happened.

Viscanti wanted her to figure out who'd pulled the job, where the loot had gone, and where it was now. Well, actually he only cared about the last bit, but she needed to know all of it if she meant to solve it. And she did mean to solve it. Otherwise Viscanti and the other museums who respected his opinion would figure it wasn't worth the trouble to hire her to recover their missing goodies, and she'd be back to security inspections and upgrades and finding elementary school property full time. And she really didn't like doing that.

The last—and only other—job Viscanti had asked her to take a look at had gone exactly nowhere. A small, portable urn, no surveillance, no prints, no signs at all. Probably some very lucky small-time hood. This theft didn't look any more promising, but it hadn't been luck that enabled somebody to get away with the goods; to manage a full suit of shogun armor and two priceless swords, all belonging to the same guy and packed in different crates, somebody had known what they were doing—and they'd been paid well to do it. A low skitter of adrenaline flowed into her muscles as

she settled at the library work table. Finding out where something had got to and retrieving it wasn't as flat-out-hair-raising as a straight-up theft, but it was close. And today, close was good enough.

Saturday, 12:15 p.m.

"Remind them that I own Computech."

Richard said, shifting the cell phone from his left to his right ear. "Zellman likes the Computech system, and anyone else offering to install software from my company is a glorified middleman."

"Right," the crisp, upper-crust London accent of John Stillwell replied. "I've already pointed out that you can provide the hardware from ACG at near cost; hopefully the Computech connection will put us over the top."

Rick grinned at the enthusiasm in his chief assistant's voice. Hiring Stillwell six months ago was one of the most brilliant decisions he'd ever made. If not for John he would be in Los Angeles himself right now, instead of looking forward to a foliage discussion with Samantha in the morning.

"You have a break tomorrow, yes?" he continued.

"Yes. I thought I might get a head start on the Burei-Halfin merger and look through the—"

"John, take the day for yourself," he interrupted. "Go to the beach or a movie studio or something." Samantha was always teasing him about being more sympathetic toward his minions, as she called them. "Be a tourist. On my dime, of course."

"Are you certain, Rick?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday. Relax a bit. I intend to."

For a moment, all he could hear was silence. "Well, you know, I've actually always wanted to go to Disneyland."

Rick grinned. "Go to Disneyland, then. And any luck on that other item?"

"It's on its way to Florida. You should have it Monday morning."

"Excellent. Have fun tomorrow."

"I will, Rick. Thank you."

He closed the phone and sat back. Though he didn't believe in premature celebrations, the LAX job seemed to be in the bag, as it were. And once he had LAX, O'Hare and La Guardia and a dozen other of the larger facilities would likely follow suit. The idea of taking on airports and their accompanying responsibility had given him pause, but when he considered it, he would trust his own products and personnel over anyone else's.

With a deep breath he straightened and pulled his computer keyboard into easy reach. Reinaldo had delivered Samantha's package to her, so for once he knew what she was up to. So two dozen e-mails waited for him to answer, and then he could do one of the rarest things in his large repertoire and relax for the next day and a half.

A knock came at the half-open office door, and he looked up. "Did you solve your mystery already?" he asked, smiling as Samantha walked into the room with her usual grace and dropped into the chair opposite his desk.

"Totally," she replied. "And I figured out Jimmy Hoffa and the Man in the Iron Mask on the way here from the library."

"Well done. Let me finish these e-mails, then, and let's fly down to Nassau and have dinner at Montagu Gardens. They prepare a wonderful lobster."

"In the Bahamas."

"Well, yes."

She snorted. "You are so smooth. I'm actually here to pick your brain about Japanese antiquities. But since you're busy, I think I'll go talk to Livia Donner about Anatomy Man and then go for a run. Will you have time after?"

"I will." He refused to let her see that his heart lifted whenever she asked for his aid, assistance, advice, or knowledge about anything. He didn't want her using it against him.

"Cool. And maybe I'll let you have your way with me while I'm all hot and sweaty." She gave an exaggerated scowl, clearly amused at herself. "Or maybe in the shower. That might be more fun for you."

"I'll manage either way," he commented, finally giving in and grinning. "Thanks for being so thoughtful, though."

Samantha pushed to her feet. "Oh, you know me. I aim to please."

Richard refrained from commenting on that, instead watching her backside sway as she left the room. He needed to go for a run himself, but he would settle for an hour in the weight room down in the basement later—unless Samantha had been serious about sex when she returned. At thirty-rive years of age, a round or two with her could fairly well satisfy his exercise requirements for the day.

Besides, it was the weekend, and though taking any time off was still a novelty for him, he was attempting to become accustomed to it. One of the things his ex-wife, Patricia Addison-Wallis, had complained about during their divorce had been that he worked from the moment his eyes opened in the morning until he closed them at night. Considering that he'd discovered her in bed with his friend and former college roommate, Peter Wallis, he didn't have much sympathy for her complaints, but he'd learned the lesson. He would not put his work before his relationship ever again. And certainly not when that relationship was with Samantha Jellicoe.

He was halfway through the e-mails when his cell phone rang again. As he checked the caller ID, Richard frowned. "Walter?" he said, hitting the talk button.

"Rick," Walter Barstone's voice returned. "I tried Sam's number, but she didn't answer."

"She was going to take a run," Richard said, standing. Except when it came to Samantha's well-being, he and Walter weren't anything close to being allies, or friends. Walter had practically raised Samantha, had been her mentor and her fence for the high-end items she stole. And Bar-stone would have been completely content to see her away from her new life and back into her old one. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Could you have her call me when she shows up?"

"Not if you don't tell me why."

"Mm hm." In the ensuing silence Rick could practically hear the wily old wheels turning in Walter's brain. "Okay.

Gwyneth Mallorey wants Sam to be there when they mount the security cameras at the house, to make sure they don't mess up the 'aesthetics' of the place. According to Mrs. Mallorey, if Sam's working for her, she'd better show up."

"Gwyneth Mallorey?" Rick repeated, frowning.

"That's right. You wanted to know, so now you can tell Sam the good news. Bye."

"Walt—"

With a click the line went dead.

"Bloody hell," Richard muttered. Yes, he knew that if Samantha did anything behind his back it would be with Walter. And no, he didn't like that Barstone knew more about her than he did, or probably ever would. Hence his wanting to be in on any exchanges of information between them.

Neither, though, did he want to be in the position of having to tell Samantha that one of her clients was throwing a tantrum and expected the president of Jellicoe Security to be at her beck and call. And next week they were to attend a charity dinner at the Malloreys' house. Dammit. He could buy and sell the Malloreys, and Sam was now in the position of being subservient to them.

Perhaps her objections to security work were about more than boredom and routine, and setting herself up for a fall with her former thieving compatriots. Now it was about his life, and her place among his acquaintances and business partners. Rick Addison's live-in girlfriend who installed security cameras.

It definitely made her work for the museum look better. Those jobs, though, also had the potential to be much more dangerous to her physical well-being than the security work. None of it was just about her ego alone any longer, because it involved him, as well.

So was he willing to allow her to put herself in danger in order for him to avoid being the security guard's boyfriend? Or was it even his call to make? The logical part of him, as well as the one that knew Samantha, said no. The part that remembered he was Richard Addison, the fourteenth Marquis of Rawley and a man who'd worked hard to be where he was and to be thought of in the manner he was, said yes.

Still chewing on how he was going to tell her about Gwyneth's latest demands without causing an argument or looking like he was interfering in one of her jobs, he sat down again to finish his correspondence. One thing at a time. And damn Walter. Samantha wasn't the only former lawbreaker who had some skill at manipulating the people around her.

Thankfully Richard knew a little something about negotiation himself. He just hoped he knew enough.

Tom Donner opened the door when Samantha rang the front bell. "Hi," she said, keeping her expression cool and confident. "Nice shirt." Either he'd been working on a car, or somebody had run over him with a lawnmower.

"Thanks. What do you want?" he returned.

"Is Olivia home?"

"You're kidding me, right?" He put a hand on the door frame, the bear guarding his den from what—the cat, she supposed.

"No. She called me. I'm helping her with something."

His eyes narrowed. "Anatomy Man?"

She nodded. "That's confidential, between me and my client," she said aloud.

He blew out his breath. "Okay. She's in the living room with some of her friends."

Samantha slipped past him and strolled into the living room. Though she and Rick and the Donners had shared more than a couple of outings and dinners, she'd actually been inside their house only once before. Luckily she remembered the layout, because she wasn't about to ask Donner where the living room was.

"Hi, Livia," she said with a smile.

Two girls were seated on the couch, and another two on the floor in front of them, all of them laughing over a video game where the goal was apparently to dress up and get a date to the prom. The tallest of them, blue-eyed and with cropped blonde hair, stood up and came over to hug her. "Aunt Sam! Did you find it already?"

"Not yet. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Are your friends in your class, too?"

She nodded. "Everybody, this is Sam Jellicoe. She's like a private detective. Aunt Sam, this is Tiffany, and Emma, and Haley."

"Hi, guys," Samantha said, giving them a half wave. Her and kids. It was like confronting Martians. She'd never even been a kid, really. Pocket-picking lessons had started the week after her mom had kicked Martin out and he'd taken her along with him.

"Are you really dating Rick Addison?" the darkest-haired of the girls, Emma, asked.

"I am."

"Awesome."

"Pause the game, Haley," Livia instructed. "We need to pay Sam, and then she's going to help get Anatomy Man back."

Great. Now she could rob piggy banks. "You don't need to pay me. We'll call it a family courtesy."

"Are you sure? We have twenty dollars each." Eighty bucks. And she'd taken Monets with less hesita-tion. "I'll add up my expenses at the end," she hedged, not wanting to insult them, "but I'm pretty sure I've got it covered. So tell me what you know about Clark."

"Miss Barlow was so pissed," Haley observed, bitting a button on the cordless game controller. "And then Principal Horner came in and yelled at her right in front of the class."

"He didn't yell at her," Olivia countered. "But he wasn't happy, either."

"I'm glad it's gone," Tiffany said, swishing her long blonde hair. "That Anatomy Man was so gross. And the boys kept peeling his chest off and pulling out his guts."

"So he was pretty realistic-looking, huh?"

"Too realistic. I'm just glad it didn't have a winkie."

"Hi, Sam."

She looked over her shoulder as the middle Donner offspring, Mike, crossed the edge of the living room, two other boys behind him. "Mike. How are you?"

"Good. Is Uncle Rick here?"

"No, just me."

"She's investigating Anatomy Man," Olivia offered. "We hired her."

"Oh." He gave a half grimace as the boys bunched to a stop. "Well, good luck. Livi, tell Dad that I'm going to David's for dinner."

"You tell him, Mike."

"Can't. We're already late." He yanked on the nearest boy's arm. "Let's go."

The other boy gawked at her. "She—"

"See you later, Sam." Samantha waved. "Bye, Mike."

She turned back around as the boys left the room. Em. Interesting. After a second she realized that the girls were all giggling about the boys, and she shook herself. "What grade is Mike in?"

"Tenth. He's a sophomore."

"So he doesn't go to your school."

Olivia shook her head. "No. He goes to Leonard High School."

"How far is that from your school?"

"It's right across the street."

"The high school kids are supposed to stay off our campus," Tiffany put in, "but they always walk across the baseball field at lunchtime and stuff."

So she could add the entire population of Leonard High School to her list of suspects. She'd had to scam a security guard to reach Miss Barlow's classroom. A kid would probably have an easier time of it, especially during school hours, and especially if maybe he had a sibling on campus. The question was, would a teenager have the nerve to make off with Anatomy Man in broad daylight? Or could they have gotten into the main building at night after taping the classroom door open? Whatever the answer was, she had the abrupt feeling that Mike Donner knew something about it.

"Aunt Sam, do you want to play Prom with us?"

She looked at the television screen, where the game waited to resume, then at the fresh faces of the four ten-year-old girls looking at her. "Sure. I'll play for a couple of minutes." She still needed to go for her run, but these kids kind of fascinated her. They seemed so… innocent, something she'd never been. And maybe they'd say something that could help her unravel the mystery of Clark the Anatomy Man.