He gave her a flat, calm look, a maddening, detached look she’d loathed but had come to miss, only now the look was loathsome and maddening again, and he strode toward her, ever so coolly settling a hand on her shoulder. Mae knew blistering anger lived beneath that layer of frigid dispassion, and he leaned in close, lips brushing her ear as he enunciated every word, “Never. Stand. In. Front. Of. A. Weapon.” He straightened and let her go, one eyebrow arched when he stepped back. “Am I clear?”
Mae went on glowering. “He could have killed you.”
“Don’t you know that statistics show that more individuals are injured or killed by their own firearms, Mrs Valentine?”
“Pfft.” Mae narrowed her eyes. “Statistics. You do know how to comfort a woman. You’re really a hell of a poker player, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m just an exceptional liar.” Kitt twisted to the right, pointed the weapon at Taittinger, and fired, snap-snap-snap!
Mae leapt back, the dog scurried around inside the car, barking, Taittinger moaned, and Kitt went on being calm and detached. “It’s not real, Mrs Valentine. Real pistols don’t have the word Detective embossed on a die-cast barrel.” He tossed aside the vintage toy cap-gun, grabbed Taittinger by the back of the collar and dragged him across the concrete, depositing him against the car.
Felix sniffed the air, shook himself, and plopped back into the passenger seat.
Adrenaline still coursing through her system, Mae bent and picked up Taittinger’s spectacles. He sat, knees up, hunched, holding his head, swearing. She tapped his shoulder and held out his glasses. Feck, it was surprising how much she wanted to stab them into his eyeballs. The urge to make him bleed was savage, shocking, and nearly as distressing as how little remorse she knew she’d feel if she did. Mae took a breath.
Taittinger looked up at her, his pupils larger than normal in the soft light of the barn. His fingers quivered more than hers did as he took his glasses, mumbling a stuttering, “Th-thank you.”
“Did you have a little smoke of something, Dr Jools?” she said.
“Yeah. T-the, th-the deer, you know. I needed to relax. Y-you want some?”
Mae untied her apron, and Taittinger winced when she pressed it against a little trickle of blood near his ear. “You deserved that. You deserve more. You seemed like a pleasant man, I was convinced you were, and I liked working here, but Jaysus, the two of ya are feckin’ eejits. You both need a good belting.” She glanced back at Kitt for a moment. “I’m giving you notice, Dr Jools. My contract stipulates an obligation for the next two weeks, but one of us has to be sensible and professional.”
Cool, unruffled, Kitt leaned against the car, hand in a trouser pocket, eyes on Taittinger. “Ah, professional. Does that mean you’ll give us a moment, Mrs Valentine?”
“And leave you two to belt each other?”
“I appreciate loyalty to an employer, but be honest, wouldn’t you like to give him a box about the ears?”
“I’ve more a mind to ring the police and have you both charged with idiocy.”
Head angled slightly, and a faint amused curve to the left corner of his mouth, Kitt went on watching Taittinger. “What for? Idiocy isn’t a crime, and there’s no reason to bring the police into this. I don’t want to press charges.”
Mae clenched her teeth. “I don’t care if you want to press charges or not. It’s for my own safety and the safety of others. Did you forget my dope-smoking employer wanted to kill you?”
The corner of his mouth rose higher. “Yes, why is that, Tatts, why did you feel the need to be so murderous when I merely wanted to chat about your extra wine cellar?”
Taittinger dragged the apron from his head. “What do you really want, Somerset?”
“I told you. I’m very interested in the cellar below. Please, tell me about it.”
“Get fucked.” Taittinger crossed his arms and looked away, jaw tight with thin defiance.
“That’s not very punny. And I asked politely.” Hand came out of his pocket. Kitt straightened.
Taittinger flinched, whacking the back of his head on the car. “Okay, I get it. You’ll knock me around until I tell you what you want to know.”
Mae exhaled with noisy irritation. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, is it, Mr Somerset?
“No. Not with you here.” Kitt offered Taittinger a cold smile before his gaze flicked to Mae. “No one is in danger of losing his life, limb,” his attention fixed back on Taittinger, “or fingers. Unless he puts a hand back into a pocket.”
“Okay! Okay!” Taittinger held up both hands.
“Let’s go back to the cellar under the car. And place your palms on your knees.”
Frustration and nervousness plain, Taittinger did as he was told, hunched over and grabbed his kneecaps. “Would you just take the wine already? Tell soulless Judith I hope it makes her happy.”
“My hole.” Mae gave a snarl of exasperation, rolling her eyes. “This has nothing to do with your ex-girlfriend, Judith. He wants to know to whom all this belongs.”
Confusion made Taittinger’s dark eyes look larger and owlish behind his glasses as his gaze bounced from Mae to Kitt a few times. “M-me and p-private individuals,” he stammered. “I keep their very expensive wines in a climate-controlled location until they are ready to collect it. He sat up, spine straightening with newfound confidence. “I’m storing the wines. If you take it you’re not robbing me, you’re robb—”
“Yes, yes. You buy, sell, and trade wines. Mrs Valentine explained it to me. You’re a cosmologist, an oenophile, a wine merchant, and a something of freeport all in one, aren’t you?”
“So, Judith didn’t send you? You’re not here to rob me and take whatever it is she wants?”
“Heavens no. I’ll leave the robbery, and the wine, to you. Tell me, is any of the wine in the cellar below, counterfeit?”
“Why the hell would I have anything to do with counterfeit wine?” Taittinger screwed up his face.
Kitt jingled the change in his pocket. “That’s why Case is here. Counterfeiting is his speciality. And he’s why I’m here.”
“What the fu—” Taittinger’s mouth dropped open and his tongue tried to form words while his face flared pink with outrage and shock.
Mae snorted. It was amusing to watch him squirm.
Again, his gaze sprang back and forth between them a few times. “Count-count-counterfeit?” his voice cracked and went up an octave on the end, as if he were going through puberty.
“That’s right.” Kitt nodded, his smile showing bottom teeth. “You’re suspected of buying, selling, and manufacturing counterfeit wine. You’re on an Interpol watch list of suspected counterfeiters.”
“Wh-what?” For the third time, Taittinger’s wide, owlish eyes darted from Kitt to Mae. “I’m on a what?”
“He said you’re on an Interpol watch list of suspected counterfeiters.”
Taittinger swallowed and stared at Mae. “Did you...did you know about this, Valentine?”
Mae crossed her arms. “I found out last night.”
“And you’re helping him?”
“Yes.” She looked over at Kitt. When he gave a very faint nod, she continued making up shite to go along with his improvisation. “I had no choice. What he said was quite sensible and I did not wish anyone else to come to harm.”
It might have been the light, but Taittinger’s complexion took on a slight green tinge.
“You’re quite fortunate to have a butler as thoughtful and professional as Mrs Valentine, Tatts. She talked me out of dealing with you last night, wanted to spare you the embarrassment, but she is cooperating. I do hope you’ll do the same.”
“The Jefferson. I should have known. I should have fucking known!” Taittinger stared at Kitt. “You and David, are you guys even engaged?”
Kitt said nothing.
“Oh, God. You’ve forced him to cooperate too. You’re using him.”
Kitt gave a faint sigh. “The world is based
on give and take. You do something for me and you have an expectation of reciprocity. In a sense, to have our needs met, we all use the people we know. Interpol works with all sorts of organisations and uses all sorts of resources. Think of me as a resource.”
“For counterfeiting wine?”
“No, for so much more. Case will discover what Mrs Valentine and I know; this has nothing to do with wine, not in a way that matters significantly, because you’re not concocting a phoney vintage. Those numbers above the bottles, they aren’t wine-blending codes, are they? It’s a notation for who owns what, isn’t it?”
“That’s not a crime.”
“No, it isn’t, but that’s not all you’re doing.”
The colour drained from Taittinger’s face and stopped at his neck, his throat a mottled rash of green-tinged pink.
Kitt glanced at Mae, her mouth pursing to cover her amusement. “You know, Tatts, we did have a very good look around the cellar,” he said. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “All your money and talk of philanthropy, social justice, supporting the less-fortunate, the forgotten, the unwanted, rescuing those who need rescuing most. Mrs Valentine mentioned even your dog is a rescue. Very admirable of you. Wouldn’t you say that’s admirable, Mrs Valentine?”
“I might, sir.” Mae moved around to the other side of the car. Felix lifted his head and she began to rub his ears.
“It’s sad.” Kitt exhaled softly. “That admirable trait is nothing more than pretence. You use your friends to raise money to give to charities so you can satisfy your social conscience when you’re nothing more than a thief.”
Suddenly, Taittinger blinked his owlish eyes, his expression took on a hue of outrage. “I haven’t stolen anything. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”
“And next you’re going to tell me you’re just a cog in a wheel and you didn’t invent the wheel. Come now, you’ve been sprung. Tell me about the zodiac mosaic in the cellar below. I know the piece is Roman but tell me more about it.”
Mae watched Taittinger squeeze his kneecaps. His laugh dry and short. “You know your art.”
“Not really. I had a colleague who knew a great deal more. I learned a lot from him. For instance, I know the other mosaic of the Four Seasons is Syrian. Where did the two mosaic pieces in the cellar originate? A museum? A family home? A village in a war zone? A looted World Heritage site? Or perhaps a freeport?”
He swallowed a few times before he peered up at Kitt, the green tinge fading. “Oh!” Taittinger let go of his knees, rubbed the back of his neck, and shook his head. “You think...I see. I see what you think. Those pieces are art samples.”
“Samples?”
“Yeah, like the shipping labels say. Did you read the shipping labels?”
“If you mean did I read the false declarations you deliberately used to bring the property into the United States clandestinely, then yes, I did. Would you like to try again?”
Taittinger adjusted his glasses, his mouth flattening as he looked over at Mae.
“My brother is a priest, Dr Jools. He’s devoted to St Jude. He likes to tell people that St Jude’s not just the patron saint of lost causes, but a vegetarian as well. He also says shite like, ‘confession is good for the soul.’”
“You don’t believe me, Valentine?”
She smiled very softly.
Taittinger ran his tongue around his lips, as if they’d gone dry and stuck together, and he looked from Mae to Kitt, and shook his head again. “Those of us who collect antiquities can help. We can save a cultural heritage by supporting those who work to preserve. If we support the curators and museum employees, and university professors who risk their lives to protect the treasures terrorist factions like ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, whatever you want to call them, destroy, we can save the cultural heritage.”
“Surely you are not that guileless.” Kitt laughed. “Yes. Yes, I can see you are. Are you familiar with the conservation work of Dr Vida Zora?”
“Who?”
Nonchalantly, Kitt brushed dust from his sleeve. “Sometimes the same social forces involved in the illicit trade of antiquities are also involved in arms looting and terrorism, which is exactly what you’re participating in. And you know that. And what of the ordinary people, the desperate ones living in desperate situations? They loot or collect pieces and sell them so they can feed their families. The merchants they sell to pay a pittance and then they sell the things they bought to dealers at local gold and antique markets for a larger fee. Those dealers sell them for an even great sum to western collectors like you. But that’s the small end of the market. Pornographic pieces and the mosaics in the cellar have often passed along a chain of corruption that extends around the world, and it spreads through all levels of society. You are, whether you want to accept it or not, involved in financing terrorism.”
More colour returned to Taittinger’s face, his neck dusky pink. “I am not. I’m preserving history. The wholesale looting of a country’s treasures is a matter of international importance. I know the facts. This sort of smuggling has gone on forever. The bad guys just change names. Twenty years ago, pieces like mine travelled through Afghanistan, former Soviet republics, and out from Russia to Western capitals like London. Look, maybe I can’t do anything about terrorism and arms trading, but I can do something about unscrupulous buyers and dealers like Basil, Nash, and...others.”
Kitt’s left eyebrow quirked. “Basil and Nash are interested in the pieces you have?”
Taittinger gave a huffing grumble of frustration. “Yeah, well, not everyone is here for the wine like Ruby, Foley, and David.”
“What about the yet-to-arrive Chungs?”
Taittinger half shrugged.
“You said you had something they wanted, Dr Jools.” Mae stopped rubbing the dog’s ears. “Now I know why Mr Nash and Mr Basil asked about the Sunbeam.”
“Interesting.” Kitt ran a finger around the edge of his chin whiskers.
Taittinger’s lips spread into a weak, yet proud little smirk. “You really believe I’m in this for the sake of money, but I’m not. Didn’t you hear what I said last night? We’re dealing with a human crisis. This is about preserving culture and human history.”
A small smile twitched on Kitt’s mouth. “I believe you believe you’re on some kind of crusade.”
“I keep the antiquities that have been stolen safe for cultures on the verge of having their history destroyed. Don’t you see what I’m trying to do?”
“Yes. Who’s working with you?”
Mae watched Taittinger squirm, as if the seat of his trousers suddenly filled with ants. “I work alone,” he said.
Kitt smiled again. “It’s clear you don’t play poker. How do these things get to you?”
“Delivery companies—Universal Deliveries, Delivery Express, whaddya think?”
Mae gave a small cough. “Hector Rodriguez has ferried deliveries from Santa Fe, Albuquerque, and Las Cruces for you, Dr Jools.”
“Come on, Valentine, can’t you be on my side?”
With a soft smile, Mae resumed stroking the dog.
“What’s he got on you, Valentine?”
She lifted the dog from the seat, set him on his feet, and looked at Kitt. “Are we almost finished here, sir? The other guests will be getting hungry and Felix needs exercise.”
“Almost, Mrs Valentine. Hector would be?”
“Hector is an old friend, a landscaper and mechanic,” Mae said. “He was at the party last night. Rather attractive Native American, looks a bit like Cary Grant, has a dent in his chin and long hair. Perhaps you danced with him?”
Kitt gave her a sidelong glance. “I must have missed the chance. How does Hector get the pieces get into the country, Tatts?”
Pale pink and dry, Taittinger’s tongue ran across his lips. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “That’s not my end, or Hector’s. He just picks things up when I ask him.”
“All right, then what is your end? How do they get to your home?”
“I told you, they’re delivered.”
“By UniDel, DelEx, and sometimes Hector. What’s the point of entry into the country? Do they start with Judith?”
“No, not with Judith.”
“Then with whom? The Chungs?”
Taittinger’s nose began to run. He pressed his palms to his face, fingers shoved under the lenses of his glasses, frames bunching up to his forehead, and he moaned and muttered beneath his hands.
“You actually want to do this the hard way, don’t you?”
Hands came away but glasses stayed stuck to Taittinger’s forehead. He went still. Tears trickled. The silence broken by Felix licking where testicles had once been. His spectacles dropped down. “Who the hell are you? What the hell are you?” he said, eyes wet and wide.
“Impatient.”
“A username,” Taittinger sniffled, “that’s all I have. “It’s all social media, online art forums, instant messaging.”
“Instant messaging, a terrorist favourite, or the Dark Web. The username?”
Taittinger squirmed and fidgeted as ants returned to burrow in hard. “Chichiltic,” he whimpered, and swiped at his snotty nose.
The saliva dried in Kit’s mouth, as if he’d taken a spoonful of the red volcanic soil used to make New Mexico’s snowy roads drivable. He looked at Mae, back at Taittinger, and smiled, head down, eyes peering through lashes.
“Oh, feck,” Mae muttered.
“Oh, fuck,” Taittinger snivelled, “I’m fucked. I’m fucked, aren’t I, Valentine?”
Mae shivered at the murderous gleam in Kitt’s eyes. “If you’re involved with terrorists, Dr Jools, yes, you are, as Italians say, fregato.”
“Your funding terrorism through philanthropic means aside,” Kitt moved forward, “the thing that sticks with me here, Tatts, is that you’re suspected of counterfeiting. Now why is that? Where would Interpol get that idea? Who would accuse you of such a thing?”
“Fucking Judith,” he blubbered and snuffled. “Sending me a dead rat wasn’t enough? I’d never, never counterfeit wine. That’s a crime against nature worse than dating a woman who’s more than five years older than you.”
Forever in Your Service Page 19
