White Heat (24 page)

“Nope, but I’m sure
you
know everything including what Prescott Tiliman ate for breakfast this morning.” Prescott was Richard Tillman’s only son.

“Want to know?”

“If you tell me, will you have to kill me?” Emily teased as a way to keep the conversation in perspective.

Max’s eyes narrowed to shards of green glass. “Not funny.”

Under the circumstances, probably not. “Depends if I’m talking to the checker at Wal-Mart or an international counterterrorist operative, doesn’t it?” She glanced through the front window as the car went under a high metal arch forged with an inlay of the initials RT. “What on earth …”

AJ gave a gurgle of laughter as Keiko turned the car into the drive of the biggest home on the property. Richard Tillman’s home. “Oh, Lord’ the redhead laughed. “Check this out.” She rolled down her tinted window to get a better view

A blast of frigid air swirled around Emily’s Choos. The spectacle was hard to miss. She stared at the rows of larger than life—sized, Carrera marble statues lining both sides of the crushed stone driveway. “Wow.”

Max smiled. “That’s all you can say about three or four hundred Venus de Milos?
Wow?”

The statues, and there were at least that many, were alternated, with a front view followed by a back view, followed by a front view, approximately six feet apart, all the way up the curved driveway. It was a startling sight, to say the least. The army of statues all had their arms, too.

“To say that money doesn’t buy taste is the understatement of the millennium,” Emily told him dryly. “Wow is all I can manage.” Max didn’t seem surprised. “You knew these would be here,” she semi—accused.

“Yeah,” Max’s lips twitched.

“This
is the man who owns genuine Raphaels, and Michelangelos?” She shared a smile with him, then turned quickly to look out of her window when her heart responded to the softening in his eyes and the intimacy of his smile.
Don’t go there just don’t.

“Thank God he chose not to send me any of his Elvises on velvet,” she told the others, tongue in cheek, as they eventually reached the house.

Mansion. Castle. The front of the—monstrosity—was covered with natural river rock, and three wood-trimmed balconies curved from each floor of the house for spectacular views of the pine forest on the lower levels of the property and the mountains in the distance.

The house, Emily thought,
without
the added embellishments, fit into the pine trees and natural surroundings as if it had been carved from the native rock. Unfortunately, Tillman, or someone near and dear to him, had decided that natural wasn’t “pretty” enough.

On every beautifully carved wood post sat a stone cherub. Nailed to every handcrafted crossbeam was a stone medallion, or a frieze of running Grecian nymphs. A five-tier Italianate fountain, strategically placed for arriving guests’ viewing pleasure in the curve of the sweeping river rock stairs, dripped ice in suspended animation.

“Who’s this?” Keiko indicated the impeccably dressed man waiting for them at the foot of the steps as she pulled up close to the house. “The butler?”

“Alistair Norcroft,” Emily said opening her door as the man crossed to the car. “Alistair.” Slinging the handles of her tote over her shoulder, she held out both hands. “How are you?”

MAX SUMMED UP NORCROFT QUICKLY. HE KNEW THE MAN’S BACKGROUND, but a face-to-face meeting was always preferable. Alistair Norcroft was well-maintained. His face was smooth and unlined, lightly tanned, pleasant. His light eyes steady, and direct. He was slight of build, but fit, and of medium height. His hair was short and razor cut, not too stylish, but in keeping with the current fashion. He wore a Savile Row suit, an old-school silk tie, Allen Edmonds shoes, and a Patek Philippe watch.

Max knew this, not because he gave a flying crap about fashion. But because he made it his business to know how much money people spent on their trappings. Hiding their wealth in plain sight. Norcroft spent a lot.

“Your trip was uneventful, I hope. This snow seems to be with us a lot longer this winter. Come back here where it’s warm.” Tillman’s assistant said smoothly.

He led them down a corridor, then into a two-story-high great room at the mid level of the sprawling three-story residence. A fire blazed hot in the enormous stone fireplace, and ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall windows offered a spectacular panorama of the snow- covered mountains. The enormous room, overlooking a tree-filled ravine, was furnished with comfortable looking brown leather furniture and so many tchotchkes there wasn’t a flat surface not occupied by
something.

“I do apologize.” Norcroft didn’t fit in with either the back-to- nature look of the decor, nor the outrageously tacky objets d’art. “Mr. Tillman is not well enough to see visitors today, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry you came all this way for nothing. Perhaps another time? Or is there something
I
can do to aid you?”

Despite the roaring fire in this room, the rest of the house had been cold. Surprising if there were an invalid about. Max had asked Emily to set up this meeting between the “investigators looking into the deaths of several restorers” and Tillman while they’d been en route. Norcroft had called her back within minutes assuring her that Mr. Tiliman would be more than delighted to answer any questions the investigators might have.

He’d offered Emily and the others the use of Tillman’s guest- house for the night. Max had told her to decline. While he wanted his questions answered, he needed Emily inside T-FLAC headquarters, where he’d be a hundred percent assured of her complete safety.

Norcroft had told Emily how much he was looking forward to seeing her again. Max had listened to the artless conversation on speaker. The guy had sounded genuine when he’d offered to assist them in any way he could.

Now, five hours later, his boss was suddenly sick? Max thought, annoyed. Still, if the super efficient assistant couldn’t grant them access to his boss, Max suspected Norcroft could answer most, if not all, of the questions. The job this guy held brought him not only a hefty paycheck, but also privileged information. Max suspected there wasn’t much Tillman did without it filtering through Norcroft first.

“Perhaps he’s well enough to answer just a few questions?” Max suggested politely as Norcroft directed a uniformed maid to where he wanted the two-tiered, mahogany tea cart she was wheeling into the room.

“Set up on the coffee table, please, Christine:’ he instructed the young woman. He watched her for a moment as she spread an embroidered cloth on the giant wormwood table, then started unloading carafes and cups and plates of little sandwiches and girlie, bite-sized frosted cakes. What the fuck? Did the guy think they’d come to a frigging tea party?

“I completely understand your frustration,” Norcroft addressed Max apologetically. “You’ve traveled a long way. I know Mr. Tillman was so looking forward to finally meeting Emily. And he certainly wants to do his civic duty and answer whatever questions you may have. Please be seated, and help yourself to the refreshments. Christine? The sandwiches for Mr. Taurus? Ah. Thank you, good girl,” he said, pleased, as she uncovered a tray of man-sized sandwiches. Enough to feed a small platoon.

Niigata, standing close by, mouthed the word “restroom?” to the woman, and the maid indicated it was down the hail.

“Where were we?” Norcroft asked, missing the exchange. “Ah, yes. I’ll go and check again to see if Mr. Tillman can perhaps make an effort for just a few moments. Excuse me.” He inspected the table, then apparently satisfied, thanked the maid and followed her out of the room.

Putting her monstrous bag down on the arm of the sofa, Emily wandered over to inspect a small dark painting across the room. Like Max, AJ positioned herself so she could see all the entrances.

He didn’t expect trouble, not here, but Max remained ultra aware as he looked around, trying to see it the way Emily had described Brill’s place. Observant, he had to be, but Emily had taught him the iconographical approach of seeing a person’s home through different eyes, and to interpret what he saw in a more personal, and intriguing way. The new perspective gave him additional insight into his host.

Jesus, he’d thought his old man’s villa pretentious and over the top. Compared to Richard Tillman’s place, his father’s home was not only tasteful, it was restrained. This was like comparing a single-wide trailer to the Taj Mahal. And while he had no doubt everything in the house carried a hefty price tag, even he, who never cared about shit like this, knew it was all mostly in exceedingly bad taste.

The iconographical interpretation was that Tillman had never shaken free of his humble roots. Born in a government housing project in Detroit just before the birth of the Great Depression, Tillman was obviously a hoarder. He had more money than God but apparently couldn’t or wouldn’t get rid of bottom-of-the-barrel, mass-produced statues and vases. The exceptions being several pieces of religious art scattered around the room.

Max was hardly an expert, but he’d bet the gilt porcelain figure of the Madonna, the Byzantine rendering of St. John the Baptist on wood, and several other objects were the real deal. It was just strange seeing them displayed alongside department store art. He wouldn’t have expected this from a guy with shitloads of money and a reputation as an art aficionado.

“Vermeer’s
The Little Street
is an excellent copy,” Emily indicated the painting she’d been looking at. She crossed the football- field-sized area rug to sit on the sofa facing the fire. “The one over the fireplace is a Rembrandt and the little painting by the door is a Fra Angelico. I suspect both are the originals.”

He met Niigata’s eyes as she came back into the room. The woman was sharp as a tack, and had picked up on his request to search as much of the house as she could in just a few moments. AJ would go next, followed by Max himself. There was a knack to doing a down and dirty search, and T-FLAC trained them well.

Dare had e-mailed them a blueprint of the house, and they had made a grid of what they estimated they could cover in the shortest amount of time without being conspicuous or getting caught. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be much, but it might be all the time and opportunity they’d have.

He glanced at Emily. “I thought you needed your equipment to tell an original from a really good fake?”

She grinned. “I do. But since I’m the one who painted that one, I pretty much know I’m not Vermeer.” She poured herself a cup of fragrant coffee that Max could smell halfway across the room. “Chocolate cake, ladies.” she announced, helping herself to a floral plate and a small square of the chocolate confection, which she ate with relish in one bite.

“Not right now. Thanks, Em,” AJ said regretfully, just as a man strolled into the room as if he owned the place. Except he was too young to be Tillman. Wearing slightly baggy jeans and a gray wool sweater that showed off his beer belly to perfection, Tillman’s son was probably in his fifties. He was five eight, with a sharply receding hairline of light, almost downy hair. And what Max suspected was a permanently dissatisfied expression.

Ignoring the women, he walked directly to Max. “Prescott Tillman. And you are?”

He didn’t offer his hand, and neither did Max. He’d met dozens of Prescott Tillmans over the years. Soft. Lazy. Entitled. Riding on a wealthy daddy’s coattails, and suspicious of anyone who might tip the balance of his very cushy status quo. “Max Taurus. Global Casualty and Loss. These are my associates, Mrs. Cooper and Ms. Niigata. Ms. Greene was kind enough to accompany us to speak with your father.”

Emily rose from the squishy leather sofa to intercede. If the younger Mr. Tillman were a dog his hackles would be rising. She put out her hand, forcing Prescott Tillman to take it or appear terribly rude. “Mr. Tillman, I’ve enjoyed a long business relationship with your father. I’m sorry to hear he’s taken ill. I hope it’s nothing serious?”

“He’s eighty-four years old and in decline, I’m sorry to say,” he said, dropping Emily’s hand and addressing Max again. “Whatever you need, I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.”

“For starters we’d like a list of all the paintings he’s had copied in the last five years, and the names of the artists he commissioned for each,” Max informed him.

“I don’t have access to that information.” Prescott’s voice was cold. “If you leave a card, I’ll have my secretary see what she can find and mail it to you. Now, if that’s all, I’ll have the maid see you out. I have a meeting in a few moments.”

“Your teleconference has been set up in your office, Scott,” Norcroft said smoothly, entering the room with a thin file folder in one hand. “You have two minutes if you need to take care of anything before Brian and Charles are on the line.”

“What’s that?” Prescott demanded, jabbing a fat finger at the file folder in his hand.

“The information I believe Mr. Taurus was inquiring about.” He handed Max the folder. “I took the liberty of printing out a copy for you. This is a record of all the transactions Mr. Tillman— Are you going downstairs, Scott? Would you like a cup of coffee and one of Christine’s excellent ham sandwiches to take to your office?”

“I’m not a fucking child, and I don’t want a goddamned flicking ham sandwich.” The younger Tillman stormed out of the room. If there’d been a door to slam, Emily thought, he would have slammed it. Nice guy …

“I apologize for Scott’s language, ladies. The copying and donation of his father’s extensive art collection has been a sore point for him.”

“He resents his father’s altruism?” Emily asked sympathetically. Not sympathetic to Prescott, but to Tillman senior’s assistant who, she guessed, had to do a lot of apologizing for his employer’s son.

“I really don’t want to speak out of turn . . . But the truth is Scott resents his father’s generosity in giving away such a large portion of his inheritance. It’s understandable, of course. But unrealistic. Mr. Tillman’s wealth is such that Scott couldn’t spend it all in ten lifetimes. What’s left after all the artwork has been given away is still a sizable fortune.”