Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  Moving away toward the kitchen once she’d finished talking, he reminded himself that it wasn’t as though he’d trusted her before. Her story about being threatened by Willerby was impossible to substantiate short of checking with Willerby himself. Which she no doubt knew.

  He could interrogate her he supposed. He certainly had seen his share of the tactics used to gather information.

  So—what would it be? Full steam ahead or punt?

  He glanced at his grandmother’s red teapot clock above the sink as he walked into the kitchen. It was going to be a long day and a longer night if he didn’t toss out his new neighbor right now.

  No sense in taking chances, the reasonable part of his brain pointed out.

  You’re overreacting, his libido quibbled. Think of those beautiful long legs wrapped around your ass. Why send away centerfold material without valid evidence she’s Harry’s executioner?

  He exhaled softly, wavering between risk and due diligence.

  Shit.

  When in doubt have a drink, his psyche prompted—a decided habit since Kosovo. Moving to the fridge, he opened the freezer door, grabbed the Stoli Cristal, unscrewed the cap, lifted it to his mouth, and took a good slug. Okay—so booze wasn’t the answer to every problem. But it served to smooth out the worst of the speed bumps on the road of life.

  “I’ll have one, too.”

  He turned around and saw her standing in the doorway, her smile killer, her heavy-lidded gaze oozing sex, her boobs awesome like the rest of her. Any inclination he might have had to kick her out bit the dust.

  “It’s been a not-so-good day,” she said.

  He’d lost count of his not-so-good days years ago. “Things’ll get better,” he politely said, even though the truth was uncertain and most likely unpalatable. “Wanna a glass— mix—ice cubes?” he asked, waving her to a seat at the Formica-topped kitchen table from the 1950s.

  “A glass would be nice and a few ice cubes.”

  He carried over two glasses with ice cubes along with a small mason jar of raspberry juice he had in the fridge and, setting them down on the table, mixed a couple of drinks. Pushing one toward her, he took a seat opposite her, lifted his glass, and said with a smile, “To things picking up—benevolent-wise.”

  “Hear, hear.” Smiling back, she raised her glass to her mouth and finished her drink in one fell swoop.

  His brows rose. “Thirsty?”

  “Frustrated. Willerby has really screwed with my schedule. By the way,” she added, putting out her hand across the table, “we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Zoe Chandler.”

  “Nick Mirovic, as Janie already told you,” he replied, shaking her hand. “And this is where I say, too bad we didn’t meet under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “No kidding.” She held out her empty glass. “Who would have thunk—right?”

  He was too polite to say you should have, but maybe she was playing Little Miss Naive for a reason. “You could be right about Willerby’s guys taking off,” he said instead, taking her glass and pouring her another shot of vodka. “Who knows, come morning, your life might be back on schedule.”

  “I seriously hope so. What is that?” She pointed at the mason jar he was pouring from.

  “My aunt picks wild raspberries every summer and puts up a few jars of this juice. She treats it like gold.”

  “I can see why. It’s fabulous.”

  He gently shook the glass to mix the liquor and juice and handed it to her. “Just a warning. She believes in charms and hexes, too.”

  Zoe grinned. “As if things could get any worse.”

  He wasn’t too sure about that, but he grinned back and lied. “You got that right.”

  They each had another drink and talked. Or rather Zoe talked and Nick mostly listened. She spoke of her initial trip to Trieste, and he wondered again if he was being set up. How many people traveled to that part of the world? Did she know he’d done extensive linguistic research only a short distance away in Croatia? Could be, he thought, and on that unsettling note, he poured himself another drink.

  “There’s a slew of court cases pertaining to stolen art on the dockets around the world right now—particularly in Italy,” she explained. “Source countries are becoming more proactive in protecting their cultural heritage from tomb raiders and thieves in general. They’re also demanding the return of antiquities that were spirited away in the past.”

  “I’ve seen the stories in the news. It seems at least once a month you read about some long-lost artwork being restored to the original owner’s heirs.”

  “Like the Klimt paintings.” Zoe’s brows flickered. “Austria fought their restitution for forty years.”

  “Nice.”

  “Depends on your point of view, I suppose. The Nazis appropriatedevery major collection that came within their purview and carted most of it away to Berlin.”

  “And other less accessible points.”

  She smiled. “Yup. Some of it has never surfaced.”

  “Or it’s in some private collection.”

  “That, too, but then it can never be publically sold or those holding the artwork will be slapped with a lawsuit.”

  “So why do the Willerbys think they can get away with their illicit purchases?” She’d mentioned the questionable sources for many of their antiquities when she’d first asked for his help.

  “They bought a good deal of it before the mid-1990s, when museums and dealers were put on notice that they needed bona fide provenance credentials for any art sold. Also, most of their pieces came from newly excavated sites where no oversight was in place. But Joe found a museum employee who has incriminating testimony from some of the site diggers, as well as shipping manifests, dealers’ sales records, actual sequential photos of pieces from the moment they came out of the ground. All of that should put added pressure on the Willerbys to relinquish the objects.”

  “Will the law require them to give up the art?”

  “The Italian TPC—the carabinieri charged with protecting Italy’s cultural heritage—will pursue the case. I’ve spoken to one of the investigators, but they prefer that stolen art be returned without litigation. It’s less time-consuming for them. Court cases often last for decades. So the TPC offers deals to collectors and museums: If you give us this, we’ll do that for you. The policy has been pretty successful.”

  “How did you decide to focus on the Willerby collection?” As she spoke of the first bits of information that had come her way at a cocktail party in Milan of all places, and of the subsequent clues she and Joe had uncovered, he watched her from under his lashes. He preferred that she hold center stage and to that purpose, he continued asking her questions and refilling her glass.

  One thing he’d learned both from working on intercepts and watching Harry’s stupidity was that people who talked a lot generally gave something away.

  Once he had a moment to himself, he’d see what he could find on her with a Google search. If she was an investigative reporter, there should be byline stories on file.

  “So how do you think this case is going to come down?” he prompted. “Do these TPC guys stand a chance against someone like Willerby, who’s richer than God?” Willerby was always named to one of the top spots on those richest-men-in-the-world lists. Which meant if this Zoe Chandler was for real she knew the odds.

  She smiled faintly. “My source in the TPC has leaned on any number of prominent collectors—all of them richer than God. So I have a good feeling Roberto will do what he has to do to win this one.”

  “What do you win?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not about winning for me. I like unearthing all the clues until everything falls into place. Most reporters are playing the same game. It sounds as though you might be in some kind of win/lose situation though,” she added.

  He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “That remains to be seen.”

  “Apparently, you don’t intend to lose.”

  “N
ope.”

  Blunt as a hammer.

  She smiled and changed the subject.

  Eleven

  George Harmon had been trying to get in touch with Bill Willerby for several hours. It was afternoon now and he was sweating even in the air-conditioned hotel room with the air turned up to the max.

  He wasn’t looking forward to their conversation.

  Bill Willerby was a ruthless tyrant, although you wouldn’t know it looking at him. All mild calm and smiles, he could turn on a dime and rip you apart with a verbal riposte you didn’t see coming. Or if his temper was at flash point, he might order some of the muscle he kept on retainer to scare the shit out of you.

  Or worse. George had heard the stories.

  Not that Gwyneth ever saw that cutthroat side.

  She was special to Bill Willerby—forty years younger, of course—which was a major factor in her specialness. And as Bill—perhaps mellowed by three previous marriages—put it, “She was his last and best wife.” It helped that she rarely argued with him . . . at least in public. Although, if George was a betting man, he’d say in private, too. Bill Willerby didn’t like people who argued with him. He went through subordinates at a record pace even in a corporate culture that rewarded those who best understood the nuances and subtleties of sycophancy.

  Toadying, no matter the degree, wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy Willerby when he heard of Zoe Chandler’s rebuff, however. So, while waiting to speak to Willerby, George and his colleague Trevor Sanders had been brainstorming possible ways to convince an uncooperative woman that accepting Bill Willerby’s offer would be to her advantage. And ultimately, much healthier.

  Although, since Willerby was the ultimate decision maker, they were in limbo until they talked to him. Or more aptly— anticipating Willerby’s displeasure—in purgatory.

  Not that George hadn’t foreseen the Chandler woman’s response.

  Anyone who scrutinized and probed the underbelly of the art world for a living was, by definition, a crusader of some stripe. Personal gain couldn’t be discounted, of course, but he rather doubted it was the prime motive for Zoe Chandler. She lived a comfortable but unassuming life in Connecticut. She didn’t cavort in jet-set circles when many in the art world chose to. Nor did she have any vices that required large sums of money. He’d checked her out rather thoroughly before coming here.

  Which meant he hadn’t been surprised at her answer, he reflected, punching Redial on his cell phone for the umpteenth time that day.

  When Hannah, Willerby’s receptionist, finally put him through, his pulse rate went postal.

  Christ, I’m getting too old for this. Even his accountant told him he had more than enough to retire and God knows accountants never thought you could have too much money.

  “Why do I have the feeling this isn’t going to be good news?” Bill Willerby sarcastically said without waiting for George to speak.

  “Could be because Zoe Chandler isn’t for sale,” George retorted, frustrated and sweaty enough to take issue with Willerby’s sarcasm and bullying. Unlike the women in your life, who have always been for sale. “She threatened to call the sheriff. This is a small town and if the sheriff had become involved, I couldn’t guarantee your name wouldn’t come up. So Trevor and I withdrew. What do you want us to do now?” he finished grumpily, thinking of his wife out sailing while he was in some outland doing Willerby’s dirty work.

  “Everyone’s interested in money,” Willerby said sharply, impervious to the exasperation in George’s voice. He gave orders, others took them. Their inconvenience or unhappiness didn’t register on his radar. “Offer her more for Christ’s sake.”

  “I don’t think she’s susceptible to bribery, regardless of the sum.”

  “What the fuck—is she brain-dead?”

  “No, Bill, she isn’t.” Suddenly Willerby’s stolen artwork was no longer high on George Harmon’s list of priorities. If the man was stupid enough to buy plundered antiquities why was it his problem? Especially on a beautiful summer weekend.

  “Then see that she comes around and takes the money.” Ice-cold words.

  The or else vibrated over the airwaves.

  Maybe it was too late to become principled at fifty, George decided, flinching before the all-persuasive authority of fear. And what the hell—as a partner in the firm, at least he’d get his share of Willerby’s fees. “Perhaps some other avenues might prove more fruitful.”

  “Such as?” An acid query. Bill Willerby didn’t take kindly to being overruled. He liked to win, but at his game, his way.

  “Chandler’s publisher might be more amenable to pressure if they were told they were going to be sued for defamation should they publish the book. Like every other business, publishing is about the bottom line. If the profits from her book were impacted by a court case, even with their in-house staff of attorneys, the publisher might reconsider the cost. They could find her book unacceptable and negate her contract. You wouldn’t have to pay her a penny for her silence.”

  “If only Freddy Macintosh wasn’t the biggest muckraker in publishing and a sworn enemy.”

  “Regardless, he has to consider the best interests of the corporation. Litigation is not only expensive, but if rumor suggested that Freddy had taken on this project as a personal vendetta, his reputation at least within the corporation might also be compromised.”

  “He doesn’t care about his reputation. He’s so pure in any event, no one would believe such a rumor. His staff worships the ground he walks on; the man gives his entire salary to charity for Christ’s sake.”

  “Then, perhaps a threat to her assistant, Joe Strickland, might stop the Chandler woman. Strickland has a daughter in college he dotes on.”

  “Finally—you’re earning your keep. Tell the Chandler bitch that the girl is in danger.”

  Not a second of contemplation, or guilt. But then Willerby was a sociopath—without conscience. He was also a man of enormous charm, which accomplished as much as his lack of conscience—both traits common to sociopaths. If George Harmon had a dollar for everyone who had told him that Bill Willerby was one of the most charming men they’d ever met, he’d be a whole lot richer. George glanced at his watch. Three thirty. “Do you want us to tell her today?”

  “God damned right,” Willerby snapped. “I wanted this taken care of fucking yesterday. And make sure I get the right answer this time, or I might become unhappy with you.”

  George Harmon was left holding a phone that had gone dead.

  “What the hell did you expect?” Trevor Sanders murmured, turning from the golf he was watching on TV. “You didn’t mention us shooting the Chandler chick,” he added with a grin. “Willerby would have given you a bonus for that suggestion.”

  “Just because you don’t have a stake in this, don’t look so smug. I could say you’d screwed up the deal by threatening her. Which you did. Not that it would have made any difference either way,” George generously added. He liked Trevor. The man had a sense of humor—a quality sadly lacking in the law firm. “Get your shoes on. We have to go back and threaten Zoe Chandler.”

  “Do you ever feel like a hit man?” Trevor mused, reaching for his shoes. “Funny how no one ever tells you this in law school—that success and good fortune are achieved by ass-kissing swindlers and thieves in bespoke suits.”

  “You could always do pro bono work in the ghetto.”

  Trevor glanced up from tying his shoelaces, his Hugh Grant hair falling over his forehead. “I’ll let you know how I feel about that after we scare the daylights out of this gorgeous blonde.”

  Trevor had a sense of altruism not yet fully extinguished by the allure of money. But then he was young. “Look at it this way. The sooner we put the fear of God in her, the sooner we can go home. Your wife and kids will appreciate that.” Talk about someone doting on their family. Trevor was the poster child for family man of the year.

  Coming to his feet, Trevor mimed a fast draw. “Hit man ready to ride, b
oss. Although I hope like hell the lady’s not carrying. She looks like she might be faster than me.”

  A prescient thought, had he known.

  Although it wasn’t the lady who would be carrying.

  And the weapon was far superior to any imaginary six-gun.

  Twelve

  “Is the team in place?”

  “They will be soon. They’ve landed at the air base in Duluth. It’s an hour and a half drive from there to Ely.”

  Harry Miller leaned back in his leather chair, a view of the Potomac framed in the window behind him, his smile as sunny as the weather outside. “It never pays to leave loose ends. You heard—the votes are there. I’ve been guaranteed CIA director. The Senate confirmation hearing will be only a formality.”

  “Yes, I heard. And may I say, Congress couldn’t have found a more accomplished and deserving man.”

  Harry surveyed his aide across his broad desktop with unabashed good humor. He knew flattery when he heard it, but like so many men with huge egos, he believed it, too. “Winning at all costs, Pete. That’s the name of the game. Don’t ever forget it—not in this town—or you’ll be eaten alive.”

  Pete Dickenson made a mock bow. “I’ve watched a master at work. And learned from the best.”

  “Damned right you have. He’s a sick fuck, you know. The world will be better off without him.”

  You don’t have to convince me, Pete thought. He’d seen Harry Miller go after more than one of his enemies. Nick Mirovic was just another person standing in the way. “I agree. Some people are damaged beyond redemption.” He knew what Harry wanted to hear. That was his job: to tell Harry he was right—all the time, in every way. And some day, should Harry become a liability—well, it was a dog-eat-dog town, wasn’t it?

  Pete Dickenson knew where all the bodies were buried, figuratively and literally. And he kept records.