Too Damn Rich (59 page)

Sheldon D. Fairey's voice was at its
plummiest, and he looked formidable seated behind his mammoth,
ivory-inlaid calamander, thuya, and ebony desk.

"Please." He gestured. "Do sit down."

"Thank you, sir."

Kenzie took a seat on one of a pair of
Anglo-Indian, carved ebony armchairs and waited.

Shooting back the cuffs of his gorgeous suit
of charcoal wool flannel, Sheldon D. Fairey rested his elbows on
the tooled green leather writing surface, steepled his pink-palmed
hands, and tapped his index fingers against his lips. "I gather you
have a good idea why I wished to see you?"

She met his gaze directly. "Yes, sir. The
Leonardo sketches."

"Quite right." He nodded and frowned. "Tell
me, Ms. Turner. How much would you estimate they are worth?"

Kenzie stared at him. Oh, boy, she thought.
Talk about the sixty-four- million-dollar question!

"Well, sir," she said slowly, "I really
couldn't begin to guess. If they are indeed the real thing, they're
... well, priceless. There's no way I could put a dollar value on
them."

"Of course not." He permitted himself a
slight smile. "My answer exactly."

She waited.

"Unfortunately, philistine as it may sound,
as auctioneers we are in the business of constantly appraising
priceless articles expressly to put a financial price on them. Is
that not true?"

"I know that, sir, but as for a Leonardo
sketchbook ... Well, first of all, I've never seen any of these
drawings in person, only in photographs, and I don't need to tell
you that photographs can lie. Also, a lot depends upon the
condition they're in. Are they faded? Smeared? Foxed? Torn? And
finally, there's the matter of rarity. Leonardos aren't like
Picassos. They hardly ever come on the auction block. The last time
I can remember was when Basia Johnson—"

"Yes, yes, I know," he said testily, and
sighed. "Please, Ms. Turner," he said in a soft voice, "humor me.
Try."

Kenzie held up her hands. "That's just it,
sir. I don't know! All I can do is speculate, and even then I'd
first have to judge their quality, authenticity, and condition. And
to do that, I'd have to see them in person."

"I take it Mr. Li told you about the trustees
pitting us against Christie's and Sotheby's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Apparently, they're demanding an instant
decision—" He held up both hands, palms facing outward, to fend off
her protests. "I know, I know. It's highly irregular. However, in
view of the fact that they are Leonardos . . . well, we must be
flexible."

Kenzie was silent.

"Also, the trustees want us—and the other
auction houses—to guarantee a certain minimum price. Needless to
say, they'll choose whoever's offer is the highest."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but ... aren't
there twenty-four sketches in all?" Kenzie asked.

"I believe so." He nodded briefly. "Yes."

"Good lord! That means each of them may be
worth millions!"

"Which is precisely why I'm counting on you,
Ms. Turner. We cannot let this opportunity slide through our
fingers. I want you to fly to Detroit at once, and if the sketches
are indeed authentic—"

"I'll arrange for hotel reservations," she
said. "How long do I have? One week? Two?"

He smiled humorlessly. "Several hours, I'm
afraid."

"What!" Kenzie stared at him in disbelief.
"You are joking, sir?"

"If only I were."

"But this is madness! Merely
authenticating—"

"I know, Ms. Turner, believe me, I know.
However, if we want to handle this sale, we are forced to guarantee
a price."

Kenzie stared at him. "By 'we,' " she said
carefully, "I gather you mean me? That I'll have to decide?"

"Yes, Ms. Turner," he said. "You will have
the authority to make the decision."

She thought: And be the sacrificial lamb if
anything goes wrong.

He tapped his steepled fingertips.
"Therefore, in case they are authentic and in good condition, we
need to establish what we would consider to be a fair price
guarantee. One that would hopefully top Christie's—and especially
Sotheby's—offers."

How am I supposed to guess price guarantees?
I haven't even seen the damn things. What if they're clever
forgeries?

"Ten million?" he asked. "Twenty million?
More?"

I've never seen that much money. How many
stacks of twenty dollar bills would that make? Suitcases full. It
must weigh a ton.

"Naturally, I'll need to clear this with Mr.
Goldsmith," Sheldon D. Fairey said, reaching for his telephone and
stabbing the number of Robert A. Goldsmith's cellular phone. "Let's
just hope to God I can get hold of him. For all we know, he could
be in Timbuktu."

If only he were. I wouldn't care whether he's
in deepest, darkest wherever—or on land, air, or sea—just so long
as it's someplace where no one can reach him.

Fat chance.

Robert A. Goldsmith was not only very much
within reach. Unbeknownst to either Kenzie or Sheldon D. Fairey, he
happened to be right above them.

In Bambi Parker's twenty-seventh-floor
Auction Towers sublet. Lying naked on a fur spread while Bambi,
aerobics-firm and pink as a Georgia peach, knelt penitently between
his splayed thighs, expertly giving head.

Bambi kept her eyes and ears conveniently
shut—the former, the better not to see his gelatinous bulk; the
latter, to drown out his obscene, running litany:

"Yeah, baby ... uh-huh ... that's right, eat
Daddy's dick ... that's a goooood girl ..."

She performed admirably, especially
considering that her mind was on cruise control:

One dick is just like the next. I'll pretend
it's Lex Bugg's, and that after he's good and hot he'll fuck the
bewaddens out of me.

Robert's short but sturdily built penis
twitched and strained and grew thicker.

This afternoon's my appointment at Georgette
Klinger's. Maybe I'll treat myself to a massage along with my
facial.

His wheezy groans were coming faster and she
could feel his thighs quivering.

And then I'll stop at Bendel's and splurge on
one of those resin and raffia pendants ...

At this point, his cock was ready to explode,
and she could feel the beginnings of a shudder coursing through him
when—

Bleat ... bleat ... bleat—

His cellular phone began to ring.

Bambi, hoping to bring him to climax sooner
rather than later, treated him to an even stronger suction, but his
hands pushed her away.

Shit! she thought. Now I'll have to start all
over from scratch.

"Ro-bert!" She sat back on her heels and
pouted. "Can't you just let it fucking ring?"

Her perfect blonde hair was mussed and her
face was all red from the blood rushing to her head while bending
down to suck him off.

"Business before pleasure," he rasped. "Now
bring me the damn phone."

She sulked. "Ro—"

"Phone."

"Oh, all right!" she said crossly.

Bambi climbed to her feet, got out of bed,
and went to fetch it from his coat pocket. When she tossed it at
him, he unflipped it, pressed send, and grunted: "Yeah."

"Mr. Goldsmith? Sheldon D. Fairey here."

"Whassamatta?"

"Something urgent has come up, and I need
your approval."

"Aw right. Gimme it in a nutshell."

Fairey did, and Robert listened, every now
and then giving a noncommittal grunt.

Still pouting, Bambi climbed back up on the
bed and settled on her haunches between Robert's splayed legs. She
could hear the squawk of the voice on the other end, but couldn't
make out any of the words.

"I suppose you need an answer now, huh?"
Robert was saying. "Okay. About this Ms.—What's Her Name?
Turner—"

Bambi perked up at the mention of Kenzie, and
silently started mouthing something.

"—you trust her judgment?"

Robert listened some more, ignoring Bambi's
furious sign language.

"Aw right, tell ya what. There's twenty-four
of 'em? Okay. If she's a hunnert percent sure they're the real
McCoy, I'll authorize up to eighteen mil. Yeah, for the whole
shebang! I don't give diddly what they're probably worth.
'Probably' don't cut no ice with me. She has the least doubt, she's
to drop 'em. Like a hot potato, yeah. Lemme know what happens."

Robert pressed the end button and tossed the
phone aside.

"Ro-bert!" Bambi complained. "I'm supposed to
be the head of that department."

He drilled her with his porcine eyes.
"Talkin' about head, why don'tcha shut up and gimme some?" he
growled.

"But—"

"Just do as you're told."

Zandra was on a pay phone at Kennedy
Airport.

"Gosh, Arnold, Kenzie's where? In Detroit?
Oh, I see. No, it's nothing important. Thanks, Arnold. See
you."

She hung up and sighed.

Damn, she thought. So much for moral support.
Well, might as well roll up my sleeves. The sooner I get this nasty
piece of business over with, the better.

Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen had
been up since the crack of dawn. Having spent Saturday night and
then all of Sunday locked in his bedroom, he had abruptly snapped
out of his funk.

One and a half days of soul searching had
paid off. He had come to terms with his father's numbered months—or
was it weeks or days?—and had resigned himself to losing his
inheritance and seeing it passed on to his sister, Princess
Sofia's, eldest ne'er-do-well.

Ironically, from the moment he'd accepted
that fate, he'd felt strangely buoyant and unencumbered, as though
he'd sloughed off a heavy burden.

And the family empire was a burden—any
multibillion-dollar enterprise is. Perhaps it's time for someone
else to wrestle that multiheaded hydra, he thought.

Besides, an early retirement appealed. He had
a multimillion-dollar fortune of his very own, so he certainly
wouldn't starve. And as for the empire ... well, did it really
matter all that much in the greater scheme of things?

Now, seated behind his purplewood bureau plat
in his Auction Towers study, he signed the last of the documents
which had been brought by special air courier from Germany. He
looked up as his valet appeared at the door.

"These need to be faxed back immediately,
Josef," he said in German as he carefully blotted his signature.
"The originals can go by FedEx."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Josef paused, and cleared his throat
discreetly. "There is one other thing, Your Highness."

"And that is?"

Karl-Heinz capped his solid gold fountain
pen, gathered up the sheaf of documents, and aligned their edges by
tapping them on the desktop.

"Countess von Hohenburg-Willemlohe is in the
lobby."

Karl-Heinz stopped what he was doing and drew
a deep breath. His lips tightened momentarily, and then a kind of
gentle sorrow came into his eyes.

So, he thought. Zandra has dropped by. He was
surprised and yet not surprised. I wonder what she wants.

"Invite her up," he said, handing Josef the
documents.

Josef nodded solemnly. "Very well, Your
Highness," he said, and withdrew, walking backward and bowing
formally once he reached the double doors.

Karl-Heinz pushed back his chair, rose from
behind the desk, and walked thoughtfully over to one of the
windows. He stared out, hands clasped behind his back.

Uniformly low gray clouds pressed down upon
the city, shrouding the tops of the tallest buildings. Already at
three o'clock, lights glowed brightly in windows, and from far
below, the screams of sirens drifted up, ever so faint but
nonetheless persistent.

Sirens, car horns, alarms. Those were the
sounds he equated with these hard-edged, vertical canyons. No
matter how isolated and cocooned one was, the torment of this
writhing megalopolis could never be completely silenced. Reality
was just a wall away.

Suddenly he longed for the unearthly solitude
of his European castles. Perhaps, he thought, it's time I went back
and recharged my batteries.

His musings were interrupted by Cesar.
"Countess von Hohenburg- Willemlohe," he announced.

Karl-Heinz turned around. "Thank you,
Cesar."

"Your Highness." The majordomo bowed and shut
the double doors quietly.

Zandra stood hesitantly just inside the
book-lined room. She knew she looked terrible—drawn and pale, her
red eyes rimmed with pink from lack of sleep. Having literally been
awake for two entire days, her body was worn down by jet lag and
jangled nerves, and she was on the verge of exhaustion. Her glands
were swollen, and her throat felt raw.

"Well?" Karl-Heinz smiled. "Are you just
going to stand there? I don't bite, you know."

She managed a tiny smile. He was right. She
was standing there like an idiot.

She crossed the glowing carpet and raised her
cheek for his kiss, a greeting which, in her profound agitation,
she was too flustered to reciprocate.

"This won't take long, Heinzie," she said
apologetically. Her vocal cords were hoarse from lack of sleep.
"I'll get right to the point."

"What's the rush?" he said, his voice
pleasantly tolerant.

Her breasts rose as she heaved a sigh, and
then she tightened her lips and looked down at the swirling pattern
of the Aubusson. After a moment, she raised her eyes and met
his.

"About this past weekend, Heinzie—" she
began.

Karl-Heinz laughed. "Weekend? What weekend?
Some things are best forgotten. Don't you agree?"

She shook her head, her face serious.
"Please," she said softly. "You're not making this any easier for
me."

He looked at her with concern. "Zandra? Are
you al—"

"About the weekend. I ... well, I won't
pretend it didn't take me by complete surprise—I mean, honestly,
Heinzie, it was so ... unexpected."