"Were you alone all night?" Tenner asked.
"Yes," Denise said pointedly.
James cleared his throat. "Ms. McKray mentioned that you requested a private tour of the gallery several weeks ago."
Denise reddened. "Gloria talks about galleries and museums all the time—I just wanted to be able to converse with her, that's all." Her face crumpled with concern. "Are you going to drag her into all this?"
"Sorry, ma'am," Tenner said, sounding not the least bit sorry. "She'll have to answer some questions, same as you."
Kat felt Denise's hand on her arm. "Kat, I'm sorry I lied, but I honestly didn't think there was any connection to the break-in." She smiled, her eyes watery. "I'd hate to think that Gloria could have done such a thing, but I'd never knowingly withhold evidence that would take the heat off you."
Her heart expanded with affection for her friend. "Don't worry, Denise, everything will be fine." Kat gave her friend a long, rocking hug, during which Denise whispered, "So, are you in love or what?"
Kat pulled back and opened her mouth to protest, but for once, Denise's expression was void of teasing. She decided to be honest, especially since Denise had just bared her soul to an audience of virtual strangers. "I don't know," she murmured sincerely.
A smile bloomed on Denise's face. "Toldja you needed a man," she said in hushed tones.
*****
Tenner scratched himself indiscreetly. "The more we stir this pile, the more it stinks."
James stopped, a hamburger halfway to his mouth. The man had an uncanny sense of bad timing. He glanced sideways at Kat, who bit back a smile as she dipped a french fry in a mountain of catsup.
"The case is certainly more complicated than we first believed," James agreed.
"It's taking longer to get a search warrant for the Handelman woman's apartment." The detective rubbed his grubby thumb over his fingers in a gesture that said "money." "Looks like no one wants to step on their toes." He belched, excused himself, then added. "Another hour—maybe two."
Wincing at his manners, James asked, "Have you checked out everyone at the gallery?"
"Didn't see much use," Tenner said through a mouthful of chili nachos.
Pushing aside his half-eaten burger, James snatched one of Kat's fries and, curious, dipped it in the catsup. "Anyone at the gallery could have taken Kat's key ring, duplicated her apartment key, and returned them without her knowing." He took a tentative bite of the french fry, then pursed his lips in concession to Kat's taste in fast food.
"I've still got that list of employees that Guy Trent came up with," Tenner admitted.
"What about Guy Trent himself?" James asked. "He's practically a black—" Kat dug her elbow sharply into his ribs, stealing his breath. He'd forgotten she'd gone to great lengths to keep her sordid work arrangement private.
The detective wiped his mouth, missing badly. "What's that?"
James straightened and frowned at Kat, but unable to match the intensity of her glare, relented. "Um, blackheart. He struck me as being an unlikable fellow."
"Why would he sabotage his own place?" Tenner asked.
"The break-in has resulted in a lot of publicity for the gallery," James pointed out. "I'll bet admission sales have increased."
"Temporarily," Kat agreed. "But we expected droves of people for the showing of the letter, plus the gallery would have earned a commission from the auction—a few hundred curiosity seekers can't make up for the money lost."
"What if the letter had turned out to be a fraud?" Tenner asked.
"Then the auction would be canceled, and Lady Mercer would probably receive some token amount from her insurance company."
"And if it's never found?"
"Then the owner would have a case for the full value of the insurance policy, twenty-five thousand if I remember correctly, which the insurer will seek to extract from Jellico's." She angled her head toward him. "Is Lady Mercer distraught over the loss?"
James grimaced—he had never heard more vile words spew from Tania's mouth than when she had returned his call. In rather unladylike terms, she had made it very clear she wanted the American woman who had stolen her chance at worldwide celebrity to perish in prison. "She is rightfully concerned about her investment," he said carefully. "If the letter isn’t recovered, the insurance money won’t even cover the expenses of having the document transported to the States. Detective, did your men fingerprint the compass Kat found at her apartment?"
"Yep—just Ms. McKray’s prints on it, same as the jewelry, same as the security badge."
"Were there any fibers on the clothing? Hair?"
"Just hers."
"Have you sent anyone to Chinatown to see if the letter is floating around?"
Tenner picked his teeth. "No, and that's a pretty good idea, except they clam up tighter than a vir—" He looked at Kat. "The Chinese aren't very talkative around the police."
James glanced at his watch and unfolded himself stiffly from the hard swivel chair. Damn, she'd given him quite a workout this morning. "Call me when you get the warrant and we'll meet you at the Handelman woman's place." He motioned for Kat to bring the remainder of her lunch with her.
"Where're you going, Donovan? I thought we were working on this together." Tenner looked crestfallen, but James wasn't about to expose his local sources to the man. Kat had walked away to dispose of their trash, so James leaned toward the man and said, "We need some time alone."
Looking like a wounded dog, Tenner said, "High time to be thinking with your crotch, Donovan. We got a case to solve."
Smirking, James said, "I'm trained to keep several plates in the air at once, Tenner."
Tenner frowned as Kat walked up to the table.
"Ready?" James's gaze raked her glorious figure with appreciation. She was demurely tucked into tailored slacks and a high-collared shirt, topped with a sensible wool jacket. Her hair was fastened back in a tight wad, and her wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Only a discriminating eye would recognize what lay beneath the plain brown wrapping. Snatches of their morning tumble surfaced in his mind and he suddenly wished they were indeed off to share a romantic tryst.
Thankfully oblivious to his lusty thoughts, she grabbed her purse. "Where are we going?" she asked when they reached the sidewalk.
He forced his mind back to the case. The sooner he wrapped up this mess, the sooner he could leave San Francisco. And the sooner he left San Francisco, the sooner he could shake these visions of cold English nights with Kat curled up next to him.
Ah, New York...a city where he could immerse himself in fun, frivolity, and anonymity for a few weeks. New York would be the perfect place to distract him from these discomfiting thoughts of becoming...what was the word he was looking for? Monogamous. James shuddered.
"James?" Kat's voice yanked him from his train of thought. "Where are we going?"
He stared into her blue eyes for several seconds, perturbed by the power she wielded over his psyche. "To resolve this predicament as quickly as possible," he said brusquely. "I have no intention of staying here forever."
Chapter Ten
KAT WAS SO TROUBLED by James's comment that she nearly plowed into him when he stopped to make a phone call.
"Who are you calling?"
"An associate," he said, his tone all business. He turned his body to exclude her from the conversation, but she stepped close and listened anyway, her feelings smarting. Her little theory about the "morning-after syndrome" was kicking in—and apparently the malady was universal.
"This is Agent James Donovan, on assignment in San Francisco. I need to speak with Antonio, please. The code word is 'Black Mulligan.'...Yes, I'll wait."
Kat's pulse picked up. Code word? Did they really say stuff like that?
"Antonio? Agent James Donovan here. Good to speak with you again too. I'm in town looking into the disappearance of a piece of fine art, and have reason to believe it may have been sold on the black market....Yes....Very good. I
'll be there, with a—" he paused and Kat's ears perked up. "With a female companion. Thank you."
He hung up and Kat stepped away, feigning fascination with a banged-up coffee table in the window of an antiques shop.
"A future project?"
She turned and gave him a crooked smile. "Maybe my own business one of these days. A girl's got to pay the rent somehow."
"So you won't be going back to Jellico's?"
She shook her head slowly, suddenly melancholy for all the years that Jellico's had been her second home. "Even if Guy would take me back, it's time for me to move on."
His brow creased. "Will you stay in the city?"
"I'm not sure. I have a friend in Los Angeles who's been trying to get me to come work for him for years." She gestured to his phone. "Are you finished?"
"Yes," he said, rolling his wrist to check his watch. "And we have an appointment in Chinatown in thirty minutes."
He handed her a card with the name and address of the bakery where they were expected printed neatly. "With whom?"
"Someone who will keep an eye out for the infamous letter."
"Who?"
James sighed. "I don't know his name, and for the love of God, don't ask him when we get there."
Going to Chinatown to meet a stranger who moved in the underworld of the black market. It was all so, so...clandestine. Her heart pounded with excitement, her skin tingled with anticipation. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she said, "Let's go."
"I'll hail a cab," he said, stepping to the curb.
"James, you're in San Francisco. Van Ness is just a couple of blocks over—we'll take the trolley and still get there in plenty of time." His car was still at the police station.
He winced. "A trolley really isn’t my style."
"Fine," she said, pushing up her glasses. "I'll meet you there." Then she turned and started walking.
"Kat!" he called, his voice flat with impatience. His second attempt sounded more cordial. "Kat, I need the address—I don't even know where this place is."
She turned, walking backward and farther away from him with her hands raised, palms up. "Guess you're going to have to depend on me for a while, Agent Donovan."
His mouth twisted in resignation, and he began walking after her. "Okay...uncle." He caught up to her in a few strides but his face remained stoic. Kat felt burdensome for preempting his trip to New York, and disappointed that his demeanor toward her had changed since this morning.
Then she kicked herself mentally. What had she expected? That this morning’s tryst would mean something to him? When would she learn that men were simple creatures driven by base needs...regardless if they were American, European, or Martian. Take James for instance—strip away his impeccable clothes and his suave accent, and what was left?
Kat winced. A gorgeous, naked, mute man with a big gun.
So why did sex have to change things? Because it erased the thrill of the chase? Didn't the thrill of the catch count anymore?
Biting back a sigh, she chalked up another one to experience. Right now, though, she needed this man's help. So she swallowed her wounded feelings, donned a cheerful smile, and played tour guide, indicating shops and other points of interest along the way. After a few minutes, James seemed to relax, asking questions about the local architecture. By the time they'd reached the trolley stop, he seemed to be in better spirits.
"Sit or stand?" she asked, climbing onto a red car the size of a small school bus. Clear vinyl window covers had been rolled down in deference to the mild weather, funneling a salty breeze across the passengers' faces.
"Stand," he said, wrapping one large hand around a pole. The driver rang a bell, then the car lurched into motion, heading directly downhill.
"You have to lean out to get the best view," she yelled, showing him. The sensation of hurtling into the heart of the city with the wind blowing on her face was a thrill she never tired of, even though she'd experienced it dozens, perhaps hundreds of times since childhood. The car moved at a speed just slow enough to allow a passing glimpse of the stunning homes and store fronts on either side of the street, but fast enough to cause her stomach to flutter.
To her surprise, James seemed to be enjoying it too. A smile creased his face as he leaned out precariously far, the wind tousling his thick dark hair and flapping his tailored sport coat. His head pivoted to take in their surroundings.
Watching him, Kat's breath caught in her throat. He was an enigma to her, this man. Scary yet safe, powerful yet vulnerable, sexy yet professional...her mind was crowded with the impact of his synergy, the whole person. She was sadly aware that his affection, attraction—whatever he'd felt for her—was dwindling rapidly as he became increasingly anxious to be on his way.
The architecture abruptly changed to Asian influence as they rolled into the outskirts of Chinatown. Often mistaken for a simple tourist haven, even Kat had to remind herself that above the souvenir shops and restaurants, entire families lived in the confines of one or two small rooms.
"The next stop is ours," she said loudly, and he indicated he'd heard her.
When the car squealed to a stop, they jumped down, Kat's cheeks stinging from the exhilarating ride.
"A most commendable mode of transportation, Ms. McKray," James conceded with a smile, running his fingers through his hair.
Gratified, Kat pointed down a sidewalk crowded with shoppers and street vendors. "The bakery is down this street and around the corner." As they walked toward their meeting place, Kat's pulse picked up. "Do you think whoever stole the letter sold it already?"
James shrugged. "If the Handelman woman took it, she would have kept it. But if someone else—let's say your boss—stole it or arranged to have it stolen, then chances are good they would have gotten rid of it as soon as possible."
"So you don't think Gloria Handelman did it?"
"I'm simply covering all bases so the thief doesn't benefit from time spent on chasing misleading clues."
"And you still suspect my boss?"
James pursed his lips and lifted one black brow. "After that miserable performance at the polygraph machine this morning, perhaps I should still suspect you."
Kat nearly stumbled, unable to meet his gaze. "I was just nervous, that's all—I told you I didn't steal that damned letter."
"That's fortunate, because Lady Mercer is out for blood."
"I can't blame her," Kat said with sincerity, wondering if speaking with his supposedly former lover had something to do with his distance. Maybe the woman was still a fixture in his life, or at least in his heart.
"This is the place," she announced, stopping at a white building with a winged window front, full of colorful baked goodies. Double doors were propped open to handle the flow of foot traffic.
"Smells good," he said. "We're a little early—how about coffee?"
She nodded, craning her neck to scrutinize the people sitting at the half-full tables near the back, expecting to see a man dressed in a trench coat, with a fedora pulled low over his eyes.
"Why don't you get us a table? And try to be less conspicuous, Miss Marple." He turned toward the tall glass counter.
Kat frowned at his back, then chose a table in the corner, farthest from the door and near the bathrooms. At the counter, James bent at the waist, pointed to something behind the glass case, and held up two fingers to the elderly woman who waited on him.
Kat glanced around the nondescript walls dotted with inexpensive Oriental art and perused the dreary tables and chairs. She wondered how many secretly arranged meetings had taken place here, perhaps even at this very table. She wiped her moist hands on a paper napkin from the holder on the table and tried to relax.
James approached her, holding two paper cups of coffee in his joined hands and a small wax bag under his elbow. "I thought we might have a treat."
Kat leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Is he here?"
James looked at her pointedly. "No, he isn't." He took a seat across fro
m hers. "You might have picked a cleaner spot."
Frowning at the tabletop, her defenses rose. "Well, it looks clean to me."
"Ma'am," James called to the woman behind the counter who had waited on him, "Would you be so kind as to send someone out to wipe our table?"
He was a neat freak, she decided, straining to see whatever it was on the shiny Formica table that concerned him.
A young girl emerged from behind the glass food display, brandishing a wet cloth and offering them a shy smile. "So sorry," she said, her English only slightly influenced by a Chinese accent.
"No problem," Kat felt obliged to offer as she lifted her cup for the girl to scrub vigorously beneath.
"Do you have a photo of the item, sir?" the girl asked so smoothly and quietly, Kat almost didn't hear her. When she realized they had met their informant, she snapped up her head to stare. Only after she felt James pressing the toe of his shoe down on hers did she force herself to relax and look away from the girl—who couldn't have been more than sixteen.
"Unfortunately, no picture," James replied, taking a sip of the coffee and not looking directly at her. "It's a three-page letter on yellow parchment, the dimensions of each sheet about five by seven inches. Written in German, the letter is unsigned, but reputed to have been authored by King George III to a paramour."
"When did it disappear?"
"Friday night, just after midnight, from a gallery called Jellico's. Estimated worth on the market, twenty thousand dollars."
"And where can you be reached?"
"Flagiron Hotel, under the name Donovan—James Donovan."
At the sound of him announcing his name, a shiver raised the hair on Kat's arms.
"There," the girl said in a louder voice, giving the table a final swipe. "So sorry for the inconvenience, sir."
"Thank you," he said, inclining his dark head in a curt nod. He remained silent as she walked away and calmly opened the wax paper bag to withdraw a dry, speckled cookie. "Would you like a biscuit for your coffee?" he asked Kat, as if nothing had transpired.
"Um, yes," she said, reaching into the bag and taking the other one. She studied his impassive face as he broke the cookie in two and took a crumbly bite.
Mad About You Page 11
