But had she damaged the piece during her exit? Her heart hit her toes. She pulled the padded bag from her pack and ran her hands over the crown’s outline. No obvious deformities. Maybe she should get back to her hotel and check.
No, this couldn’t wait. She was as private here as anywhere. Desi placed the bag on a crate where a shaft of light from a street lamp reached into the alley. Her fingers trembled on the drawstring, and her pulse throbbed.
If she’d harmed the headdress, she’d run shrieking into the street. She’d turn herself in at the nearest police station. She’d sell her home to pay for the repairs. She’d bow and kiss Clayton Greybeck’s feet. Blech! She’d step down as head of HJ Securities. She’d…
Desi gaped at the flakes and chunks that slipped from the bag along with the headdress, minus the tip of one cornhusk leaf. Her jaw snapped shut. Flakes? She picked one up and tasted it. Paint! Chunks? She cradled one in her palm and examined it. Lead!
She gave a strangled cry. Those double-dealing, dastardly cowards. She’d spent days of planning and a sleepless, nerve-racking night to pilfer a piece of junk. Not to mention just about having heart failure when she thought she’d damaged a priceless antiquity.
Those Greybecks…no, wait. Not them—the museum board of directors. A tight smile stretched her lips. The stuffed shirts suspected she might get away with it, and they’d hedged their bets by making sure she wouldn’t lay her hands on the real deal. A backhanded compliment if she ever heard of one. Worse, Greybeck and Sons must have been informed she was coming—a violation of the provisional contract with HJ Securities.
Desi stuffed the leaden fake into the bag, then swept the chunks and flakes into her palm and put them in the pocket of her jumpsuit opposite the one that held Max’s miracle gadget. Let’s see what the august gentlemen of the board had to say for themselves tomorrow—er, today. She glanced at her watch. A few hours remained to plan a suitable response, and—
“There she is!” a man grated in Spanish. “Get her!”
Desi whipped around to find three large shapes charging toward her up the alley. The menacing rhythm of booted feet sent her heart into overdrive.
“Run!” Did she holler that out loud? Yes, but it got her moving.
She grabbed the bag and backpack and tore up the alley. The leaden crown weighted her steps. Why not fling it at them? The worthless thing might do good damage. She clutched the bag. Too stubborn for her own good. A slingshot swing would work better if they got closer.
Desi burst onto the deserted street. To her right, voices shouted from the other end of the museum, followed by more galloping feet. She took off in the opposite direction. Canopied adobe buildings flashed past.
“Don’t let her get away!”
Desi made out the words from the garble of frenzied Spanish behind her. What did these thugs want? Did they think she had the real headdress? Well, duh! Her blood chilled. Men would kill for the crown of Pakal.
She glanced over her shoulder. Five of them—and gaining on her. Desi’s lungs burned. Bother this altitude! She wasn’t used to 7,000-plus feet above sea level, and she couldn’t run much longer. Correction. She couldn’t run any longer.
Wheezing, Desi stopped and turned. The man in the lead faltered, and the others passed him. Smart fellow. She whirled the bag by the drawstring…faster…faster.
Her pursuers slowed. Streedights bathed their looming figures, but she couldn’t make out faces beneath dark clothing and ski masks. One of the men put up his hands—big hands, spatulate, with index fingers longer than the middle fingers. “Be careful, señorita.”
She breathed in air heavy with spicy cooking scents from the closed restaurant beside her. “You want it? Go get it.” She let go of the string, and the bag flipped end over end to land above their heads in the striped canopy over the entrance.
A collective groan came from her pursuers. They stared at the canopy.
Desi took off. Without the crowns weight, she could do the few hundred feet to her car. But only if they didn’t chase her. Her energy meter had plunged into the wimp zone.
She dashed around a corner into an alley, leaped over the huddled form of a street beggar, and reached a private lot behind a building. Her breath caught. Where was her rental VW Bug? She’d paid good money to the manager for overnight parking. It better be…
There! Somebody had parked a hulking Mercedes beside it, blocking her view. She opened the Bug, threw her pack inside, and collapsed behind the wheel, pulse off the Richter scale.
Desi peeled out of the lot with nary a glimpse of her pursuers. Fine! She’d left them holding the bag. It was their own fault if they ended up with a two-ton sack of nothing.
Laughter bubbled up…until the tears came. All she had for all she’d done was a whole lot of nothing too.
Two
At five minutes to nine, Desi walked into the Museo de Arte Mejicana. The cavernous building extended a cold greeting—stiff marble columns, remote vaulted ceiling—and her low-heeled pumps echoed on the tiled floors. The hint of a malodorous scent touched her nostrils.
She straightened her suit jacket and approached the reception desk. After a crisp exchange, a frowning guard escorted Desi into a private section of the museum. A grandfather clock chimed the hour as she stepped into the meeting of the board of directors. The dozen men around the conference table rose as one.
Squaring her shoulders, she met each pair of eyes in turn, finding puzzlement here, resentment there, and amusement on one aquiline face—the single person in the room she had assumed would offer her a fair shake, Presidential Aide Esteban Corona. The aide looked away, smoothing his salt-and-pepper mustache.
Jaw tight, Desi nodded to Fernando Vidal, the chairman of the board, who stood at the head of the long oak table. Vidal’s thick gray hair put him on the upper side of fifty, but handsome with a sturdy build and strong, even features. Smoky gaze cold and steady, the chairman nodded back, no smile, and waved toward the empty chair at the opposite end.
Setting her briefcase on the floor, Desi assumed her seat, folded her hands in front of her, and went still. The others in the room settled in, and long seconds ticked past. Clothes rustled, throats cleared, and a pen tapped.
Chairman Vidal twisted the thick ring on his finger. “I understand congratulations are in order.” His English carried a strong accent.
“Spanish, por favor. I am fluent.”
“Very well.” He consulted a piece of paper. “Early this morning our night guard discovered that the headdress of Pakal was gone.” The chairman’s eyes narrowed to slivers. “We demand the immediate return of our priceless antiquity.”
Desi shook her head. “I don’t have it, as you are aware.”
Several board members leaped to their feet, and the room filled with a babble of voices.
Desi’s spine stiffened. Didn’t they know the headdress was a fake? But she no longer had the leaden lump of junk in order to prove it. HJ Securities could get blamed for losing a national treasure that wasn’t real to begin with.
“Silence!” The chairman rose, glaring at her. “It was not you who took the artifact?”
“I took what was in the display case, but it wasn’t the headdress of Pakal.” Thankfully, her voice came out steadier than her insides.
Blank faces stared. Esteban Corona studied the table.
She pulled an envelope from her briefcase. “The headdress was made of this.” She stood and dumped the envelopes contents into an empty ashtray. “Lead covered in gold paint. I assumed you substituted the forgery to prevent me from taking the real thing.”
“You have the crown, and you plan to keep it,” a shrill voice spat. “You’re trying to trick us with those sprinkles of rubbish.” The man’s pointed goatee quivered. “The Greybecks warned us your father was involved in shady dealings. Like father, like daughter.”
Furious voices rumbled around the table.
Hostility pounded her like mortar fire. Desi sank into her chair. Those
awful rumors about her father. They cropped up like weeds planted by whispers from the Greybecks. She nipped one in the bud, then a dozen sprang up elsewhere—and she couldn’t say the words that would chop them off for good. No one could ever know what had really happened eight months ago.
Desi pressed her fingers to the sides of her nose. This whole scenario had been a trap to destroy HJ Securities. A trap set by that conniving Randolph Greybeck and his double-dealing offspring Wilson and Clayton. Like father, like sons. Oh yes! And she’d walked into the snare, led by pride and thirst for revenge.
God, forgive me. God, save me. Somehow.
“Gentlemen, your attention please.” A voice of calm rose above the angry tide. Heads turned toward Señor Corona. “Your outrage is understandable, but misplaced. If you wish to castigate anyone, it must be me…or perhaps our nation’s president.”
Indrawn breath hissed through many throats.
Corona arched a pale brow. “When the headdress was placed in this museum four years ago, El Presidente became concerned about its attraction for thieves. He authorized the display of a forgery, and the real crown was stored in the palace vault.”
Relief bubbled in Desi’s veins.
“You have condemned an innocent woman,” the aide continued, “when you should affirm your chairman’s too brief word of congratulations.”
Vidal planted fists on the table. “Our first concern had to be the return of the crown.”
“Our first concern must be the safety of every piece of national heritage in our care. That is why it is in our best interests to engage the most capable security company. Wasn’t that the point of this exercise?”
Gazes dropped away. One examined his fingernails, another rubbed his chin.
Corona frowned. “Where is our administrator? Doesn’t he attend our meetings?”
Vidal let out a heavy sigh, fingers unclenching. “I asked him to wait in another room with a representative of Greybeck and Sons.”
Desi rose. Many things suddenly made sense. “May I inject a word here?”
Corona nodded. Vidal’s nostrils flared. The other board members gaped at her as though she’d materialized from thin air.
Desi allowed herself a chilly smile. “Last night after I left the museum, five masked men chased me through the streets. Aware that the item I carried was worthless, I abandoned it, and they let me go. By the time I reached my hotel room, I had figured out who took the piece.”
She gazed at the chairman. “Am I correct, Señor Vidal, that at your word, Administrator Ramirez and one or more of the Greybecks will step in, eager to return the crown of Pakal and reap the thanks of a grateful board?” She tapped her upper lip with her forefinger. “Oh, and prove the unfortunate carelessness of HJ Securities?”
The chairman’s face went ruddy as excited comments flew around the room.
Corona clapped his hands, and the board members quieted. “Let us proceed with the next act. Call for your players, Vidal, but give them no cues. We wish to see how well they ad-lib.”
Vidal and Corona exchanged glares. Then the chairman stalked to the door. He spoke in a low voice to the guard outside and returned to his seat, stiff shoulders radiating fury.
The clock ticked thirty seconds, and the door opened. A lean Hispanic man with a sharp profile entered, followed by a stocky, white-haired Anglo and his younger, white-blond clone, who carried a cloth bag. Administrator Ramirez, Randolph Greybeck, Clayton Greybeck, and the pseudo-Pakal headdress. All present and accounted for, except the weaselly bean counter Wilson Greybeck. Maybe they had left him in the States. Just as well. That high-pitched snicker of his would drive Desi right over the edge today.
Clayton slanted Desi a look as he walked by. Did the louse wink at her? Her blood pressure spiked a fresh peak.
Ramirez murmured a greeting to the board and took a seat to the right of Chairman Vidal. The elder Greybeck shook hands with the chairman, and then settled in an empty chair near the middle of the table. A cigar peeked from his jacket pocket. Clayton grabbed a spot across from his father and set his bundle in front of him. The Greybecks smiled at Desi.
Placing her elbows on the table, she raised her forearms, rested her chin on the twined fingers of her hands, and twinkled back at them. Claytons blond eyebrows lifted. That’s right, get a clue something’s up. But he probably wouldn’t. Too sure they’d had the last laugh.
Chairman Vidal cleared his throat. “Ms. Jacobs succeeded in stealing the headdress on display in our showroom.” He spoke in accented English to accommodate the Greybecks. “However, she did not succeed in keeping it.” He nodded toward the bag. “Have I summarized correctly?” The chairman directed his question toward the elder Greybeck.
Randolph lifted a square chin, and the dimple in the middle flexed. “That is correct, if rather brief. Immediately after Ms. Jacobs exited the museum, a band of street thugs stole the priceless antiquity from her. In fact—” he glowered at her like a headmaster at an unruly student—“our witness claims she abandoned the piece to save herself.”
A small titter greeted his remark, and Greybecks thick lips spread in a smile. “Thanks to the vigilance of the night perimeter patrol we hired last week, the bandits never got the precious artifact in their hands before they were chased off by a warning gunshot. The patrolman came to our hotel and turned the piece over to me for safekeeping until this morning. And now—” he motioned toward the bag—“we have brought the crown home.” He folded blunt-fingered hands across his paunch and gazed around like a lawyer resting his case with the jury.
“Intriguing tale.” Señor Corona nodded. “But I believe there is a saying in America. It is time for the rest of the story.”
Vidal’s cheeks sucked in like he’d bitten an unripe persimmon. “Proceed.”
Corona studied the elder Greybeck. “We would like to see what you have returned to us.”
“Wait!” Desi leaned forward. “May I ask a question?”
Board members nodded, faces bronzed with anticipation. Desi had sat through enough meetings to know when a group scented blood and didn’t care whose it was as long as proceedings took an interesting turn. Evidently, Randolph Greybeck knew those kinds of meetings too. His gaze brooded on the padded sack.
“Ask away.” Clayton grinned at Desi. “Unless you’re wondering whether we checked to see that the crown is in here; then don’t ask. We did.”
Close, but he could forget about winning his daddy’s cigar. “Did you take the crown out and examine it?”
“A peek inside the sack was sufficient.”
“I don’t think so.” A slow burn filtered through her. The Greybecks didn’t care about the heritage they protected, or they couldn’t have slept until they examined the headdress.
Clayton worked the knot on the sack. In a few moments, the headdress gleamed golden on the table—except for the tip of one leaf, broken off and showing a dull pewter color.
Randolph lunged to his feet. “You Jezebel! You switched the crowns!”
A Bible analogy? Oh, that’s right, the Greybecks took vocal pride in being fine, upstanding pew-warmers in the most prestigious church in New York.
Desi shook her head. “I can’t accept that much credit, though I did know the crown was a forgery. Why else do you think I tossed it away for your hired thugs to go after instead of me?”
Claytons steel-blue eyes widened, and then he laughed. “You and whose army was going to keep the street bandits from taking it away from you?”
“You’ll just have to wonder about that.” She clamped her jaw shut. Not totally gormless of him to sidestep her verbal trap.
The elder Greybeck crossed his arms. “Where is the headdress of Pakal?”
“Safe.” Señor Corona ran a finger along his mustache. “Kindly sit down, sir. Ms. Jacobs fulfilled her commission, and your firm failed to stop her. That is the bottom line. This morning’s posturing is mere theatrics.”
Nods and mutters of assent traveled around the table bu
t ended at Chairman Vidal, who studied the tabletop. The senior Greybeck spluttered and sank down. He pulled out his cigar, popped it in his mouth, took it out, and then twiddled it between his fingers like the classic comedian W. C. Fields, but minus the sense of humor.
Desi bottled a grin. She’d have to repent later for gloating. But Lord, this does feel good.
“Well, then.” Vidal grimaced and sat tall. “I suggest that the security company representatives withdraw from the meeting so we might discuss this important decision.”
“Agreed,” said the man with the pointed goatee who had spoken harshly to Desi earlier. Now he offered a muted smile in her direction. “Who protects the priceless objects under our care is one of the gravest choices this board faces.”
A bittersweet heaviness filled Desi. She lifted a hand. “If I may speak, Mr. Chairman?”
“So recognized.” He jerked his chin.
She stood and surveyed the board. Many, but not all, returned her look with receptive eyes. “I gave this matter much thought between the wee hours of the morning and the time I stepped into this meeting. And I believe that it’s in the best interests of all concerned that HJ Securities withdraw its bid for security services at the Museo de Arte Mejicana.”
Señor Corona frowned. The corners of Señor Vidal’s mouth tipped upward. Claytons eyes bugged, and the senior Greybeck dropped his cigar into his lap. Too bad it wasn’t lit.
“In the delicate matter of antiquities protection,” Desi continued, “trust between museum management and the security company is vital. That element has been lacking from the start and was further eroded by the events of last night.”
Administrator Ramirez sat forward. “Are you suggesting this museum didn’t act in good faith?”
“What you make of my comment is between you and your conscience. But I remind you that informing the rival security company about your agreement with HJ Securities is a violation of the provisional contract.”
The administrator sank back.
Desi hefted her briefcase. “It’s obvious that your consideration of my firm for security services has thrown this board into disharmony. Not a profitable situation for any of us. Good day, gentlemen.” She left them with their mouths open.
Reluctant Smuggler Page 2
