Manolos in Manhattan (39 page)

“No one said you were, did they? We just wanna ask a coupla questions, that’s all. Have a seat, Mr Williams. You might be here a while. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait? Or a lawyer, maybe?”

“My lawyer’s on his way.”

“See? We’re very accommodating here at Central Booking. You got your phone call, and we even offer you coffee.”

Cawfee
. Gavin eyed him in disgust. “I don’t suppose you could bring me a latte, could you? Or is that too much to ask?”

The officer paused by the door. “A latte?” He burst out laughing and called out, “Hey, guys! This perp in here wants to know if he can have a latte!”

There was raucous laughter from down the hallway.

Gavin was about to make a withering retort when two men – one with a gold NYPD shield pinned to his uniform, one in plainclothes and carrying, oddly enough, a shopping bag – entered the room.

“Who are you?” Gavin demanded, his heart quickening. “Where’s my lawyer?”

“I’m Detective Frank Rosetti,” the uniformed cop said, “and this is Detective Sergeant Devon Matthews.” He indicated the younger detective carrying the Bergdorf’s bag. “We’re here to ask you a few questions, Mr Williams.”

“I’m not saying anything until my lawyer gets here.”

The two men exchanged glances. “Right,” Rosetti said, and pulled out a chair at the table opposite Gavin. “Very wise of you. No problem...we’ve got plenty of time.” He glanced at the other man. “Don’t we, D.S. Matthews?”

Devon nodded and sat down. He threw a manila file folder down on the table. “Where were you on Saturday night, Mr Williams?”

“I told you, I’m not answering any questions until my lawyer gets here.”

“Do you like to shop, Mr Williams? I’m guessing from those very stylish clothes you’re wearing that you do.”

Gavin remained stubbornly silent.

“And you’re a Bergdorf’s customer,” Devon added. “Nice, that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The shopping bag we brought in,” Rosetti told him. “We found it in your office this morning, stashed in your supply closet.”

“What?” Gavin began to perspire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve never seen it before.”

“We got an anonymous tip-off.” Rosetti leaned forward, his dark-brown eyes locked on Gavin’s. “Earlier this afternoon. We checked it out, and we found this.” He took the bag from Devon and held it up, dangling it from the tip of his finger.

“You have excellent taste, Mr Williams,” Devon observed. “Bergdorf Goodman is quite upscale, isn’t it?”

“I’m not saying another word!” Gavin declared, and folded his trembling hands together on the table. “Not one word.”

“…until your lawyer gets here,” Rosetti finished. “Right. We got it.” He glanced over at Devon. “Would you care to show Mr Williams what we found inside the bag, detective? While we’re waiting for his lawyer?”

Devon nodded and took the bag from Rosetti. He withdrew several items from inside and, all of them encased in clear plastic evidence bags, and laid them out on the table. He took out a pair of black men’s trousers, and a black pullover; then he pulled out a coil of rope, two carabiners, and a bag of Top Cat candy bars and tossed them down.

Gavin looked down at the items in dawning horror and stared up at the detectives’ faces. “You think I did it! You think
I’m
the cat burglar! This is crazy. I’m telling you, I’ve never
seen
this stuff before.”

“What I’d like to know, Mr Williams,” Rosetti said as he leaned back in his chair, “is how this stuff ‒climbing gear, candy bars, a cheap dollar-store pullover – ended up in a Bergdorf’s bag in your personal supply closet.”

Devon nodded. “If you can explain how this stuff ended up stashed in your office, and if it makes sense to us...you’ll be free to go.” He looked at the diver’s watch strapped to his wrist and glanced back up with a smile. “You might even make it home in time for dinner.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about this! Where’s my lawyer?”

There was a knock, and the officer who’d handcuffed Gavin to the table thrust his head in and said, “He’s right here.”

A heavyset man with thinning hair and a raincoat over his arm strode inside, briefcase in hand.

“Hey, Rosetti,” the officer in the door called out. “A report just came through I thought you might wanna know about. A missing woman.”

Rosetti looked up, irritated. “I’m in the middle of an interrogation, Shapiro.”

“I know, sorry. The thing is, it might tie in to your case.”

Rosetti rubbed his eyes. “Go on.”

“She’s only been gone a few hours, so she’s not technically considered missing yet, but…” Shapiro paused. “She’s pregnant, and English, and her husband’s all over us, demanding we do something.”

Devon scraped back his chair abruptly. “What’s her name?”

“Natalie. Natalie Dashwood-Gordon. Her husband says he’s tried to call her, but there’s no answer at home or on her cell phone. And get this,” Shapiro added as Devon stood up. “She was last seen two hours ago, on Cranberry Street in Brooklyn Heights…” His glance flickered to the suspect. “Entering Gavin Williams and Associates.”

Chapter Sixty-Nine

There was a knock on the apartment door.

Natalie, her nerves strung tight, gave a start.

“Get up,” Ian said, and brandished his gun. He grabbed her arm and dragged her with him down the hallway to the front door and peered through the peephole. Wordlessly, he opened the door.

“It’s about time you showed up,” he snapped.

The man at the door was impeccably dressed, as always, and held his trilby and walking stick in one hand.

“Mr Holland?” Natalie felt a tiny flicker of hope. “Have you come to help me?”

“Regrettably, no.” He laid his hat aside with deliberate motions. “I’m here to deal with this situation.” His smile was sad. “I have no choice, my dear. I do hope you see that, eventually. I’m very sorry you got mixed up in this.”

Natalie’s flicker of hope died. “Are
you
the man in charge?” she asked in disbelief. “
You’re
the one who’s running the burglary ring?”

“Me? No. I have nothing to do with it.”

“But – I don’t understand.” And she truly didn’t.

“As you’ve discovered, Gavin Williams’ associate, Suki, is the cat burglar and, as far as I know, she works alone.” He leveled a cold gaze on Ian. “Or am I wrong in that?”

“No, you’re correct.” Ian glanced at Natalie. “He’s not a petty thief, our Mr Holland. He’s an art thief, and a very good one, too. In fact, he stole your father’s painting. Suki caught him in the act, right here in your apartment.”

“
You
?” she whispered, her expression stricken as she met Holland’s eye. She remembered Devon saying that two burglaries had taken place in their apartment that night. “You stole my father’s painting? Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“It’s a long story,” he replied, “as such things usually are.” He glanced at Ian. “Let’s sit down,” he commanded. “And put that damned gun away before it goes off and hurts someone.”

There was something about the elderly man’s demeanor that brooked no argument. Ian scowled but lowered the gun and followed them back into the living room.

“You asked me not long ago about my wife,” he said to Natalie as he lowered himself into a club chair. His eyes grew unfocused. “Her name was Laura, and the night I met her, she was the toast of New York.

“The large ballroom of the Astor Hotel was packed with the cream of New York society that night,” Holland went on. “The benefit ball was no different from any other, with one exception – a tall, slim exception named Laura Gracie.

“With her green eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair, Laura’s beauty harkened back to the heyday of screen sirens like Grace Kelly and Lauren Bacall.

“I was mesmerized. Captivated. I had to meet her. Hell, I knew in that very instant that I had to marry her.”

“And what happened?” Natalie asked, drawn in to Holland’s story despite herself.

“I wangled an introduction.” He smiled. “In those days, I didn’t let something as trifling as a class divide stop me. She was old New York money; I was unapologetically nouveau riche. And I was bold in the way only a young man can be. I met her, romanced her, lavished her with flowers and gifts and attention – and within six months, I married her. We were truly happy together.” His smile soured. “Until your father came along.”

Natalie eyed him with dawning understanding. “The painting,” she murmured. “You saw his portrait in our apartment, and mentioned you’d met him at a charity function.”

He nodded. “Roger was at the Astor that night, too. In fact, he danced with Laura several times. Like most of the women there, she was drawn to his good looks, his charm, his impeccable British accent...and his title.”

“But she married you,” Natalie pointed out.

“Yes. She did. Roger returned to England, and they forgot about each other. Or so I thought.” His expression darkened. “We were at a gala at the Met a year or two later, and Dashwood arrived with his wife, Celia. It soon became apparent that he couldn’t keep his eyes – or his hands ‒ off my Laura.”

“They had an affair,” Natalie murmured.

“They did. Of course I had no proof, only my suspicions. But everyone knew. Laura tried to be discreet, but Roger flaunted their affair at every opportunity. I imagine he enjoyed putting one over on the self-made Yank. To be honest, if he hadn’t returned to London with Celia at the end of the month…” He paused. “I might very well have killed him. He saved me the trouble by killing himself.” He glanced at Natalie. “I’m sorry to speak harshly, my dear. But it was the truth.”

She sighed. “Daddy had a special talent for pissing people off, especially Mum. He made a lot of...bad choices. And he hurt a lot of people.” With a frown she added, “But what I don’t understand is why you stole his portrait. Given your own wealth – you own the Dunleigh, for goodness’ sake! – and my father’s very public affair with your wife, why on earth would you
want
it? Why would you want the reminder of such a painful period in your life?”

“I didn’t. I wanted the painting itself. It’s a Tennant, his last known work. Even on the black market, it’ll fetch a tidy sum.” He fixed her with a bland smile, but his gaze was steely. “I’m an art collector first and foremost and, the way I see it, your father owed me, my dear. He took my wife; I took his portrait.”

Suddenly she noticed his blazer. It was navy, with silver buttons – all accounted for, none missing. But the embossed pattern on the buttons was the same as that on the button she’d found by the fireplace hearth.

Natalie met his eyes. “That
was
your button I found, the one I brought back to you. I thought so.”

“Yes. I lost it. In fact, I looked for it when you so kindly took me on a tour of your apartment.”

“You – you’d been here before?” She blinked in confusion, and her face cleared. “The first night Rhys and I spent here, someone was in the living room. It was
you
, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “I came in before you arrived, to get the painting – I knew you were both at the pre-launch, Rhys mentioned it – but it was gone. Then you both arrived unexpectedly. I hid in the bedroom, and slipped out when I deemed it safe – but I woke you in the process.” He smiled in regret. “For that – and for frightening you – I apologize.”

“But how did you get in our apartment? How did you know we were gone the night of the concert?”

“You told me about it, my dear. And I own the building, so I have passkeys to all of the apartments. It was a simple matter to let myself in. I knew Rhys was gone as well because I spoke with him on the lift when he left. He said the sprinkler system malfunctioned and he expected to be late getting home.”

“Had you done this before?” she asked, still disbelieving what she was hearing. “Stolen paintings, I mean?”

He smiled. “Many times. Don’t look so shocked! I was young, and bold, and ambitious. I inherited a modest sum from my father, enough to build my own fortune. As I accumulated my first bit of legitimate wealth, I learned. I learned how to mingle with the very rich, and I earned their trust. I got invited to every notable soiree, dinner, or benefit ball in New York. Stealing from them was surprisingly easy.”

“And you never got caught?” Natalie asked, surprised. “How did you manage that?”

“By always working alone.” His glance condemned Ian. “The minute you involve someone else, trouble follows.”

“Well, this is all very edifying,” Ian said, “but we have a more pressing matter. We need to take care of Natalie.”

Her heart knocked madly against her ribs as Ian reached for his gun, when she heard a distinct click just across from her.

Mr Holland leveled a pistol on Ian. “Put the gun down, Mr Clarkson. I’ll take care of this myself.”

Chapter Seventy

“How the
fuck
did this happen?” Rhys raged, and slammed his fist down on the desk. “You promised to keep Natalie safe!”

Gavin’s office swarmed with NYPD officers and a crime scene examiner, dusting for prints and looking for anything that might lead to Natalie Dashwood-Gordon’s whereabouts.

“I told you, she took off without telling me,” Devon replied, his jaw tightening as he reined in his own temper. “I called her earlier, and when I got no answer at the apartment, I called her cell phone. She was on her way to Brooklyn to return Gavin Williams’ scarf.”

Rhys cast him a black look. “Yes – Gavin Williams, the bloody cat burglar!”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“I know this.” Rhys’s expression hardened. “If anything happens to my wife and baby,
detective
‒” he infused the word with contempt “‒I’ll hold you personally responsible.” He paced, and came to a stop. “What if it’s Ian? What if he’s got her?”

“Anything’s possible,” Devon said, “but I doubt he’s involved. Gavin’s our top suspect right now. But I’ll have the NYPD put out an APB on Clarkson.”

“One of our guys checked the guest register at the Dunleigh just now,” one of the officers said as he thrust his head in Gavin’s doorway. “Funny thing, that.” He paused. “Gavin Williams signed in at the front desk less than an hour ago.”