From the Heart (36 page)

Slade grabbed a napkin and scrawled a number on it. “If I'm not back in an hour, call this number. Tell the man who answers the story about the cabinet. He'll understand.”

“The cabinet?” David stared dumbly at the napkin Slade thrust into his hand. “
I
don't understand.”

“You don't have to, just do it.” The back door slammed behind him.

“Yeah, sure,” David grumbled. “Why should I understand anything?” A loony tune, he decided as he stuffed the napkin
into his pocket. Maybe writers were supposed to be loony tunes. Jessica sure knew how to pick them. With a glance at his watch, he decided to check on her. Maybe the writer was a little loose upstairs, maybe not, but he'd managed to unsettle him. When David was halfway down the hall, the parlor doors opened.

“David!” Jessica closed the distance between them at a run, then launched herself into his arms.

“Hey, what gives!” He managed to struggle out of her hold and take her by the shoulders. “Is there a different strain of flu running around that affects the brain?”

“I love you, David.” Close to tears, Jessica framed his face with her hands.

He flushed and shifted his weight. “Yeah, I love you too. Look, I'm sorry about this morning—”

“We'll talk about that later. There's a lot I have to tell you, but I need to see Slade first.”

“He went out.”

“Out?” Her fingers dug into David's thin arms. “Where?”

“I don't know.” Intently, he studied her face. “Jessie, you're really sick. Let me take you upstairs.”

“No, David, it's important.” Her voice changed from frantic to stern—the one he always responded to. “You must have some idea where he went.”

“I don't,” he returned a bit indignantly. “We were sitting there talking one minute, and he was up and heading out the next.”

“About what?” Impatient, Jessica gave him a quick shake. “What were you talking about?”

“Just this and that. I mentioned that Michael'd been moody—like he'd been when we'd had that mix-up on the Chippendale cabinet last year.”

“The Chippendale . . .” Jessica pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh God, yes, of course!”

“Slade gave me some business about not letting anyone in the house and calling some number if he didn't get back in an hour. Hey, where are you going?”

Jessica had swung her purse from the newel post and was rummaging through it. “He's gone to the shop. To the shop and it's nearly ten! Where are my keys! Call—call the shop,
see if he answers.” In a quick move, she dumped the contents of her purse on the floor.
“Call!”
she repeated when David gaped at her.

“Okay, take it easy.”

While Jessica made a frantic search through the items on the floor, David dialed the phone. “I can't find them. I can't—they're in my coat!” she remembered and dashed for the hall closet.

“He doesn't answer,” David told her. “Probably hasn't had time to get there yet if that's where he was going in the first place. Which doesn't make any sense because it's closed and . . . Jessie, where are you going? He said you weren't to go out. Damn it, you forgot your coat. Will you wait a minute!”

But she was already racing down the front steps toward her car.

I
t took Slade only a few moments to pick the lock on the front door of the shop. If there was one thing he was going to see to before he left, he decided, it would be to get Jessica to a decent locksmith. A miracle she hasn't been cleaned out, he mused as he moved through the main shop into the back room. Blind luck, Slade concluded, then tossed his jacket over a chair. Moving in the dark, he passed through the kitchen into what served as an office.

There was a large mahogany desk with neat stacks of papers, a blotter with names and numbers scribbled on it, and a Tiffany lamp. Slade switched it on. He caught the boldly printed
ULYSSES NEEDS FOOD
on the blotter right beneath the scrawled “New mop hndl—Betsy annoyed.” With a half grin, Slade shook his head. Jessica's idea of organization was beyond him. Turning away, he walked to the file cabinet set in the rear corner.

The top drawer seemed to be her personal items. He found a receipt for a blouse she had bought two years before in a file marked
INSURANCE POLICIES
—
SHOP.
Between two file folders was a wrinkled grocery list. On a sound of annoyance, he pulled out the second drawer.

It was the other side of the coin. The files were neat, legible, and in perfect order. A quick flip through them showed Slade they were receipts for the current year, arranged chronologically, delivery bills, also current and
chronological, and business correspondence. Each section was a study in organized filing. He thought of the top drawer and shook his head.

In the third drawer he found what he was looking for—receipts from the previous year. Slade drew out the first file folder and took it to the desk. Methodically, he scanned each one, beginning in January. He learned nothing else, when he had completed the first quarter's receipts, other than the fact that Jessica did a thriving business.

Slade replaced the first folder and drew out the second. Time ticked away as he examined each paper. He drew out a cigarette and worked patiently from month to month. He found it in June.
One Chippendale cabinet—kingwood with marquetry decoration.
His brow rose slightly at the price.

“Not a bad deal, I imagine,” he murmured. Noting the name of the purchaser, he smiled. “Everyone makes a tidy little profit.” After pocketing the receipt, Slade reached for the phone. Brewster might find David's little story very interesting. Before he had punched two numbers, Slade heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Swiftly he turned out the light. As he moved from the desk he drew out his gun.

 

Jessica sped along the winding back road that led to her shop. If she'd had an ounce of sense, she berated herself, she would have told David to call the number Slade had given him. Why hadn't she at least told him to keep calling the shop until he reached Slade?

Nervously, she glanced at her watch.
Ten o'clock.
Oh God, if only the man coming to meet Michael were late! Slade would be in the back room, she concluded, searching through the old receipts. What would the man do when he got to the shop and found Slade there instead of Michael? Jessica pressed down harder on the gas and flew around a turn.

The beams of approaching headlights blinded her. Overreacting, she swerved, skidding the left rear wheel on the shoulder of the road. Heart in her throat, she fishtailed, spun on gravel, then righted the car.

That's right, she thought with her heart pumping, wreck the car. That'll do everybody a lot of good. Cursing herself, Jessica wiped a damp palm on her slacks. Don't think, she
ordered herself. Just drive—it's less than a mile now. Even as she said it, the car sputtered, then bucked. Frustrated, Jessica pressed down hard on the accelerator only to have the Audi stall, then die.

“
No!
” Infuriated, she slammed both hands against the steering wheel. The needle on the gas gauge stayed stubbornly on empty. How many times! she demanded. How many times had she told herself to stop and fill up? Knowing it wasn't the time for self-lectures, she slammed out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the road, lights beaming. She started to run.

 

Slade stood pressed behind the doorway that led to the back room. He heard the quiet click of the doorknob, then the cheery jingle of bells. He waited, listening to the soft footsteps and gentle breathing. Then there was a coldly patient sigh.

“Don't be childish, Michael. It hardly pays to hide when you leave a car out front in plain view. And you should know,” he added softly, “there's no place you can hide from me.”

Slade hit the overhead lights as he turned into the room. “Chambers, isn't it?” he said mildly. “With the fetish for snuffboxes.” He leveled the gun. “We're closed.”

With no change of expression, Chambers removed his hat. “You're the stockboy, aren't you?” He gave a wheezy chuckle. “How foolish of Michael to send you. But then, he hasn't the stomach for violence.”

“I don't have that problem. Rippeon's in the morgue.” When Chambers gave him a pleasantly blank look, Slade continued, “Or don't you catch the names of the pros you hire?”

“Death is an occupational hazard,” Chambers said with an elegant shrug. He never bothered to glance at the gun leveled at his chest. He knew a man was the real weapon, so he watched Slade's eyes. “What has Michael promised you, Mr . . . .”

“Sergeant,” Slade corrected, “Sladerman, NYPD, temporarily attached to the FBI.” Slade caught the faint flicker in Chambers' eyes. “The only deal I have with Adams is a quiet . . . talk in the near future involving Jessica Winslow.” The thought
gave Slade a moment's grim pleasure. “Game's up, Chambers. We've had Adams under surveillance for some time, along with a few other members of your team. You were all that was missing.”

“A slight miscalculation on my part,” Chambers murmured as he glanced around the shop. “Normally I don't involve myself directly with any of the transports. But then, Miss Winslow has such a charming shop, I couldn't resist. A pity.” He looked back at Slade again. “You don't look to be the type who'll take a bribe . . . even a lucrative one.”

“You seem to be a good judge of character.” Keeping the gun steady, Slade reached for the phone on the counter.

With the breath tearing in her lungs, Jessica dashed the last yards toward the shop. She could see the lights glowing behind the drawn shades. Her thoughts centered solely on Slade, she hit the door at a full run.

At a speed unexpected in a man of his bulk, Chambers grabbed her the moment she stumbled inside. His arms slid around her throat. Before fear could register, Jessica felt cold steel against her temple. Slade's forward motion stopped with a jerk.

“Put down your gun, Sergeant. It seems the game isn't quite over after all.” When Slade hesitated, Chambers merely smiled. “I assure you, though the gun is small, it works very well. And at this range . . .” He trailed off delicately.

Casting a furious look into Jessica's stunned eyes, Slade let the gun drop. “Okay.” He held up empty hands. “Let her go.”

Chambers gave him a mild smile. “Oh, I don't think so. It seems I need an insurance policy—momentarily.”

“Mr. Chambers.” Jessica put a hand to the arm that was constricting her air.

“The Sergeant doesn't appreciate your timing, Miss Winslow,” he said pleasantly. “However, I do, very much. This, shall we say, puts a different aspect on things.”

Slade shot a quick glance at the clock on his right. By his calculations, David should be calling his contact within moments. The name of the game now was stall. “You won't have to put a bullet in her,” he commented, “if you keep choking her.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” Chambers loosened his hold
fractionally. The gun stayed lodged at her temple. Greedy for air, Jessica gasped it in. “A beautiful creature, isn't she?” he asked Slade. “I often wished I were twenty years younger. Such a woman looks her best on a man's arm, don't you agree?”

“Mr. Chambers, what are you doing here this time of night?” It was a weak ploy, but the best Jessica could think of. “Let me go and put that thing away.”

“Oh, my dear, we all know I can't do that. I would like to for your sake,” he continued as Jessica, too, shifted her eyes to the clock.
How much time do we have?
she wondered frantically.

“She could be useful to you,” Slade commented. “You'll need a shield to get out of this.”

“I have my . . . escape routes plotted, Sergeant.” He smiled. “I always leave a back door open.”

“You can't expect to get away, Mr. Chambers.” Jessica's eyes met Slade's, then shifted meaningfully to the clock. “Slade must have told you that the police know everything.”

“He mentioned it.” Keeping his arm firm, he patted her shoulder. “You became a small weakness of mine. I enjoyed those pleasant chats we had, those pleasant cups of tea. I felt badly that this was to be my last shipment before moving on. Oh yes,” he said to Slade, “I was aware the authorities were getting close, though I confess I miscalculated just how close. And though it would seem the diamonds are temporarily lost, I'll find Michael eventually.”

“He doesn't have them,” Jessica said quickly, then grabbed Chambers' arm as it cut off her breath again.

“No?” The word was soft and silky. Even as Slade anticipated moving forward, Chambers shot him a warning look. “Where are they?”

Jessica swallowed, straining to hear the sound of sirens.
Why don't they come!
“I'll show you.” Perhaps she could bargain for Slade's life. If she could keep him alive, then get Chambers out of the shop, even for a little while . . .

“Oh no, that won't do.” He tightened his grip again. “Tell me.”

“No.” Jessica managed to whisper the word. “I'll take you.”

Without speaking, Chambers took the gun from her temple and aimed it at Slade.

“No, don't! I have them at home,” she said frantically. “I have them in the wall safe in the parlor. Don't hurt him, please. I'll give you the combination. Thirty-five to the right, twelve to the left, five right, and left to twenty-three. They're all there, I wouldn't let Michael take them.”

“Honest,” Chambers commented. “And trusting. I am fond of you, my dear, so I suggest you close your eyes. When it comes to your turn, I promise to make it as painless as possible.”

Even as Slade made his move, Jessica screamed in protest.
“No!”
Using all of her weight and the adrenaline of terror, she flung herself on the arm holding the gun. She heard the shot echoing in her head as she stumbled, then was shoved roughly aside.

Jessica landed in a heap. She felt the pain in her shoulder as it connected with the floor, tasted the iron flavor of blood or fear in her mouth as she scrambled up. As she pushed the hair out of her eyes she saw Slade's fist fly toward Chambers' face. The portly man seemed to crumble layer by layer on his way to the floor.

So quickly, she thought numbly. It was all over so quickly. One moment they were both at the edge of their lives, and then it was over. She'd never take her life for granted again—not a second of it. Weakly, she leaned back against a highboy.

“Slade . . .”

“Get me some rope or cord from the back room, you idiot.”

She pressed her fingers between her brows and stifled a hysterical giggle. So much for romantic endings, she thought as she stumbled blindly toward the storeroom. Blinking away the haze that covered her eyes, Jessica found some packing cord. She stared at it a moment, losing track of why she needed it.

“Will you hurry up!” Slade shouted at her.

Responding automatically, she brought it out to him. Ten-fifteen, she thought as she passed the clock. How could it only be ten-fifteen? Could people come so close to death and
escape all in ten minutes? Slade ripped the cord out of her hand without looking up.

“Damn it, Jess, of all the stupid things to do! What the hell do you mean by bursting in here like that? You know you weren't to leave the house.” Binding the unconscious Chambers, Slade let out a steady stream of curses.

“Michael told me ten o'clock,” she murmured. “And I thought—”

“If you'd had a thought in your head you would have stayed put like you were told. What did you think you could do, racing out here like this. Damn it, I had him before you came barrelling through the door. That's not even enough for you.” He secured the knot, then pushed passed her on the way to the phone. “Then you throw yourself on the gun.” He wrenched off the receiver and started to dial. “You could've been shot.”

“Yes.” In dumb fascination, Jessica stared down at the stain spreading on the arm of her sweater. “I think I was.”

“What?” Annoyed, he turned back to her, then dropped the phone out of suddenly nerveless hands. “Oh my God.” In two strides he was back beside her, ripping the arm of the sweater off by the seam. “Jess, you're hit!”

Brows lowered in concentration, she stared at the wound. “Yes, I am,” she said in the deliberately steady voice of a drunk. “I don't feel it. Should it hurt? There's a lot of blood.”

“Shut up, damn it, just shut up!” He examined the wound quickly, seeing that the bullet had gone cleanly through the flesh.
Jess's flesh,
he thought. His stomach rolled. He stripped off his shirt and tore it into a tourniquet. “Stupid fool, you're lucky it wasn't your head.” His hands trembled, causing him to fumble with the knot and curse her more violently.

“It was a little gun,” she managed.

He shot her a look, ripe with conflicting emotions, but her vision was blurred. “A bullet's a bullet,” he muttered. Feeling the warmth of her blood on his hands, he swallowed. A line of sweat ran down his naked back. “Damn it, Jess, what were you trying to do, jumping out that way? I knew what I was doing.”