The Crasher (19 page)

“How come your number still rings in Beverly Hills?” was his first question to her.

She’d laughed, but there’d been no laughter in her eyes. “The trials from my job are still grinding on. It’s going to take
years before it’s all cleaned up. That’s why the DEA keeps the number operating. It’s incredible, but despite the publicity,
traffickers still call, hoping they’ve come to the best place to do their laundry.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Sure, sometimes, but if they wanted to kill me, they would have by now.” She’d spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as if she
was discussing normal working conditions. “There’s a lot of macho behavior out there, guys who don’t want to believe they
were outwitted, double-crossed by a woman…” She’d smiled an understanding smile as he’d shaken his head in dazed admiration,
adding, “I come from a law enforcement family. Both my parents were detectives and my husband’s with the DEA. It makes a difference.”

He’d never told Dolores about the meeting. He didn’t hide it from her. He just didn’t tell her, and at the time she’d been
away, skiing in Aspen with Ash, one of the quartet of empty-headed, too-rich-for-their-own-good young women Dolores
liked to hang around with; although in her case, Johnny was the one who ended up paying the bills.

But why hadn’t he told her? Because despite being older than he remembered from their brief meeting in the Hamptons—about
forty, he’d guessed—and wearing unattractive steel-rimmed glasses and a dowdy woolen suit, Rosemary Abbott was still one gorgeous
hunk of woman, and Johnny knew there was no way Dolores would ever believe that after only five to ten minutes, Rosemary’s
looks were the last thing on his mind.

She was an avenging angel, burning with a passion to “rid the world of drugs, destroyers of humanity.”

“Can I help?” It had seemed a natural thing to ask.

She’d looked at him long and hard. “Maybe you can.” That mirthless laugh again. “You certainly come with good credentials.”
She knew about his
Next!
column; she probably knew everything there was to know about him, and then she’d admitted she’d only agreed to see him because
she was such an admirer of his father and all he was doing to bring to justice those at the top in the drug business. “I would
love to meet him one day.” What else was new?

He’d been pissed off, but he didn’t think he’d shown it. It was the cross he had to bear; and if it produced contacts like
Rosa-Rosemary, he told himself, it was worth it.

“D’you know what I mean by
Trace
magazine?” she’d suddenly asked him. He did not.

“It’s an international showcase of stolen property, circulates in about a hundred countries to alert would-be buyers not to
touch. The new reality is, by the time it’s stolen, it’s already too late for any alerts.”

“I don’t… I don’t get you.”

She’d looked carefully around the restaurant on the Lower East Side, where she’d suggested they meet. It was empty except
for a forlorn-looking girl waiting for somebody by the window. “There’s been a spate of major thefts in Europe during the
last couple of years… masterpieces, art, artifacts, jewels… expertly planned, no arrests, nothing to date retrieved.
Trace
issued photographs and gave details of about eighty million dollars’ worth. Nothing turned up because the thieves weren’t
out there looking for buyers. These things were stolen to order—by order of the drug czars.”

“My God, but why?”

All business and factual a moment before, suddenly Rosemary had changed, become vague, quiet, as if she’d said too much. “I’ve
got to go,” she’d said, although their main course had just arrived before them.

Why had she changed? Startled, Johnny had looked around, not seeing any reason for alarm. The forlorn girl had been joined
in the window by another, equally drab-looking, that was all, but Rosemary had started to stand up. He’d insisted on getting
her a cab and in the end they’d traveled uptown together.

Again asking her what he could do to help, before getting out on East 80th Street, she’d told him, “Keep up to date with stolen
property—through
Trace
and the Art Loss Register, you know that international data base…”

He didn’t, but he soon would.

“Then keep your eyes open. You go to all these fancy parties with Dolores. Every so often the ego of these guys gets the better
of them and they can’t resist flaunting something that will give them away. London’s still the clearinghouse for this international
fine-art loot, but New York’s not far behind. What about that Long Island break-in over Christmas on the North Shore? A Goya,
a Flinck, and what else? It’s been two months and not a peep… where d’you think the robbery squad is now?”

He knew he’d looked baffled, but she’d provided the answer. “Nowhere, my friend, absolutely nowhere. They’re still waiting
for the ransom note, which I can tell you will never arrive. Check it out and keep in touch.”

He went back to his office after that to get the Brueckner
Time
piece out of the file and reread it. One paragraph chilled him, thinking of how suddenly Rosemary had shut up in the restaurant.

“The woman in money laundering is a very important phenomenon in Colombia,” he read. “The men are running the cartel, but
women, professional women, are in control on the money end. For this reason Rosa Brueckner was perfect, able to develop a
woman-to-woman trust, rather than the male macho thing.”

Johnny thought of the two women in the window, so nondescript he couldn’t remember a single thing about either of them. But
something had alerted Rosa or, he corrected himself, Rosemary.

He hadn’t heard from her since, although he’d called and left a couple of messages. She’d been right, of course. There was
a veil of mystery surrounding the North Shore burglary of Stimson Court Place, once the home of a Vanderbilt.

He’d gone to play cards with Freddy Forrester, an old-time bachelor cop friend of his father’s, something he’d been doing
since he was a teenager, so Freddy didn’t suspect that during the game Johnny hoped to learn something—and he did.

Organized crime was behind the Long Island heist, Freddy explained. “The young elite of the underworld have discovered it’s
a damn sight easier and more lucrative to rob an isolated mansion than to ambush a Brinks truck with armed guards, and police
helicopters.”

So where did he go from there? He was in the process of finding out, one step at a time.

Lost in thought, Johnny was startled when someone touched his shoulder. He turned abruptly. “Are you ready with your cross-examination?”
A young, very pretty blonde with an anxious-to-please expression was standing there. Now why couldn’t he have fallen in love
with somebody who looked as pliant and pleasant as this young woman? Why was he always attracted by trouble and trauma?

“Cross-examination? Okay, you said it. Let’s go.”

He was thinking of writing about how exactly the huge amounts of money raised to fight AIDS were spent and whether anyone
attending this kind of classy evening really gave a damn. The guests, as they were erroneously called, having
coughed up a thousand dollars a ticket to get in the door, were dutifully wearing their little red ribbons, but how many of
them had close ones suffering from the terrible disease and how often did they see them, help them, on a one-to-one basis?

He’d already got some quotable answers. If he ran across the girl in the two-faced dress again, he’d ask her the questions,
too; then he could use the two-faced dress line. He’d probably use it anyway, whether he saw her again or not.

He followed the pretty blonde to the table where the main organizers of the DIFFA benefit were waiting for him. He’d get some
facts and figures and then, he decided, he’d call it a night and give Dolores a surprise by getting home early.

Flash, flash, flash. Everywhere Ginny went photographers flashed away, their lenses focused not only on her front view, but
the back view, too.

“This way, miss… look here… can we get that back view again…” With a dazzling smile she followed every command. Her dress
was going to make it to the pages of
WWD,
she was sure of it… and Alex was there to see her triumph. What more could anyone ask for?

As she dutifully posed, there was a shout, and in seconds all the photographers had rushed to the other side of the room.

Why? Who was arriving?

Ginny thought she was going to be sick. It was Poppy Gan, and there was no question that Poppy was a spectacular standout
in a white satin Lana Turner number, which, Ginny noted sourly, accentuated everything, including the incredible boobs Poppy
had just confessed in a
People
magazine profile had been “tailored” in Los Angeles by the world-famous cosmetic surgeon Steven Hoefflin.

There wasn’t anything Poppy wanted to hide about the way she looked, however manufactured. The same article credited Stephen
Knoll, New York’s leading hairdresser, as the one responsible for all the gold in her hair. Only her extraordinary brown-black
slanted eyes were for real, Ginny had noted. They were courtesy of her Korean father.

Couldn’t the paparazzi see the difference between class and brass? Tonight it couldn’t be clearer what was the crux of Poppy’s
problem with fashion. Everything was out on display; whoever was making her clothes had left nothing to the imagination.

Men obviously loved it. Even Alex, who she thought would have more taste, kept his eyes fixed on Poppy’s sultry glide through
the room, followed by the inscrutable portly Buddha figure Ginny had seen at Mr. Chow’s, the mysterious Svank, still followed
by his group of thugs.

When the music began, Alex steered Ginny swiftly onto the floor. He was a great dancer, but he wasn’t dancing around the room,
he was dancing across it, in a straight line, headed toward Poppy’s table.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. I want little miss goldilocks with the varoom figure to see your dress. I happen to know she’s looking for a
fashion makeover.”

“I know. I know her,” Ginny said sulkily.

Alex held her out at arm’s length. “You know Poppy Gan?”

Ginny definitely didn’t like his incredulous tone. “Yes, of course I do. I was going to do some things for her, but I got
… got sidetracked.”

“Hmrph! You can say that again.”

“I got sidetracked,” she repeated. It was a silly game they used to play, but Alex wasn’t in the mood for games.

“Let’s go and say hello.”

Ginny felt her color rising. She was furious. Surely her sophisticated cousin couldn’t be interested in anyone as obvious
as Poppy?

“Why, for goodness’ sake? You always say table-hopping is vulgar. I can’t believe you of all people would want to meet a bimbo
like Poppy.”

Alex laughed the laugh she’d forgotten how much she missed. He pulled her tighter to him. “It isn’t Ms. birdbrain I care about,
honeychile. It’s you. The man she’s with—”

“I know… I know…” Ginny snapped. “Mr. Skunk or
Shrink is the most powerful industrialist et cetera, et cetera in the world. So what?”

Alex jerked her arms crossly. “Svank is the name. I want to get to know him; I want him to take a look at you, at what you’re
wearing. He could be your backer. I know him slightly. I want to know him better.”

When the music stopped, Alex said, “All right, Ginny, it’s time you paid for your supper. Whether you like it or not, we’re
going to pay a visit to your old friend.”

She felt uneasy, barging in, pretending a relationship where none existed, but in Alex’s tight grip, she had no alternative.
She was being a fraud, she told herself. She wanted Poppy to see her dress, too, didn’t she?

“Hello, Poppy.” Shy, unsure. “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Alex Rossiter.”

“Hi, there, Jenny! Howdy, Alex. Wow, Jenny, as usual you’re wearing some piece of dress and how about that necklace!” Poppy,
as warm and welcoming as she’d been at Mr. Chow’s, rattled on; Alex, Ginny noticed, hardly looked at her. Instead he was paying
a sickening, obsequious homage to Svank, as if the plump one was a deity or something. To make matters worse, Svank ignored
them both, even when Poppy made vague introductions, getting her first name wrong, and not bothering to remember her last
one.

Either Alex didn’t know when he was being snubbed or, for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t care. When he moved closer to
the great man and started chatting him up, as if Svank had wanted to meet him all his life, Ginny longed for a hole to open
up and swallow them both.

“I lost your number, Jenny. I really looove your clothes. Oh, boy, did you really make what you’re wearing tonight? You are
soooo clever.” Poppy leaned seductively across the table, trying to evoke some response from Svank. “Pussy, isn’t that the
most gorgeous dress you’ve ever seen…” To her alarm Ginny saw one of Poppy’s breasts pop out of her halter neck onto the
table, then miraculously back in again as
she straightened up. Svank’s sphinxlike expression didn’t change and he didn’t utter a word.

Ginny tried to think of something to say. “Let’s have lunch, Poppy.”

“Yes, let’s. D’you have a pen?”

“I do.” Alex pushed pen and paper under Poppy’s nose.

“Here’s my number, Jenny, but don’t call before noon,” Poppy implored. “Then let’s make a date.”

Why on earth had she suggested to Alex they have a nightcap? Ginny was so tired, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

For the third time he said, “You won’t forget to call Poppy, will you?”

It was one thing that he hadn’t stopped singing her praises; it was quite another he hadn’t stopped nagging her to get out
of Gosman’s and put together a business plan, “so you can set up shop for yourself.”

“Build your friendship with Poppy Gan,” Alex repeated one more time before he left. “I can introduce you to some entrepreneurs,
but one word from Svank and all our—your—problems will be over forever.”

Oh, yeah? Remembering Svank’s sharp, cold eyes, Ginny wasn’t so sure.

It was only when she woke up the next morning that she realized the diamond necklace had gone home with Alex. So it really
had been on loan. For once Alex had been telling the truth.