Mad About You (6 page)

*****

Kat watched him disappear from view in the side mirror and exhaled a pent-up breath. She shifted sideways to alleviate the immediate discomfort of having her hands cuffed behind her, but nothing could dispel the sickening swell of panic in her stomach. Her heart pounded erratically. She sank against the cold seat and closed her eyes, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her.
I will not pass
out...
I will not pass out....

She opened her eyes to try to focus on something, but the sight of the wall of crisscrossed metal between her and the officers talking quietly in the front seat triggered another wave of nausea. Kat gagged, then leaned forward and vomited on the floor. The sudden braking of the car nearly tumbled her, but she caught herself with a jarring blow to her shoulder as Officer Campbell pulled into a convenience store parking lot.

"You should have told us you were feeling sick," Officer Raines chided gently as he helped her from the backseat and unlocked her cuffs. The other policeman handed her a wad of tissues, which she gratefully accepted to wipe her mouth.

The men appeared to be at a loss for a few seconds, then the older officer mumbled something about getting it cleaned up and walked toward the store.

"Don't worry," Officer Raines said kindly. "We've seen much worse."

"I didn't steal that letter."

The young man shifted uncomfortably, obviously unconvinced. "Your lawyer will be able to help you."

Kat's spirits lifted a fraction as the image of Valmer Getty, her father's friend and attorney, came to her. She yearned for one of Val's bear hugs. He'd convince the police and the district attorney that the charges against her were ridiculous.

She watched Officer Campbell pour a box of baking soda over the mess she'd made and wished all her problems could be so easily absorbed. To her relief, Campbell waved off the cuffs when Raines reluctantly withdrew them again. They shepherded her into the backseat and were soon under way again.

"Looks like we lost your friend," Campbell noted with a glance in the rearview mirror.

Kat nodded, trying to look miserable, then realized it wasn't really a stretch for her at this moment. A strange feeling uncoiled in her chest when she thought of James Donovan. He was a virtual stranger and represented the owner of the document she had been accused of stealing, yet he was the person in the room to whom she'd turned for help. Even if he didn't believe in her innocence, she felt certain he would do as he'd promised.

The memory of his lips and body pressed against hers seemed especially powerful now, when she felt so alone. She'd been seriously involved with a handful of men in her thirty-one years, but not one of their lovemaking sessions had left her feeling as desirable as James's lone kiss. Without thinking, she brought her shaking fingers to her mouth and brushed them across her bare lips. Then she shook herself, astonished that her mind could be elsewhere in her predicament.

Under arrest and on her way to the hoosegow, very probably out of a job and, at the very least, bearing a tarnished reputation—and she was daydreaming about a smooth talker who probably collected American women like souvenir figurines.

She was in big trouble—literally and emotionally—and intuition told her the situation would worsen before it improved. The clawing panic she'd felt earlier settled into a cold stone of terror in her stomach. For the first time since her father's death, she was glad he wasn't around to see her. Or to be mired in yet another scandal surrounding his beloved gallery.

*****

Before inserting the key Kat had given him, James inspected the deadbolts for signs of tampering, but found none. If someone had entered her apartment, it was with a key or through another entrance, unless her friend Denise had left it unlocked.

Wearing latex gloves, James opened the door and eased into her flat. In one glance he noticed the long coat was not where she had tossed it the previous evening, but other than the cushions on her couch being in slight disarray, nothing else seemed amiss. He noted the humidor in the corner, then headed toward her bedroom. The police probably wouldn't arrive for a couple of hours, but he didn't wish to arouse suspicion with his unexplained absence. Besides, he wanted to help guide the questioning of the others at the gallery. Since Tenner was already convinced of Kat's guilt, James suspected the detective would be woefully inept.

Her bedroom looked comfortably equipped with a large bed and simple, eclectic furnishings. The walls were textured white on white, sparsely adorned with simple framed posters. The pale linens were gender neutral, absent of ruffles and floral prints. The impression of her body was clear in the rumpled comforter.

James wasn't in such a hurry that he didn't spend a few seconds imagining her lying there sprawled on the covers, her dark hair loose and trailing over the edge of the bed. The woman really was quite delectable, even though she seemed to attract trouble—which, on second thought, could be an exciting quality.

His mouth worked as he pondered the state of the room. She hadn't even bothered to turn down the
spread...
as if she were only going to be there for a short time. James pulled at his chin. Had she just returned from burglarizing the gallery? She hadn't exactly denied it when he had pressed her. In fact, he would have bet his gold watch that she was hiding something. But none of it smacked of the Kat he'd become acquainted with the night before.

Still, he professionally canvassed the room for likely hiding places for either the letter or the case it had been stored in. Nothing. He found her security badge in a jewelry box, but didn't touch it. Next he opened the folding doors to her closet and blinked at the multitude of colored boxes stacked knee-high. Pussy-Kat seemed to have a penchant for shoes, and the ones she'd been wearing yesterday—which appeared to be the same ones on the film—were in a box on the top row. He slipped a pen through an ankle strap and lifted it for a closer look. They were fairly new, the matte leather barely creased at the stress points. The American size ten meant nothing to him, but he could tell it was a large shoe. But then again, Pussy-Kat was a woman of generous proportions—she needed a good foundation to support all that voluptuousness.

He spent a few seconds rummaging through boxes and flipping through her cramped wardrobe, careful to leave things as he'd found them. His hands stilled when he found the long coat in the back, half sticking out as if it had been hurriedly rehung. He quickly sifted through the pockets, but came up with only an old movie ticket stub and an opened roll of breath mints. The floppy hat was stuffed in the far corner but, again, yielded no hair or other physical evidence, so he stuffed it back.

And for a few seconds, he considered the impossible. If he disposed of the clothing, the evidence wouldn't be as overpowering. He shook his head to clear it—he was already treading on a thin professional line.

He then performed a perfunctory search of the living room, bathroom, and kitchen, again coming up empty-handed. James sighed, dreading the phone call to Lady Mercer, then wondered if Guy Trent had already contacted her.

Disgusted, James banged his hand on the white countertop. He was a weapons expert, a surveillance specialist, and a spy with a dozen aliases. In his twenty-year career with the British government, he'd protected statesmen, eluded assassins, extracted military secrets from various enemies, and freed heavily guarded hostages. And now after six months of retirement, he'd let a damn love letter slip through his fingers.

And an American woman slip under his skin.

He snorted in dismay, then retrieved the prized humidor and quietly took his leave.

*****

"There, now, Katherine, what's all this nonsense about?"

At the sound of Valmer Getty's voice, Kat pushed the metal folding chair away from a wobbly wooden table and rushed into his arms. "Val! Thank God you're here."

The rotund trial lawyer hugged her hard, then held her at arm's length and gave her a wry smile. "My dear, when I said to call me sometime, I didn't mean from jail."

She tried to return the smile, but seeing her father's old friend brought back vivid memories of the last time she'd seen him—her father's funeral. Suddenly the full weight of the situation fell onto her shoulders. "I'm in trouble, Val."

He looked behind him to make sure the door to the small room was closed, then patted her hand. "Start from the beginning," he said, then placed his briefcase on the table and removed his sport coat.

Kat wet her lips. "This started before Daddy died, Val."

The man frowned, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, then pulled a rickety chair next to hers. "I'm a good listener."

*****

"Ah,
Agent
Donovan." Detective Tenner, now in his shirtsleeves, acknowledged James's return to the gallery, escorted by Ronald Beaman. Apparently Tenner had passed some of the time delving into James's credentials. The inspector smirked. "And did Ms. McKray make it 'in one piece'?"

James nodded pleasantly, realizing it was in Kat's best interests to get along with the man. Looking haggard, Guy Trent was seated in the aisle of a small cubicle nursing a cup of coffee. A digital clock on one of the desks read five thirty-five
a.m
. Tenner pulled two extra chairs to form a loose group around Guy and gestured for James to sit.

"Want some coffee?"

He had also assumed the role of gallant host, James noted. "No, thank you." Turning toward Guy Trent, James asked, "Have you contacted Lady Mercer?"

Guy shook his head. "Thought I'd wait until we had a few more details." His anger was clear with each perfectly enunciated word.

Tenner cleared his voice. "Plus Mr. Trent and Mr. Wharton discovered a few more pieces are missing."

"Where is Mr. Wharton?" James asked, looking around. He wanted to talk to him too.

Guy waved vaguely toward the door. "Making arrangements to close the museum today, calling our ticket takers and guides. Plus it looks as if we'll have to cancel the showing of the King's letter." Guy threw up his hands and glanced heavenward. "How could she do this to me?"

"What else is missing?" James asked, turning the chair around to straddle it.

Guy waved a sheet of ruled paper, then read, "A beaded Inca bracelet, two miniature Victorian oils, a ruby ring, and a gold compass." His entire head reddened, his eyes bulging. "They were probably taken because they're small pieces in larger collections spread out in the gallery—they wouldn't be easily missed."

James angled his head. "The tape didn't show the thief traipsing around the gallery picking up odds and ends."

Guy nodded, his lip curling. "I know. Katherine probably took them sometime during the last few weeks. She could have smuggled them out in a pocket, a purse, anything."

"As could have anyone else," James pointed out.

"They're all pieces from Katherine's exhibits," Guy said nastily. "It's her job to inventory the collections on a regular basis."

"Mr. Trent," James said carefully. "It's quite obvious to me that you and Ms. McKray have running disagreements. Are you sure you're not a little too anxious to pin these burglaries on her?"

Guy's mouth flattened. "Mr. Donovan, if I'm guilty of anything where Katherine is concerned, it's leniency. Several pieces have been stolen from the gallery this year, all of them small, all of them in Katherine's care."

James's heart twisted in alarm.

Tenner was writing furiously on a small pad. "Did you report the crimes, Mr. Trent?"

The little round man shifted in his seat. "No."

Tenner's pen stopped. "Why not?"

Guy scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed wearily. "You have to understand our business, Detective. Many galleries and art museums don't report stolen items because it's bad for their reputation. Many of our collections are on loan. If word got out that our security was compromised, we'd be blacklisted."

"Why then," James asked, "if you suspected Ms. McKray of stealing, did you not simply let her go?"

"Because at the time we thought it was a security guard, a man by the name of Jack Tomlin. I caught him once wearing a valuable piece of gallery jewelry. He said he was just trying it on, but I let him go." Guy shook his head. "Now I think I blamed the wrong person."

"What other items did Ms. McKray steal?" Tenner asked. James frowned at him and Tenner added, "Allegedly."

"Mostly small jewelry, and I distinctly remember a valuable stamp disappeared. That sticks out in my mind because Katherine's father, Frank, was the one who found the stamp, at a junk dealer here in town. He bought it for fifteen dollars, and it was worth around fifteen thousand. Then a few weeks after Frank died, it vanished."

Tenner made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Frank
McKray...
I remember that case—ruled a suicide, wasn't it?"

James jerked his head up.
Suicide?

Guy nodded, his face grim. "It was a car accident, but everyone knew the truth." He stopped and exhaled noisy. "Frank worked for Jellico's for fifteen years—it was his life. He always thought he'd be general manager one day, but when Mr. Jellico retired three years ago, he hired me."

"That would be Mr. Jellico, your brother-in-law?" James clarified.

Guy had the decency to blush. "Yes. Anyway, a year and a half ago, we were audited by the IRS, and funds turned up missing from the gallery—tens of thousands of dollars. When the trail started leading back to Frank, he lost control. He was depressed, started drinking. He died before the investigation was complete."

"And had he embezzled funds?" James asked, thinking of the humidor filled with expensive, illegal cigars tucked away in his hotel room safe.