We didn't have to wait long, as Mina reappeared from the back with a printout in hand. "I found this." She handed the paper to me. "A Courtland, purchased on the 6th and sold at Van Steinberg's on the 23rd."
I glanced at the page, noting there was no mention of the purchase price or selling price. No name for the women he'd bought from and no mention of his buyer, Carla Montgomery. I felt my hopes sinking. Nothing here indicated what Carrington's scam had been or how and why he'd swapped the fake-for-real bracelets.
Or who had killed the appraiser and his partner.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After thanking Mina for her time, we left the shop, leaving the tinkle bell over the door in our wake as we walked back to our cars. Marco begged to tag along to Van Steinberg's to pick up my Chanel shoe check, so we left his MINI Cooper at the shop and took off in my minivan.
The parking lot was sparsely populated today, nothing being put up for public auction. I pulled into a spot near the front, and we both braved the hot few steps from the AC in my car to the AC in the auction house. The hushed vibe of the place was even more pronounced today with an absence of the bidders and chatter that had accompanied my last visit here. The slim woman behind the reception desk told me Van Steinberg was in his office, expecting me.
"Ms. Springer," he greeted me as we stepped inside. He was dressed in his usual attire of a smart suit, polished shoes, and a necktie. His gaze flickered to Marco's short shorts as I introduced my friend, but Van Steinberg was thankfully too polite to say anything.
"Pleasure to meet you," Van Steinberg told Marco, shaking his hand.
"Ditto. I've heard so much about you," Marco said.
"Oh? Well, yes, thank you. We do a brisk business here, so it's nice to hear that our reputation precedes us. I have your check ready," Van Steinberg went on, gesturing for us to sit in the club chairs opposite his desk. We did, and he opened a drawer and extracted an envelope with my name on it.
"I'm sure you've heard about Allison Cash's death by now," I said, trying to figure out how to delicately approach the subject.
Van Steinberg paused. "Uh, yes. Very sad. Whole affair is quite tragic."
"Did you know her well?" I asked.
"Uh, no. Not really. Carrington was the one who did most of the auction work."
I nodded. "Yes, you had mentioned she was more of the businesswoman behind the operations."
He smiled and nodded. "Yes, that's correct."
"So, you don't think she knew about the fake antiques Carrington was passing off?" I tossed out as bluntly as I could for shock value.
Van Steinberg blinked at me, his white mustache twitching. "Excuse me?"
"Carrington," Marco jumped in. "He sold an item at one of your auctions that was a fake reproduction."
"I-I-I don't know what you're talking about!" Van Steinberg's pallor went from pale to pink as he sputtered. "That's preposterous. The idea of such a thing! That's quite an accusation, young lady," he directed at me.
While I appreciated the "young" part, his tone was anything but complimentary. "I know for a fact that Carrington put an item he appraised as fake into one of your auctions," I said. I pulled the record Mina had given me out of my purse, pushing it across the desk to him. "Two months ago. This Courtland bracelet. Benton won the auction for his client Carla Montgomery."
Van Steinberg opened a drawer to his right, extracting a pair of glasses that he perched on his nose before examining the document. "Yes, yes, I do remember this bracelet." He set the paper down. "But I can assure you it was not a knock-off."
"How can you be so positive?" Marco pressed.
"I examined it myself. It had the maker's mark on the inside, and everything about it was the right age, weight, and style."
"But Carrington told the original owner that it was a fake," I protested.
"What was a fake?" a voice came from the doorway.
I spun in my seat to see Lottie, the collector who'd sold The Blob, standing in the doorway. Today she was dressed in a paisley printed polyester shirt that looked like she'd ripped it off of Carol Brady. She'd coupled it with a brown corduroy skirt that clung in all the wrong places, and a large tortoiseshell clip holding her dyed orange hair. Her heavily made-up eyes were narrowed in concern as she looked from Van Steinberg to me, her false eyelashes blinking up a storm.
"Nothing was fake," Van Steinberg answered her emphatically.
Marco spun around in his seat to face the woman. "It's possible Carrington was passing off reproductions as real antiques," he said all in a rush.
"But not through my auction house, I assure you," Van Steinberg said. "Every item he sold through here was 100% authentic." He paused, handing me the envelope with my name on it. "I believe our business here is done. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a payment to process for Ms. LaMore here."
Effectively dismissed, Marco and I stood, mumbling our goodbyes to Lottie, who still looked a bit perplexed at the entire thing.
I had to admit, she wasn't the only one.
"So Carrington swapped out the fake bracelet for a real one before selling it at auction?" Marco asked as we got back into my car.
I shrugged. "Or else Van Steinberg is lying about it being real."
"Or," Marco said, "Terri Voy has been lying this whole time about the original appraisal."
I was turning that thought over as Marco's phone rang—singing out Cindy Lauper's Girls Just Want to Have Fun.
He looked down at his readout. "It's Dana."
"Put her on speaker," I said, turning the car on and pulling away from the curb.
"Hey, girlfriend," Marco answered, singsonging into the phone as he held it flat in his palm.
"Don't you 'hey' me!" she shouted back. "I'm at the address you gave me to go over the menu. And I'm not amused, Marco."
I raised an eyebrow at him. That didn't sound good.
"Wh-what do you mean?" Marco asked, blinking innocently at his Android device.
"I mean," came Dana's angry voice, "this is not the Asian street fair themed menu I approved."
Marco shrugged. "I upgraded it."
"Crickets?" she yelled. "Crickets are an upgrade?!"
I barely stifled a laugh.
"Is that Maddie with you?" Dana asked.
Okay, maybe I didn't entirely stifle it.
"I'm here," I confirmed. "He's serving guests crickets?" I shook my head at Marco.
He shrugged in mock innocence. "They are delightful. So trending. Very exotic."
"They are bugs," Dana argued.
"Delicacies!"
"Where are you?" Dana demanded.
I glanced at a passing street sign. "Just passing Olympic in Century City."
"Great. You can be here in ten minutes."
I glanced at my dash clock. "Uh, actually, I was…"
"Get. Here. Now." And Dana hung up.
Marco let out a long sigh. "Wow, talk about ungrateful. I mean, you know what I had to do to get fresh crickets flown in from Thailand?"
I blinked at him. "You do hear yourself, right?"
"Just drive." He slunk down in his seat.
While part of me wanted to tell him to clean up his own mess, the bigger part of me definitely did not want cricket a la mode for an appetizer.
So, exactly twelve minutes later, we were walking through the doors of Bugging Out, an "exotic insects" bar in Beverly Hills. While the décor was sterile, modern, and gleaming white, the air held a faint scent that reminded me of the bait shop my uncle had brought me to when I was ten. Behind the bar stood a guy in a white chef's outfit and a man bun, trying to calm one very unhappy strawberry blonde in stilettos. At the sound of the door opening, Dana spun, immediately homing in on Marco as her eyes narrowed to angry slits. "There is my party planner," she ground out.
Man Bun looked very relieved. "Ah. Yes. As he can tell you, we have an order prepaid for two-hundred cricket croquets.
I stifled a gag reflex.
"Prepaid," Dana repeated, stil
l death-glaring Marco. "Without asking me."
"You said money was not an issue," Marco replied, blinking back at her with his best innocent face—eyes wide and rimmed in black liner, extra-long lashes fluttering up and down.
"Well, I didn't think you'd use it to buy bugs!"
"Exotic edible insects," Man Bun corrected.
Marco nodded, gesturing at the man. "See? They're all the rage."
I bit my lip to keep from cringing as I perused the menu. Deep fried grasshopper, bee larva frozen yogurt, silkworm smoothie. I could see why this was popular among the Beverly Hills set. One look at the menu, and you'd lose your appetite for a week. Best diet ever.
"…we can substitute the crickets for something else." I tuned back in to Man Bun's negotiations.
"What kind of something else?" Dana hedged.
"Yes!" Marco agreed. "Okay, maybe the crickets were a bad idea," he conceded.
"Ya think?" Dana shot back.
"Maybe we should go with something a little more classic. How about dung beetles?"
"Gross! No, I will not have my waiters serving guests beetles!"
Marco rolled his eyes. "Well of course waiters won't be serving beetles."
Dana's shoulders relaxed a scooch.
"We're having the appetizers served by drones."
Dana's head whipped around so fast that I swore I could feel the wind. "Drones?"
"Isn't it fabulous! I mean, what more trending way to receive your exotic appetizers than via flying drones?"
"There is no way—"
"Of course, they may scare the burros." Marco paused, thinking this one through.
"You still haven't canceled the donkeys, you ass—"
"But I'm sure they'll be stabled by their handlers by then. I mean, the drones don't come out until the West African dancers have cleared the floor."
"African dancers?"
"West African," Marco corrected. "There is a difference, you know."
Dana's face was a shade of pink I'd only seen achieved by Mary Kay. Her mouth moved up and down, but no words came out. If I had to guess, nothing she was thinking was appropriate for polite ears. Very restrained of her, really.
"Oh, gee, look at the time," I said, checking my phone. "I've got to go pick up the twins. Dana, you can drop Marco off on your way home, right?"
"Maddie?" Marco turned a pleading look to me.
"Maddie!" Dana sent me an entirely different look. One that had a lot more fire. And maybe even a little murder behind it.
"Good luck," I told the erstwhile party planner as I hightailed it out of the bug bar. Before someone fed me a grasshopper.
* * *
Crisis averted(ish), I took side streets toward home, letting my mind wander back over what I'd heard from Mina, Terri, and Van Steinberg that day. Unfortunately, I felt like the more I found out, the less I knew about who could have killed Carrington and Cash. But Marco had brought up a good point about Terri Voy. The truth was, so far, everything I found said that Carrington had been selling real antiques. Felix's sculpture was real. Carla's bracelet was real. Van Steinberg said he'd checked for authentication himself. In fact, everyone except Terri seemed sure Carrington was selling the real deal. Which left me with Terri herself. Had she lied about Carrington telling the owner the bracelet was fake? If so—why? Was she trying to hurt Carrington's reputation posthumously? While Terri seemed a bit unstable to me, I'd had the distinct impression she was telling the truth about what she'd seen Carrington do. She had every reason to protect him and none to disparage him.
So if Terri wasn't lying…who was?
I was so deep in thought that I'll admit I wasn't 100% paying attention to the other drivers on the road as I pulled off the 2. Traffic was moving along at a decent clip, even if we weren't yet hitting the speed limit. The car in front of me was going at a steady pace, and I was zoning out much of the rest—billboards passing without really seeing them, cars going by in blurs of dents and rust, trucks making the occasional shadow as they pulled alongside me.
I vaguely registered a car pacing me in the next lane over, just in my blind spot. Which I honestly barely noticed until we rounded a corner and the sun peeked between the buildings to glint off something shiny and metallic in the window of the car beside me.
Then a crack rang through the air, the window behind me shattering on impact.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Shards of glass rained down on me, spraying my backseat and embedding in my hair. I heard a scream that I vaguely registered as coming from me, as I instinctively swerved right, away from the other car. Horns honked in protest behind me, and I fought to get the wheel under control, tires squealing with the effort.
Another loud crack rang out, this time followed by a metallic ping as something embedded itself into the side of my minivan.
Someone was shooting at me.
I'd heard of these things happening in LA before, but I'd never been the victim of a drive-by myself. I swiveled my head to the left, but the sedan had slowed down, moving a car length behind me. I could tell it was gray, late model. I could make out a figure in the driver's seat, but features evaded me.
I stepped on the gas, surging ahead and looking for somewhere to pull off the road. The sedan surged in answer, coming up beside me again. Close enough that I could look directly through the windows at the driver. He or she was dressed all in black, and a ski cap totally covered the person's face. Man, woman, young, old, black, white—all I knew was that they were intent on me as they raised the gun, pointing it right at me.
I screamed again and slammed on the brakes, my car swerving to the right with the force of it. I fishtailed back and forth, struggling to regain control. Horns honked behind me again, and I watched the sedan sail past my window, flying down the road as I finally careened to a stop, slamming into a parking meter at the curb.
I breathed deeply, foot still jammed on the brake, not daring to let go. Cars continued to zoom past me on the street, as if nothing had happened, completely ignoring the minivan with a bullet hole in the side that was parked halfway up the sidewalk. I ignored them right back as I took stock.
My back window was toast, pieces of it scattered throughout the interior. I noticed a few small cuts on my bare arms and hands, still gripping the wheel with all my might. I could see the front end of my car tilting the parking meter at an odd angle and knew that was going to cost a pretty penny to fix—both the car and the money I'd owe the city for the damaged meter.
But at least I wasn't dead.
I'm not sure how long I sat there before the shock started to wear off and my brain clicked back on. Finally I put the car in park, shut off the engine, and fumbled in my purse for my phone. My hands were shaking so badly that it took me two tries to get Ramirez's number up on the screen before I finally heard it ringing. I said a silent prayer that it didn't go to voicemail.
"Hey, beautiful," he answered.
"Hey yourself," I responded.
But my usual greeting must have sounded as shaky as I felt, as his tone instantly changed—the easy affection replaced by concern.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," I lied. Then I looked around the car. "Actually, no." I licked my lips. "I think I was just the victim of a drive-by."
"What?!" I could hear movement, like Ramirez rising from a chair. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said. "Shaken up, but I think I'm okay." I paused, taking a deep breath. Just hearing Ramirez's voice grounded me a little, and I drew some strength from it. "I was just pulling off Santa Monica when someone shot at my car."
I heard more movement—keys jangling and footsteps. "Where are you?" he asked.
I looked up and rattled off the cross streets.
"Don't move. I'm on my way."
Don't worry—I wasn't sure I could move even if I wanted to.
I waited what felt like an eternity before I finally grew restless and got out of the car, assessing the damage from the outside. A smal
l, perfectly round hole sat in the middle of my sliding back doors. My heart kicked up a notch, just thinking about what would have happened if the kids had been in the car with me. Livvie's car seat was filled with glass shards. I felt tears pricking my eyes at the terrible juxtaposition of such violence against such innocent reminders of my sweet babies.
I swiped at them as I spied Ramirez's black SUV down the road, lights flashing on the dash and traveling at speeds that would make a CHP officer pull out his ticket book with glee. He pulled to a slightly more graceful stop behind me than I'd managed, scarcely waiting until the engine was off before jumping from the car. In a second he was at my side, wrapping me in a big bear hug that made those tears threaten again.
I hugged him back, not ever wanting to let go. His hands stroked my hair, his lips going to my forehead.
"You've got glass in your hair," he murmured.
"I've got glass everywhere," I told him as I pulled back.
His dark eyebrow drew together in concern. "What happened?"
"I-I honestly don't know. It all happened so fast." I sucked in another deep breath, trying to calm my nerves enough to recount the details. "I was driving along, when my window just suddenly shattered. I didn't realize what was going on until they shot again and hit the side of the car." I gestured to the bullet hole in the door.
I could see Ramirez clenching his jaw, anger building. "They? Did you get a look at the perpetrator?" he asked, going into Cop Mode.
I shook my head. "He was wearing a ski mask," I told him. Then I added, "Or she. I-I really couldn't see anything."
"What about the car?"
"A gray sedan?"
"Make? Model?"
"I-I don't know. It all happened so fast," I repeated.
He let out a long breath. "Don't suppose you got a license plate number?"
I shook my head. "By the time I got the car under control, they were gone." I paused. "Sorry. I'm a lousy witness."
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 15
