Too Damn Rich (28 page)

A tightness came up in her throat. Damn. Not
only did he have all the right moves, but he had all the right
words, too.

"Well, Kenzie? Which is it to be?"

She continued to stare at him.

Noises. She was aware of the turbulent
rushing of her bloodstream. The hammering of her pulse. A mad
thundering she knew to be her heart.

And Hannes, motionless, the cause of all
these amped-up emotions, was still staring at her. Irresistibly.
Hypnotically.

And lowering his head, he rewarded her with
another kiss.

Forgotten now was the waiting taxicab and its
running meter, the diagonal sheets of wind-driven rain behind them,
the key ring in her open evening bag. So lost was she in him, and
he in her, that nothing else on earth either mattered or
existed—not the slam of a nearby car door, nor the approaching
sound of footsteps on pavement, nor even the squeaking of the front
gate as it was being pushed open.

"Aw right, ya lovebirds! Knock it off—"

The male voice, cutting sharply through the
rain, sent Kenzie jumping back from Hannes. She whipped around—only
to be blinded by a high- powered flashlight.

Squinting, she raised an arm to shield her
eyes. "Ch-Charley ... ?" she called out into the brilliant,
colorless void. "That you?"

"Sorry to break up the party, folks."

Now there was no doubt in her mind. It was
him—Charley Ferraro, her on-again/off-again, self-proclaimed
"no-strings-attached" lover!

Right, she thought wryly. No strings
attached. So what the hell's he doing here?

Well, we'll know soon enough, she muttered
darkly to herself.

Stepping in front of Hannes, she placed her
hands on her hips and waited, face averted, until Charley had
climbed the front steps. Only after he lowered the flashlight did
she turn to him. Coronas of light, like double-exposed film, still
swam in her vision.

"And what are you doing here?" She quivered
in outrage while her eyes, seething with indignation, raked him
from head to toe.

Instead of replying, he flipped out his
badge.

For a moment, Kenzie's jaw actually dropped.
"Would you kindly," she snapped, glaring at him with righteous
fury, "explain what the hell you think you're up to?"

It was as if he hadn't heard. "Who's this?"
Charley played the beam on Hannes's face. "C'mon, buddy." He held
out his other hand. "Let's see ya cough up some ID."

"Now just wait a goddamn minute!" Kenzie
objected, bristling. "Charley, you've got absolutely no right
rousting innocent people. So why don't you switch off that
obnoxious flashlight, put that badge back in your pocket, and go
fuck off!"

"Ma'am?" Once again, he directed the beam of
light into her eyes. She averted her face, but not quickly enough.
"You lookin' for a disorderly conduct summons?"

"A what ...?"

She suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had
been sucked out of her and the heat of a terrible anger, like some
overpoweringly combustible gas, was filling her to bursting. It was
all she could do not to explode.

Breathe deeply, she advised herself. Keep
your cool... She reminded herself that he was jealous and on a
power trip. And hiding behind his badge, the goddamn creep!

"Get that light out of my eyes," she demanded
quietly. "Now."

The authority in her voice surprised even
herself. It must have surprised Charley too, for he instantly
complied.

"Kenzie?" Hannes's voice came from right
behind her. "I assume you know this gentleman?"

"Gentleman!" She snorted her contempt.
"That's certainly elevating him! But to answer your question," she
sighed, "yes, I know him." And flashing Charley a look of sheer
disgust, she added, "Or rather, I should say I used to know him—but
that was before he signed up for the Gestapo."

Charley ignored her jibe. Hand still
extended, he said, "Hey, buddy.

Thought I asked to see some ID." Furling and
unfurling his fingers to show he was serious. "C'mon. Make it
snappy."

Hannes stared at him coldly.

Charley stared right back.

The air crackled with bad vibrations.

"Oh, Christ!" stewed Kenzie. "Just what I
need—a pissing contest in the middle of the night!" Moving away
from both of them, she slumped wearily against the wall. "Hans,"
she said tiredly, "would you please show Dirty Harry here some
identification? Maybe then, God willing, he'll be satisfied, and
hopefully get lost?"

In short order, Hannes produced his wallet
and handed over his international driver's license. Observed
Charley running his flashlight over it. Couldn't miss the way he
looked suddenly taken aback, as if acting out the word Whoa! "You
Hannes Hockert?" he asked.

Hannes nodded. "Yes," he said.

"The Hannes Hockert?"

Kenzie frowned. Now what can Charley have
meant by that? she wondered, staring over at Hannes. Have I found
myself a tennis champ? Or maybe even some European racecar
driver?

"Would somebody," she spoke up in
exasperation, "please fill me in on what, exactly, is going on
here?"

Hannes was sliding something else out of his
wallet, so she pushed herself away from the wall to have a
look.

As it turned out, he was neither a Grand Prix
driver nor a tennis champ, at least not according to his
identification.

Interpol! Kenzie thought with a sinking
heart. Wouldn't you know it—a cop! As if one in my life isn't
enough, I have to go out and find myself another!

"Well, what a coincidence," Charley was
saying in amazement, his voice real nice and warm now. He promptly
switched off the flashlight and handed Hannes both his IDs. "I'm
Charles Ferraro."

Now it was Hannes's turn to stare. "You are
the policeman from the New York art theft squad?" he asked in
disbelief. "The one I am assigned to work with over the next
year?"

Charley grinned. "The one and only," he said,
holding out his hand.

And Kenzie, suddenly relegated to the
sidelines, gnashed her teeth in frustration. Having witnessed their
turf war, she wasn't about to stick around for the sole purpose of
being excluded from the only thing on earth more powerful, and
infinitely more exclusive, than male bonding: cop bonding.

Kicking aside Hannes's Burberry, she snatched
her keys out of her bag, unlocked the front door, and flounced
inside. Peeved, she slammed it shut and tromped heavily up the
stairs.

Briefly she wondered whether either of them
had noticed her departure.

Not that it mattered. They could play all the
macho games they wanted.

Tomorrow was a workday. She was going to
bed!

The following morning, the prevailing
westerly had scrubbed the sky clean. At nine past six, the sun rose
gloriously over Manhattan, anointing the glass ziggurats, apartment
chateaux, and cat's cradle bridges with undiluted sunshine. The
puddles dried up and there was a brisk autumnal nip in the air.

Kenzie's alarm clock jarred her awake after
five and a half hours of sleep.

On her way to work, she darted into a coffee
shop for a cup of regular and a bagel to go. Belatedly remembered
she didn't have a dime, thanks to Charley's stiffing her for
order-out Burmese. Cursing him under her breath, she headed on to
work, resigned to drinking the vile brew from the communal coffee
urn.

Fortunately, Arnold Li took pity on her. He
insisted she borrow forty dollars until payday. She gave him her
equivalent of a papal blessing, but he shrugged off her thanks.

"It's the reast I can do," he quipped,
launching into his routine. "Must prease new boss. Right, missy?
Chop-chop!"

"I'm not the new boss," she gloomed,
proceeding to impart the news of Bambi Parker's promotion.

If she expected shock and outrage, it wasn't
forthcoming. Arnold took the disclosure remarkably well.

"Look on the bright side," he smiled,
reverting to his perfect English. "At least it gets you off the
hook."

"Hook? What hook?"

"You just wait and see," Arnold predicted
cheerfully. "She'll nuke herself in no time. I give her six months,
max. Sooner or later, the position's yours anyway. And in the
meantime, since you're not the boss, you're saved the aggravation
of having to give her the ax. See? You'll have your cake and be
able to eat it, too."

Popping out for a container of decent coffee
and a bagel, Kenzie pondered Arnold's wisdom.

He could be right, she thought. Then again
...

Trouble was, she had no way of telling.

Least not yet.

Bambi Parker drifted into Burghley's at half
past ten. The first thing she did was head to The Club. She
silenced the powder room and announced her promotion.

Squeals of congratulations followed.

Twenty minutes later, she moseyed along to
Mr. Spotts's vacated office.

At eleven, Zachary Bavosa, the attorney from
Calvert, Barkhorn, Waldburger, and Slocum, arrived on behalf of his
anonymous client. In tow were two armed security guards, one of
whom carried a slim, briefcaselike crate containing the
Holbein.

Bambi perused the painting. Small but
magnificent, it depicted a girl with flowers and a spaniel.
Moreover, it seemed genuine, and the sales receipt from 1946 looked
in order.

What more could she ask for?

A second opinion.

However, she wasn't about to summon Kenzie or
Arnold. They'd only waste days, even weeks, trying to find fault
with the picture or its provenance, she thought. Who needs that?
Besides, I'm in charge now. I'm calling the shots.

Right then and there, Bambi came to a
decision.

"We'll be happy to handle the sale," she
assured the attorney with her best smile, and called down to
Consignments.

A few minutes later, one of the girls from
The Club came up to usher Zachary Bavosa, the security guards, and
the Holbein downstairs, where the appropriate paperwork would be
filled out, and the painting locked in one of the walk-in
vaults.

Twice that morning, Charley Ferraro called
Kenzie at work.

And twice she hung up on him.

Keeping his cool, he decided to wait a few
days before trying her again. Given time, he was certain she would
come around.

At noon, he met Hannes Hockert for lunch at
Wollensky's Grill, where they dug into the prime ribs with the same
gusto as they discussed international transportation of stolen art,
and the increasingly wily methods used by smugglers. In passing, he
happened to mention that Kenzie was employed at Burghley's.

After lunch, Hannes decided to give her a
call.

His greeting, also, was met with chill
silence and a click.

She'd hung up on him, too.

Four thousand miles away, Karl-Heinz's jet
landed at Munich airport and taxied to a remote apron, where an
executive helicopter awaited. Also on hand were officials from
customs and immigration, who waived the usual formalities.

Twenty minutes later, the helicopter put down
on the grounds of an exclusive private hospital in the picturesque
foothills of the Bavarian Alps.

The director of the facility personally
escorted Karl-Heinz to Intensive Care. There, he found his sister,
Princess Sofia, keeping vigil at their comatose father's
bedside.

"How is he?" Karl-Heinz asked, coming into
the room and bending down to kiss her on the cheek.

His lips met air; Sofia was already on her
feet, snatching up her things. She was a study in protected and
endangered species: leopard (hat and coat), black alligator
(oversized handbag and shoes), and ivory (necklace, ear clips, and
bracelet).

"It's about time you arrived!" she snapped.
"I've been alone with him for twelve hours straight. I suppose I
should thank you for relieving me?"

Heels clacking, she marched to the door,
swung it open, and then paused and turned to him. "Welcome home,"
she said bitterly.

And the door closed behind her.

Karl-Heinz felt drained. Two minutes with
Sofia was a lifetime of torture. Small wonder her husband had
developed a knack for disappearing at just the right moment.
Marriage to her must be a fate worse than death.

Slowly, heavily, he lowered himself into the
chair she had vacated and focused his attention upon the
patient.

Who ...?

There was a momentary sense of
disorientation, of having wandered into the wrong door, which only
added to his confusion. He blinked his eyes rapidly, then hunched
forward and stared anew at the shrunken, un- moving stranger on
life support.

Either I'm in the wrong room, or someone's
made a terrible mistake, he thought ...

... for what other explanation could there be
since this curiously sexless, translucent-skinned creature was not
his father? No. This was not the once-vital man from whose loins he
had sprung. It cannot be. I must summon the doctors, tell them
there has been a mix-up ...

But of course, there hadn't been. It was him.
His father. The old prince.

The merest ghost of him, perhaps, but him
nonetheless ...

Wrapping his arms around his chest,
Karl-Heinz closed his eyes. How wretchedly cruel life can be! he
kept thinking.

The hours crept by. Periodically, doctors and
nurses came and went on soundless crepe soles, checking the tubes
and monitors, moving the comatose body to avoid its getting bed
sores, holding whispered conferences while consulting charts. Last
night's glittering soiree at the Met seemed a million light years
in the past, his only memory of it reduced to but a single powerful
thought:
If only Zandra were here beside me ...

Zandra, unaware of Karl-Heinz's departure and
the crisis which precipitated it, reported to Burghley's at
precisely ten o'clock in the morning. She spent an hour being
processed by personnel, filled out an application for a green card,
and received a two-week advance on her paycheck, as well as a
check-cashing card for use at the nearest Citibank.