“Those pins are solid gold?”
“The two on the right are.”
“Kinda small, aren’t they?”
“They were probably a votive offering—a way of giving something to the gods so that the gods would listen to your prayers.”
Cherelle chewed on the corner of her mouth and wondered what the bits and pieces in the case were worth.
Risa watched her friend’s expression. In many ways Cherelle was a good test audience for the articles. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “This stuff is like an old whore. Same equipment as a young one, but with the kind of mileage that really cuts the price.”
Risa looked at the battered metal arc that probably had been damaged by the same farmer’s plow that had unearthed the treasure in the first place. The other items showed nicks, dents, bends, warps, irregularities, and outright breakage that troubled modern eyes accustomed to new, machine-made jewelry.
But to Risa’s eyes every mark was priceless, for it told of each artifact being made, worn, passed from one generation to the next, buried, and dug up again. Each piece had a tantalizing history. She’d often daydreamed of what stories the jewelry could tell.
“When you’re between fifteen hundred and three thousand years old,” Risa said, “you show it.”
Cherelle’s head snapped around toward Risa. “What?”
“Fifteen to thirty centuries.”
She swallowed her gum in surprise. “Holy shit.”
Risa smiled wryly. That was one way of putting it. “Yeah. A long time.”
“I suppose that makes it worth more, huh?”
“More than its weight in ordinary gold? Oh, yes.”
“How much more?”
“It depends on a lot of things.”
“Like?” Cherelle pressed.
“Age, rarity, artistry, and provenance—that’s where it came from and how well documented it is.”
“Documents, huh?” Cherelle chewed the corner of her mouth some more. That could be a big ol’ bitch of a problem. “All this stuff came with papers?”
“Actually, most of it was dug up at some time in the past by the ancestors of the titled men and women who sold off parts of their inheritance in order to keep the rest. Others came from museums that were cleaning house. Some were probably stolen by people who found them and didn’t tell the landowner.” Risa shrugged. “But it all happened so long ago in the past that it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“How long does that take?”
Risa smiled. “At least a hundred years. The more hundreds, the better the provenance, the higher the price.”
Cherelle went back to chewing on her mouth. She didn’t have a hundred years. Hell, she probably didn’t have a week before Socks wheedled Tim’s gold out of him. “So who bought the stuff before it had all the paper to go with it?”
“People who wanted the objects more than they wanted to display them publicly. Collectors, in a word.”
“Like your boss?”
Risa’s mouth turned down. “Not if I can help it. Everything I show to him is legal.”
A small smile played around Cherelle’s lips. “But you’re not always the one showing stuff to him, right?”
Risa shrugged.
“Hey, baby-chick. Take the frog-sticker out of your ass. This is your mama-chick, remember? We used to boost more stuff in a week than this here glass box could hold.”
“Yeah. And I was so scared the whole time that I couldn’t spit.”
Full, husky laughter poured out of Cherelle, making her look almost young again. “Those were the good times, weren’t they? Heat thick enough to walk on and cold drinks swiped from Old Man Burlington’s cooler. We’d shinny up that big ol’ oak in front of your aunt’s trailer and freeze our brains slugging icy Coke, and we’d stay up there till dark wishin’ we was boys so we didn’t have to come down to pee.”
Risa laughed at the memories. Cherelle was right. Those were the good times, when life was a long, hot summer filled with mischief and laughter and dreams.
“But we always had to come down, didn’t we?” Cherelle asked with a hard twist to her mouth. She looked through the smudges she had left on the glass and sighed deep enough to haze the surface. “So how much is this all worth? A couple hundred? A thousand?”
“Dollars?”
Cherelle gave her a look from the old days, the one that said, Baby-chick, if you so smart, why you so dumb!
Risa smiled. “Lots of thousands.”
Cherelle’s breath hitched, then smoothed. “Like twenty?”
“More like hundreds.”
It was an effort to breathe. After a moment, Cherelle managed it. “Help me with this, baby-chick. She gestured to the case. You saying that this is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Hooooo-ee!”
“And I’ve got a piece arriving in a few days that we just paid four hundred thousand for.”
“One fucking piece?”
“It’s in excellent condition. High artistry. Very old. Very, very special. We were lucky that we found out about it before Gail Silverado.”
“Who’s she?”
“She owns the Wildest Dream casino. She loves beating Shane out on everything gold and Celtic. He’s had to pay ridiculous prices to keep her from outbidding him for good pieces.”
“Like four hundred thousand dollars?” Cherelle asked without really caring about the answer. She was still trying to wrap her mind around that much money in one piece of gold.
“Actually, that price was fairly reasonable,” Risa said. “A few years ago a single Celtic fibu—er, pin—sold for one million pounds at auction. That’s about one and a half million dollars.”
Cherelle’s breath rushed out. “Christ Jesus. Hold me down and beat me like a stepchild.” She closed her eyes and fought a wave of dizziness. “A million and a half dollars. One pin.”
“One very unique pin. Most aren’t worth a tenth of that. Or even a hundredth.”
“A tenth.”
“Yeah. About one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A hundredth would be fifteen thousand dollars.”
Cherelle leaned against the case because she didn’t think she could stand up without help. A second-rate or even a third-rate pin was worth more cash money than she had seen in her whole life.
And she had a trunkful of stuff that looked better than anything she saw in Risa’s fancy case.
“Are you okay?” Risa asked just as a knock came on her locked door. “That’s lunch. Or maybe your drink.”
Cherelle blew out another long breath and started grinning. “Baby-chick, I hope it’s the drink. It’s been a long life, but it’s worth every bit of shit I ate just to kiss the asshole it came from.”
Throwing back her head, Cherelle laughed and laughed. She had done it. She had really done it.
And it was one hell of a big score.
Chapter 18
Las Vegas
November 2
Early afternoon
Shane’s fingers sped over the keyboard of his specially modified computer. No one at the casino had the access he did to all the various television eyes that recorded every corner of the casino, lobby, public hallways, and employee rooms.
Usually Shane let security watch over the casino, but not this time. He didn’t want to ask them to spy on Risa. He didn’t even want to do it himself.
While he called up the digital sequence from Gabriel’s Horn, he thought of all the more useful ways he could spend his time than seeing who his curator was meeting for lunch. If his instincts hadn’t sat up and howled over Risa’s reaction to the phone call, he would be spending his time doing something more productive—working to put together an even fancier firewall to protect his computer or going over the casino’s electronic books, for example.
Normally he spent at least one day a week matching every department of the casino’s hold from one week to the next, comparing
it to the hold for the same week the year before and the year before that, all the way back to the first week the Golden Fleece opened. It was a time-consuming job and, lately, not as interesting to him as it once had been. But it was the way he picked up trends for specific games, for cards versus slots, for sports betting versus baccarat, new scams or new variations on old favorites, and which insurance fraud was going through Vegas like a flu. Juggling figures was also the best way to pick up the trail of employee theft, dishonest dealers, and the occasional brass-balled hacker.
The success of the Golden Fleece owed a great deal to Shane’s ability to draw truths and trends from the complex database of numbers that made most people roll their eyes and head for the nearest bar. While he was beginning to feel the same way about massaging the data, the job still had to be done.
Eventually.
No. Soon.
With an unconscious sigh, Shane promised himself that he would take the electronic books apart byte by byte just as soon as the Druid Gold show was launched. At least he had put in an updated firewall last week. Two months late, to be sure. The good news was that none of the data suggested that the Golden Fleece was losing money thanks to a computer mole. But he still should be working on designing a new firewall right now.
Where the hell did the time go?
One way or another, whether fretting or doing something useful, most of his working and waking hours had been taken up with the upcoming Druid Gold show. Not to mention the curator who both intrigued and annoyed him. What little was left over of his time or energy went into the countless small, urgent business decisions that had to be made, the ones that weren’t covered by training manuals. Those decisions were bucked up the management line to him every day, day after day.
He had to learn to delegate more.
And he would.
Eventually.
One of the forty flat screens that provided real-time wallpaper on the south side of his office flickered and then steadied. The picture was exquisitely clear. The time-and-date strip across the bottom blinked monotonously, a signal that this wasn’t a real-time display. There wasn’t any sound.
Gabriel’s Horn looked pretty much the way it always did, night or day, holiday or workday. A handful of the barstools were occupied by several men and one woman in sleek resort wear. The men followed one or all of the pro sports that were featured on the bar’s six TV screens. The well-dressed woman whooped and hollered when the man two stools down did. Every time the man shifted, a gold necklace and pendant—a heavy, diamond-encircled gold coin—glittered against his shiny black shirt. The whole package might have looked more impressive if the buttons weren’t straining over his hairy belly.
The more dedicated gamblers played video poker while sitting at the bar. Six couples lounged at the tables, smoking or sipping or watching the TVs or munching on bar freebies. The really skillful people managed to do it all at once. A keno runner cruised through in long black stockings and a knee-length dress, looking for any betting cards that had been filled out by patrons who didn’t understand odds or didn’t care.
A woman in spray-paint jeans and a tight red sweater strolled into the bar and sat down. With a smile and a toss of her blond hair, she waved off the bartender. Her makeup was like the clothes—not subtle. If the woman wasn’t a hooker, she was sure dressed like one. But then a lot of amateurs and weekend party girls dressed like that. So did some otherwise-bright women who thought the only taste men had was in their dicks. It made life real interesting for casino security, because one of their jobs was to keep prostitutes out of the casino’s bars.
The men at the bar gave Red Sweater a long look. She ignored them and headed for a barstool that was away from the crowd. When the bartender came right over, she waved him off.
Shane settled back in his chair and waited for Risa to appear. The bartender made another try at selling Red Sweater a drink. Big smile and no sale. Red Sweater turned her back to the bar and watched the casino and lobby action.
With a few quick motions Shane keyed in the fast forward. Eventually Red Sweater slid off her barstool with a wide grin and outspread arms.
It was Risa she was so happy to see.
Shane’s finger stabbed on the electronic brake. The two women were only on-screen for a minute or two. Then, arm in arm, they set off across the lobby.
His hands danced over the keyboard, calling up the stored memory of various cameras. He watched Risa and Red Sweater go through an employee entrance, up a secure elevator, and then into Risa’s office. He called up the cameras that hovered above the valuable artifacts in her office rooms.
This time there was sound. It was part of the security system that always surrounded the people who worked with gold.
Settling back again, Shane watched.
And listened.
Then he turned off the sound and ran through the sequence again. And again. And again. No conversation to distract him, just the expressions that came and went like heat lightning over Risa’s face, expressions he could freeze with a flick of his finger.
For a long time the only sound in Shane’s office was the occasional click of gold against gold as he walked his pen across his fingers, back and forth, back and forth, watching his curator and the woman she called Cherelle.
The contrast between the two of them was enough to make every one of his instincts quiver. Cherelle looked like she made her living on her back and knees. Risa looked like an executive who was doing everything she could to minimize her female appeal.
And yet . . .
When they laughed together, he could see the children they once had been and the bond that had survived the years. At least on Risa’s part. There was none of the calculation in her eyes, none of the bitterness in the line of her mouth that the woman called Cherelle showed whenever Risa wasn’t looking.
Abruptly Shane slipped the pen back into his pocket and went to work. First he excerpted five of the clearest shots of Cherelle and sent them, along with possible variations on the spelling of her name, to his head of security. Cherelle would be entered into the security computer and picked up whenever she was within range of one of the cameras. It was just one of the many ways the casino protected itself against cheaters, card counters, and known criminals.
Then he called Rarities Unlimited, using one of Niall’s private numbers.
“What’s up, boyo?” Niall asked immediately.
“I want a full search on two people. I’ve already loaded the pertinent digital sequences onto your security computer.”
“Bloody hell! You hacked your way in again.”
Shane made an impatient noise. “If I had, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? I only accessed the file you have on me and dumped the stuff in.”
“You accessed the . . . Shit. You’re a menace. Good thing you’re on the side of the angels.”
“Yeah, but don’t tell anybody. I hear much more when people think I’m dirty.”
Niall gave an evil chuckle and called up Shane’s file. A picture of a woman popped onto the screen. “My, she’s a real bit o’ work, isn’t she? Name?”
“Cherelle. No last name. No definite spelling on the first.”
“Lovely. What did she— Bloody hell, that’s Risa with her!”
Shane grunted.
“You’re asking for a full search on Risa Sheridan,” Niall said neutrally.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I— Hell, we’re both paranoid.”
“My daddy is Bastard Merit. What’s your excuse?”
“Experience. Even—”
“—paranoids have real enemies,” Shane finished in a disgusted tone. “That joke is older than you are, which makes it older than the combined ages of—”
The sound on the line told Shane he was talking to himself. He punched out and went back to the sequence in the bar before Risa arrived. Something was nagging at him.
This time he didn’t watch Cherelle. He watched the other woman at the bar. This time he caugh
t the bartender’s signal. Immediately the well-dressed woman got off the barstool and headed for a nearby slot machine. About ten seconds later one of the casino’s plainclothes security personnel went through the bar. As soon as he left, the woman returned. This time she sat down right next to the guy with the belly and the gold chain. She ordered a drink and paid for it with a twenty.
The bartender gave her fizzy water and no change.
She didn’t ask for any.
Shane hit the button on his phone that called the head of security for this eight-hour stretch. It was answered instantly.
“This is Ned, what can I do for you, sir?”
“Check out the eye in Gabriel’s Horn for the last hour. If you see what I think you’ll see, show the bartender to the door and make sure the hooker goes with him.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
Shane’s other phone rang as he hung up. The ID number was the daytime casino manager.
“Now what?” he muttered. “Can’t anyone decide to sneeze without calling me?” He picked up the receiver and said curtly, “Tannahill.”
“I’m glad you’re in, sir. Bob Fairweather is pushing against his maximum. Will you want to extend his credit line?”
“No.” Fairweather was Gail Silverado’s executive casino manager. Unlike most managers, he liked to gamble. Like most gamblers, he didn’t admit he was riding a losing streak until the money ran out. “Comp him to a nice meal in the VIP lounge. And make sure he’s sober when he leaves.”
“He isn’t drinking.”
Shane grunted. Fairweather usually drank. But then he usually gambled after he finished his shift with the Wildest Dream, not before. He must have felt lucky.
He wasn’t.
“Anything else?” Shane asked.
“No, sir.”
Shane punched off, sat back in his chair, and pulled out his pen. He looked at the freeze-frame picture of Risa and Cherelle hugging on one TV screen. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic, relentless click of gold meeting gold.
Something didn’t fit, which meant that something was wrong. Very wrong. It was the kind of hunch that Shane didn’t want and couldn’t ignore.
Running Scared Page 12
