Too Damn Rich (86 page)

"Chief, EMS is sending ten ambulances,"
someone reported.

"Three SWAT teams are on their way, Chief,"
someone else shouted.

Charley fought to keep his voice even.
"Chief, you've got to listen to me! If you're gonna send in SWAT
teams, you might as well forget the ambulances. You'll need a fleet
of meat wagons. I keep telling you, this is a one-man job."

The PC rolled his eyes. "Officer Ferraro,
you're on the art theft squad. What makes you think you're suddenly
Rambo?"

"Sir, my partner's in there. So's my girl.
Long as I can sneak in, I can enlist their help. That makes three
of us."

"You told me yourself all the ways in are
wired."

"Yes, sir. But I can crawl through the ducts.
Before the videocams were shot out, I caught sight of an overhead
heating vent."

"Yeah?"

"And it wasn't wired," Charley said,
thinking: God help me if it is. I didn't see jack shit. But I'm
willing to risk it. I have to risk it. Kenzie's in there.

For the first time, the PC began to look
interested. He stood there looking thoughtfully at Charley. "Give
me one good reason why I should stick my neck out and send you
in."

"Because I have everything to lose, sir."

"Shit." The PC heaved a deep sigh. "Personal
motives scare the living daylights out of me. How do I know you
won't put everyone at risk just to save two people?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I think your way
would put everyone at risk. The SWAT teams might work, sure. But
how many people would end up getting killed in the process?"

"Chief," someone shouted. "The Eyewitness
News van just pulled up."

"Goddammit!" the PC swore. "And we purposely
used phones, not police band. Some fuck at EMS must have tipped
them off. I find out who, his ass is grass!"

"Chief?" Charley said urgently.

The PC said, "All right, listen to me
carefully, Ferraro. I don't want you to do anything that'll
jeopardize the lives of those people. We both know there's strict
SOP for dealing with hostage crises. I'm sticking my neck out by
letting you go in. Got that?"

"Loud and clear, sir. And I really appreciate
it. But I need you to do a couple of things."

"What are they?"

"Leave the heat on, but turn it way down. I
don't want to roast."

"You fuck up, you will roast. I'll personally
see to that. What else?"

"They've got Hannes's transmitter and
earphones, so don't try to communicate with me. Think you can scare
up an old-fashioned walkie-talkie?"

"You got it."

"And, if you could cover me by tossing out
some fake info over the microtransmitters every now and then—"

"Done." The PC drilled Charley with hit-man
eyes. "I just hope I'm not going to regret this, Ferraro."

"I hope I won't either, sir." Charley flashed
him his most engaging, hard-to-resist grin. "But look at it this
way, sir. What've you got to lose?"

"Just the mayor, the governor, two
ex-presidents, and practically everybody on the Forbes 400. And
that's just for starters."

"Right." Charley frowned. "We got any
semiautomatics on hand?"

"Only a Wilkinson Linda we're holding for
some tycoon's bodyguard."

"Good. I'll borrow it."

The PC didn't look pleased. He handed Charley
a walkie-talkie. "Just don't disappoint me, Ferraro."

"I won't, sir. I really apprec—"

"Save it. Now get going before the Feds show
up and nix this harassed plan of yours."

"Yes, sir."

The PC went with him to okay the
appropriation of the pistol.

"I lost count of how many laws we've already
broken, Ferraro, so I don't want to know about any others. You're
on your own now. I'll try to buy you as much time as I can. But
that's all I can do. And I might not even be able to do much of
that."

"I understand, sir. And thanks." Charley
stuck the pistol in his belt and the walkie-talkie in his pants
pocket. Then sketching a wave, he sprinted back up the stairs.

Two minutes later, he had stripped off his
jacket, tie, and shirt and was standing on a chair unscrewing an
overhead heating vent.

Talk is cheap, he thought, tossing the grille
to the floor. Now I've got to deliver.

Reaching up into the duct, he put his hands
flat on the sheet metal and did a neat pull-up.

The metal buckled under his weight and made a
loud popping noise. Once he squeezed inside and released his
weight, the metal popped back into shape with a peal like
thunder.

He cringed and made a mental note to make
less noise. Sound travels, he reminded himself. Especially through
a metal tube.

But he was in and stretched out flat, his
weight evenly distributed. Lifting his head two inches, he peered
ahead into the gloom.

Every fifteen feet or so, little lattices of
light leaked up through the grilled vents. Otherwise, the duct was
dark, cramped, and stifling.

Now I know what being in a coffin is like, he
thought. If I get through this, I'll rewrite my will; specify
cremation. He changed his mind almost instantly. If this heat's any
indication, I don't want that, either. Hell, last thing I need to
think about right now is death. There are living people who need my
help.

And using his palms, elbows, knees, and feet
for traction, he began to crawl.

In the auction gallery, the ten minutes were
nearly up.

From the sidelines, Kenzie could sense the
growing air of dread. In the front row, Robert was holding Dina's
hand, trying his best to console her. Next to them, Karl-Heinz had
his arm around Zandra's shoulder, while whispering something.

All over the vast auditorium, nearly
identical scenes were endlessly replicated.

On the dais, the Velazquez infanta seemed
disdainfully superior to the dramas of mere mortals, and Kenzie
wondered how many other horrors and tragedies she'd been mute
witness to over the centuries.

Certainly none like this, she thought. This
has got to be a first.

The ten minutes were up. "Mr. Jones" was back
on the dais after conferring with his "associates" in the
aisles.

With his reappearance, the temperature seemed
to have plunged several degrees—at least, that was the way it felt
to the defenseless captives in the plush red seats. Their fear was
an almost palpable entity, like a giant turbulent cloud churning
madly above their heads.

"Mr. Jones" was addressing them.

"Ladies and gentlemen. I have with me—" he
unfolded a sheaf of paper he had in his breast pocket and placed it
on the lectern "—a list of each of your individual estimated net
worths. I must say it is highly impressive."

He scanned the rows of seats as
dispassionately as a poultry farmer surveying a brood of fat
hens.

"In the past, that wealth has bought you many
luxuries, but this evening, it can buy you the most precious
necessity of all—your lives. When I call your lot number, you will
come forward and stand over there, beside that painting."

He paused and looked down at the lectern.
Then he raised his rugged, lean face.

"Lot number one," he called out. "Will you
please come forward."

The auction had begun.

For Charley, the going was slow. The cramped
duct hindered his modified crab crawl and restricted his
movements.

If only he could speed up!

But it was impossible. There was not enough
height to get on his hands and knees, and his scrabbling low crawl
depended upon using his elbows and legs for traction. It was all he
could do to manuever forward a few inches at a time.

Worse, the furnacelike heat was rapidly
weakening him, sapping himof energy. He was already drenched in
sweat, and his arms and legs were numb and starting to cramp.

The temptation to just lie there and rest a
while was overwhelming.

Can't
, he told himself, letting out a
sigh, the exhalation like a loud blast of hot air in the stifling,
metal confines.
Mustn't stop. The hostages are counting on me.
Kenzie's counting on me—

—
Kenzie!

He had to keep moving. Rest was a luxury he
couldn't afford—and the hostages could afford even less.

Runnels of sweat trickled down his forehead,
burned saltily in his eyes.

On he crawled. On ...

"Lot number one. This is your last
chance."

"Oh, hold your horses!" called a feisty,
elderly voice.

People twisted around in their seats and
craned their necks, curious to see who it was.

Near the center on the left, an imperious
lady in her eighties with fluffy white hair like cotton candy was
getting to her feet. She wore an old-fashioned gown shot through
with jet beads, and diamonds to die for.

Leaning on her cane, she made a progress of
apologies as she brushed against people who sat sideways or half
rose to let her by.

Once in the aisle, she came forward at her
own stately pace, her bearing proud and erect, her face unafraid.
One of the Colombians approached to help her onto the dais.

"I neither want nor need help," she snapped,
wielding her cane threateningly. "Especially not from the likes of
you!"

Chagrined, the Colombian gave her a wide
berth and she slowly ascended the three steps. Standing beside the
Velazquez, she raised her chin, her forthright, denim-blue eyes
flashing.

"Mr. Jones" said, "Mildred Davies?"

"That's Mrs. Davies to you," she clarified
acerbically.

His features fluttered with a muscular tic,
and he lifted one, then two sheets of paper; ran an index finger
down the third.

"Here we are. Davies, Mrs. Edgar. Age,
eighty-two. Widowed. Resident of Washington, Connecticut. Fortune
derived from Yankee Corrugated Cardboard. Net worth eight hundred
fifty million dollars."

"So you read Forbes," she sniffed. "Am I
supposed to be impressed?"

The eyes of everyone in the gallery were
riveted on her.

"Your reserve price has been set at fifty
million dollars. Who would you like to call to arrange
payment?"

"No one," she said succinctly.

There was a communal gasp.

"Sorry?"

"If you didn't hear me, young man, I advise
you to have your ears checked. I said, you're getting nothing for
me."

"You do realize the alternative?"

"Death?" She laughed. "You young fool! I'm
not afraid of dying. The doctors only give me eight more months,
anyway. So go ahead. Shoot. You'll be doing me a favor."

"Mr. Jones" motioned to one of the
Colombians, who came trotting.

"You're sure, Mrs. Davies? This is your last
chance."

"I'm positive, may your soul be damned to
eternal hell!"

The Colombian raised one Uzi lazily and, amid
horrified screams of protests, pressed the trigger.

Semiautomatic gunfire
chattered—rat-tat-tat!—and the old lady seemed to dance like an
amphetamine-crazed marionette before collapsing, as though her
strings had been cut, abruptly to the floor.

The screams of the multitude suddenly
stopped, as if a circuit had been switched off. Everyone sat there
in frozen shock.

"Mr. Jones" banged the gavel. "Bought in," he
called out.

He paused and looked around.

"You'd all better start taking this
seriously," he advised grimly. "Unless, of course, you want to join
Mrs. Davies, there?"

No one responded.

"All right, then," he continued, "lot number
two—"

At that instant a cry of agony rent the
air.

Zandra's face had gone chalk white. Her eyes
bulged, and with one hand she clutched Karl-Heinz, her fingers
digging painfully into his thigh; with the other, she gripped
Dina's arm as though to crush it. Then her body convulsed, and it
was all she could do to hold on tight as she doubled over.

"The baby!" she gasped. "Oh, bugger it!
Something's happening. Oh, Heinzie—!"

She raised her perspiration-slick face and
stared at him in fear and pain.

"Hush," he said gently, starting to get
up.

She grabbed his arm. "No!" There was a
pleading note of desperation in her voice. "Please don't leave
me!"

"I won't," he said gently. "I promise." He
got to his feet.

"
Sit down!
" "Mr. Jones's" voice cut
the air like a knife.

Karl-Heinz stood his ground. "My wife is
going into premature labor," he said calmly. "She requires
immediate hospitalization."

"Mr. Jones" shook his head. "No one leaves
here."

"For God's sake—"

"
Sit down!
" "Jones" thundered. "Or do
you want to join Mrs. Davies?"

Karl-Heinz's face narrowed. He refused to be
cowed and remained standing. Everything about this situation—the
armed criminals strutting about, the dead woman lying on the dais,
Zandra in torment—filled him with rage.

"I don't have time to argue with an
underling!" Karl-Heinz snapped coldly. He raised his hand and
pointed an accusatory finger at the lectern. "You're not in charge.
You don't have the brains to be. I suggest you consult whoever's
really running this fiasco. Or hasn't it occurred to you that we're
not worth anything to you dead?"

"Jones's" face reddened with fury, but
Zandra's sharp cry robbed him of a response.

Karl-Heinz bent down to soothe her. "It's all
right," he told her softly. "Everything will be fine."

She looked up at him and shook her head. "No,
Heinzie." Her eyes filled with tears. "It isn't—"

Suddenly she shuddered and blood began
staining the lap of her loose white gown. Something was obviously
very, very wrong. She was hemorrhaging badly.

Karl-Heinz glanced around, his face filled
with alarm.

Even Dina, who had never given birth, could
tell that Zandra's heaving body was trying to expel the child.
Quickly she rose to her feet.