by Jan Coffey
“No. But the more I’ve got to give him when he calls, the better chance I have of keeping my head. What do you think of your father’s suggestion?”
Ellie’s eyes were tired when they looked up. “Dealing with forgers used to be part of Lou’s work. He knows that business and the people who used to work in it better than anybody else I know.”
Nate finished the cereal and took the bowl and her empty teacup to the sink. “But it does make sense. I mean, it’s a long shot that anyone will call you now and say, bring your client to this auction at a certain place at this hour.”
“Stranger things have happened.” She leaned back in the chair and looked up. “But considering the cramped timing of everything, yes, it’s tough to think that it could work so fast. And it’s always smart to have a backup plan. Just in case.”
“When you talked to Ray, did you tell him I have time constraints?”
“Of course—you’re going on some world cruise in two weeks.”
“Am I?” He leaned against the cabinet. “What else should I know about myself?”
“Other than your name…?” Ellie thought back. “I told Ray you were young, thirty-something. Come from money. You’re trying your hand at collecting and you’re from upstate New York.”
“What else?”
“That’s all. We only talked for a few minutes on the phone. As far as the rest of my contacts, I’m just saying that I have an interested client. No specifics.”
“When do you want to start playing the game?”
Ellie arched a brow questioningly.
“When do I start being Nate Moffet? And, other than the people in this house, who else in your circle knows who I really am?”
“My assistant Vic is the only other person you’ve met, but he doesn’t know. My problem is not when, but if you can play the role.”
Nate had a hard time standing still as she began studying him. Her eyes scrutinized him, from his choice of shoes and the belt he was wearing to the way he combed his hair. He waited until she was done with her perusal before making a comment. “What’s the verdict?”
“You’ll never cut it looking like this.”
“I can fix that.”
“How? Are you going to wear a sport jacket instead of a suit tomorrow? A striped tie instead of a solid one?”
“I said I’ll take care of it.” He pushed away from the cabinet.
“Maybe I can send Vic out shopping with you.”
“Cut it out. I’m too tired.”
“Maybe you can pick up an armful of fashion magazines at a newspaper stand, and then make a stop at the mall and ask one of those sixteen-year-old clerks to walk you through—”
“Stop it, Ellie.”
His irritation only made her smile. “Well, I guess you know what to do. We should start showing you around first thing in the morning.”
“I can’t. I’m talking to Chris.”
“After that, then. I’ll be back in the shop after lunch. Put yourself together and drop by…say, about one. We’ll see if you can pass the Desposito exam.”
Nate grimaced. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not an internal exam,” she said, grinning. “Vic claims to be an expert at recognizing ‘P and Ps’ on sight.”
“What’s a ‘P and P’?”
“You know, Prince and the Pauper. A fake.”
“Naturally.”
“When you come in tomorrow, I’ll introduce you as Nate Moffet. We’ll go from there.”
“A straight Nate Moffet,” he warned.
“Vic would say that just means you haven’t met the right man.” She put her feet up on the seat he had vacated earlier.
Nate rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re stressing me out, and we haven’t even started this cover. Why the heck do I even need to face your assistant at all?”
She shook her head from side to side in disappointment. “Agent Murtaugh, you don’t need me to tell you that to get this job done, we can leave no stone un-turned. We don’t want to miss making a crucial contact. I might own that shop, but Vic is the one who is on the phone and behind the desk most of the time. He talks to everyone. You convince my man that you’re Mr. Millionaire Moffet, and the East Coast will know it in a day.”
Nate nodded in resignation. “I’m on my way back to my hotel. Do you need a ride home, Miss Little-field?”
“No thanks.” She crossed her arms and tried to get more comfortable in her straight chair. “I don’t believe I’d feel safe getting inside a car alone with you, Agent Murtaugh.”
Twelve
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, June 22
Sanford Hawes tried unsuccessfully to rub smooth the headache that was pounding in his temples as he listened to Nate. There was no point in yelling and screaming about him taking Christopher Weaver to Philadelphia; Nate appeared to have covered all the bases. He had a statement from the kid. When he didn’t hear from Hawes last night, Nate contacted the family services people and the local police in Ticonderoga first thing this morning.
“I faxed them the report a couple of minutes ago.”
“What is it exactly that the kid knows?” Sanford growled into the phone.
“Nothing about the fire,” Nate answered. “He first heard about it from McGill when the cop was trying to get him to come out of hiding at the body shop Sunday night. His story is that he came out of the bathroom and went into the room with the flag and one of the guards grabbed him.”
“That’s bullshit. No guard said anything. Can the kid identify him?”
“No. Chris says he never looked up into his face. He just thought the guy was a guard from the color of his uniform.”
There was a light tap at Hawes’s office door. He looked up as Cheri poked her head in.
“Do you have a minute?” she whispered.
He shook his head and spun around in his chair, turning his back to her. “Okay. What happened next?”
“Chris said he knew the museum was already closed, so when the guy started radioing something in, he broke away and escaped through the back door into the parking lot.”
“And this supposed guard didn’t pursue a kid wandering alone in the museum? Doesn’t sound too likely.”
“That’s Chris’s story.”
“Did the kid say if this guard had a Middle Eastern accent?”
“I doubt an eight-year-old would know what that means,” Nate replied. “Look, he didn’t get a good look at the guy who grabbed him. And I don’t think Chris could give us anything that would help identify him, either.”
“So then, why the hell did he run? What was the disappearing act all about?”
“Chris is eight. He has no parents that he could rely on. And he was scared.”
Sanford snorted. Looking around, he was relieved to see Cheri gone. He picked up a pen and started jotting down some notes. “What does he know about the McGill thing?”
“He took off through the junkyard and into the woods when he saw a muddy car—a sedan—race into the parking lot. He didn’t actually see McGill get hit, either. He said it happened too fast. Then he just ran.”
“He’s got his disappearing act down pat, doesn’t he?” Hawes grumbled. “What was he running away from this time?”
“He told me that he saw this same car before. They drove to his father’s trailer in the woods. He says these two guys got out and looked for him.” Nate’s tone turned doubtful. “But of course, the ones at Weaver’s place could have been local cops or someone from the social services. He has no proof for this. No license plate. Not even a description of the car—except that both cars were muddy.”
“And that’s it?”
“Pretty much…except that the cops up there are going to check for matching tire tracks out at the trailer.”
“I’ll have them send those results to me.” Hawes methodically tapped his pen on the paper. “Does he know anything about the flag being destroyed?”
�
��No,” Nate answered. “I made sure he only knows what went into the papers, about a trash can catching fire. He’d heard about McGill, though, from a classmate who brought him to us. That’s the big news up there now.”
“Okay, so it’s like I told you. Going after the kid was a waste of time.” Hawes leaned back in his chair and stared at the wall displaying his diplomas and pictures and citations and medals. “What’s your next move?”
“The New York family services people have agreed—since he’s still technically in my custody—to leave him with Sister Helen for a little while until they figure what would be best to do with him. The Ticonderoga police might want to question Chris themselves, but if they do, Buckley said they’ll send someone to Philadelphia to do it.”
“Is this kid going to slow you down any more than he already has?”
“I’m not baby-sitting him. After today, I won’t have much to do with him, at all.”
“How about Ellie? She started all of this, didn’t she?”
“She’s doing what she needs to do. I don’t think having the kid around is putting a strain on her time.” There was a pause on the line. “By the way, I was on the phone with Wilcox this morning about an idea that Louis Littlefield came up with.”
Hawes tipped back his chair. “I was wondering when he’d crawl out of Helen’s basement and put his two cents in. So what did he have to say?”
“He had an idea about coming up with a forgery.”
It was like a Philadelphia Christmas at the end of June. Even though it was midweek, the sidewalks were jammed with people. Traffic on Walnut Street was crawling, and Chestnut Street was a madhouse. Everywhere Ellie looked, people had that half-harried, half-delighted look about them that you only saw on holiday shoppers.
Clutching several shopping bags of all sizes, she waited for a young couple to step out of her shop and a group of four women to go inside before going in herself. Brian was writing up a sale at the counter, and Vic immediately appeared at her side to take the bags.
“You’re late,” he scolded under his breath. “I thought you were coming back at noon.”
“I thought so, too. But I didn’t get out of Sister Helen’s until half past. Then I had to make a couple of stops and pick up some donations for next Thursday’s auction. Then I had another stop to buy a few things for this boy who’s staying at the convent.” She peeled the last bag from around her wrist. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Two-fifteen.”
“I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Good thing your date is an angel.”
Vic rushed off with the packages before she could say anything more. Ellie looked around the shop but saw no sign of Nate. She walked to the counter where Brian had just finished writing up a customer. He turned and put both hands up to stop her from coming behind the counter.
“Listen, hon. You don’t keep someone like this one waiting. Run up those stairs and change.” Brian shooed her toward the steps. “Go! Go! We have everything under control.”
Her curiosity was now totally piqued. Vic and Brian did not usually behave so…so motherly. She went toward the back of the store where Vic had disappeared seconds earlier. Aside from the four women, there was another older couple, and a man Ellie vaguely recognized as another dealer. Still no sign of Nate. Vic came out of the back storage room, his hands empty.
“What did you do to him?” she asked.
“Not what I would have liked to do.”
“Don’t pout, Vic.”
“Easy for you to say. Some people seem to have all the luck.” He touched the sleeve of her band-collar cotton shirt and looked down at the knee-length skirt. “You can’t go out dressed like this. Do you own any leather?”
“Excuse me?”
“Leather? The skin of an animal?” He looked at her critically. “You know, that Olivia Newton-John thing from Grease could really knock his socks off. Have you got anything like that?”
“I’ll have to look,” she said sarcastically.
“Then look. You’ll definitely need to think about styling a little if you want to have him hang around here a couple more weeks.”
“So you got the whole scoop?” She poked her head into the back room, still looking for Nate.
“Of course. And you owe me big time on this one.”
“How’s that?”
“If I hadn’t opened the door and let him in Sunday morning—over your objections, I might add—you would never have landed an opportunity like this in a hundred years.”
“So he told you about the flag he’s looking for?”
“Of course. Nothing escapes Victor.” Vic’s voice turned low and confidential. “And it’s good to see you’re playing it smart for a change.”
She raised a brow.
“Good commission aside, babe, men like him don’t come knocking too often. He told me you invited him to go sightseeing around Philly this afternoon.”
“Yeah.” Ellie poured herself a cup of coffee. “But after being out all day yesterday and seeing how busy we are today, I think he’ll take a rain check.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Vic wiped the counter, cleaning the coffee ring she’d left behind. “He told us what a great time the two of you had yesterday. Let me tell you, this is the best way to land them. Yesterday, New York. Today, you show him Philadelphia. Tomorrow, maybe you go to Baltimore or D.C. By the weekend, who knows…Bermuda?”
“Why not keep going, Vic. By next week, if I play my cards right, I might just reel him in, close the shop and retire to Palm Beach.”
“At least you know this time, with his kind of money, you’ll be able to afford to.”
The dirty snake had clearly put it over on Vic, Ellie thought. She’d issued a challenge to Murtaugh…Moffet…whatever name he was going by today, and he’d risen to it.
“I give up. Where is he?”
“I took him up to your apartment.”
“What for?” she exploded.
“Because he was a distraction down here. And I didn’t think he’d be up for doing any nude modeling on the second floor.”
“You know I don’t take anyone up to my apartment.” She dumped her coffee in the wastebasket and started for the stairs.
“Brian and I come up all the time,” he said, trailing after her.
“You know what I mean. I’m talking about strangers.”
“You never take any of your boyfriends up there, and I told him that, too. Men are vain like that. They like that first-time business. So I told him how you date, but that you don’t generally sleep around.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She started up the steps, two at a time.
“No. And I also told him how this past year, you’ve had a real dry spell.”
“Great! Is there anything you didn’t tell him?”
“I didn’t mention your bra size,” he said. “I figured it was too insignificant to mention.”
Ellie whirled around on the second-floor landing and punched Vic squarely in the arm. “At least I have tits.”
“So? Everybody has tits.”
“I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you.”
“I get it. Some tits are more equal than others.”
“Vic—”
“Well, that was my point to start with.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. “What do you think of them, Mr. Moffet?”
If a gaping hole had opened on the stairwell and swallowed her up entirely, that would have suited Ellie just fine. Nate was sitting on the top step. His long legs were encased in well-worn jeans, and he was wearing a pair of handsome boots. A black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and flat stomach. He was appraising her breasts with the attitude of a connoisseur.
“Perfect, I’d say,” Nate said, his blue eyes twinkling.
Ellie felt like her face was sporting a third-degree burn. She brushed off Vic’s hands and growled at Nate. “You’re blocking my way.”
Jeez, he look
ed even better standing up.
“Can you handle it from here, boss?”
She turned to answer, only to realize Vic’s question was addressed to the man standing on the top step. A dozen different threats—starting with firing him—ran through her mind, but Ellie knew she couldn’t go through with any of them. Maybe she’d just kill him.
“Thanks for everything, Vic.” Nate came down to them and looped an arm around her waist. Maybe she’d just kill them both. She peeled his hand off her hip as they started up the steps and shot a warning look at him.
As they went past the second-floor studio, Ellie continued to hold her tongue, though her mind was racing. A couple of the regulars were painting by the windows, and a new sculptor was working with clay at the far end of the studio. They continued up to the third floor, and as soon as they stepped through the door to her apartment, she whirled on him.
“I thought I explained everything to you yesterday. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. There is no us, and there never will be. So there’s no point in pretending that we’re anything else in front of—”
“How do I look?”
She gaped at him as if he had two heads. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“You told me I had to change my look. So what do you think?”
She’d seen him briefly this morning at Sister Helen’s while he’d been questioning Christopher. He’d been wearing one of his suits from the G-Man Boutique.
“Great. The stuff actually fits.” She eyed the boots, the jeans—which fit too well—and the T-shirt. She noticed even his hair was different; it had kind of a wind-blown, finger-combed look. It was the look of a rich man who was very comfortable with himself. “Clothes alone wouldn’t fool Vic. What did you say to him?”
He only gave her a smug look.
“Vic is pretty shrewd when it comes to this kind of stuff, but you’ve obviously pulled the wool over his eyes. Come on,” she pressed. “Out with it.”
“I don’t ask you to hand over your trade secrets. Do you really think you should ask me to divulge mine?”
Ellie considered this for a moment while continuing to study every little detail of his rich, bad-boy look. All he was missing was a tattoo on that sculpted biceps. Feeling the room growing warmer, she tore her gaze from him.
