Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  "I'll ask."

  I walked to the bathroom and knocked gently. "Mia, your people want to know if you need anything else of them."

  "Nothing tonight, darling. Tell them they can have the rest of the night off."

  I relayed the message, then walked the men to the elevator. After they were inside, I removed my key and the doors closed. They would be taken to the lobby without any opportunity to alter where the car would stop unless they pulled the emergency knob. And if they did that, alarms would sound in the elevator and at the security desk.

  ~ ~

  After taking my third shower of the day, I dressed and then spent the next two hours sitting at my safe-room table because it was the only chair in the co-op. The office chair was decidedly more comfortable than sitting on the throne in one of the spare bathrooms. Mia had taken over the master bedroom and bath, and I'd tried to stay out of her way as much as possible.

  When Mia finally emerged from the bedroom, she took my breath away. She was beautiful naked, but when decked out in ten thousand dollars of designer clothes and jewelry, her beauty was incomparable. I just stood there staring at her as she walked towards me.

  "Is it okay?" she asked.

  "Aphrodite would be jealous. And with good reason."

  Mia smiled and then pecked at my check when she was close enough. I reached for her and she pulled back.

  "Darling, do you want to wait another fifteen minutes while I undo the damage to my makeup?"

  "Uh, no. I'm too hungry."

  "Then let's go eat." With a smile she added, "We'll play later."

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  The restaurant Mia had frequented since coming to New York was like the one she took me to in Amsterdam. A person had to be a member to even be aware of its existence. It was located below a high-rise office building in mid-town. We walked past a bank of elevators and stopped at a plain wooden door bearing an embossed brass plaque that simply said 'Private.' Mia pressed a doorbell on the wall next to the door, and several seconds later the door opened inwards.

  We stepped into an area similar to my vestibule but large enough to accommodate at least four people. Rather than a second door, we were facing an elevator door. Mia pressed her hand against a palm-print sensor and the elevator opened. There were several locks that someone with a key could use to access different levels, but only one button. When Mia depressed the button, the elevator began to sink.

  It was impossible to say how far we traveled, but I'd have guessed at least three floors. When we emerged, my first thought was whether the restaurant was safe in the event of fire. I mean, how would we get out if we couldn't use the elevator? I figured I'd been spending too much time lately worrying about personal safety issues. I tried to put the thought out of my head so I could simply enjoy the evening.

  Mia spoke to the maître d', who obviously recognized her from her recent visits, and we were escorted to our table.

  Unlike the restaurant in Amsterdam, I recognized a number of patrons. There were politicians, sports stars, movie stars, CEOs, and of course, the so-called financial wizards of Wall Street. It was the sort of place where I would expect to find Saul Fodor having dinner with the mayor, governor, or perhaps a senator. I felt like a complete outsider, even if I had just purchased a nineteen-million-dollar co-op. At least I was appropriately dressed. My daily wardrobe might not equal that of Saul Fodor, but my eveningwear probably came close these days.

  There were no prices anywhere on the menu, and no one seemed to mind, so I held my tongue. The fact that I had been afraid to stop at a fast-food hamburger joint for lunch just a couple of years ago from fear that I'd blow my monthly budget was never far from my mind. The difference between the food I'd struggled to swallow while I was on the road recently and the food in this restaurant was like the difference between a crack in the sidewalk and the Grand Canyon. I hardly had to chew. It just slid deliciously down my throat as it sent my taste buds into overdrive.

  The restaurant I'd suggested to Mia served excellent food, but it was a poor cousin compared to this one. My only worry was that I couldn't afford to support Mia and provide for her in the custom to which she was obviously accustomed. I had never bothered to check her net worth because it wasn't important to me, but it had to be substantial from the way she talked about traveling around and patronizing only the finest hotels and restaurants. And her clothing bills alone would probably exceed the gross domestic product of some small countries.

  We started off with a bottle of '97 Mascarello Barolo and then launched ourselves into a veal steak dish with caramelized onions that was almost as great as sex with Mia. We followed that with a traditional tiramisu. Chefs had been offering variations of tiramisu for years by substituting one or more ingredients, but the original dessert that had captured everyone's imaginations and taste buds was still the best when prepared by someone who knew what they were doing. And the pastry chef in this private club certainly knew what he or she was doing. I decided I would find out what I had to do to join the elites now that I could probably afford it. As yet, I didn't even know the name of the club.

  Following dinner, we talked and danced for a while. The club reminded me of those lavishly elegant clubs always seen in the early musicals from the 1930s where the 'little people' were never in evidence, except as waiters, bartenders, or bouncers. I have to admit it was an experience to be one of the elite for a change.

  When we were ready to leave, Mia signaled to one of the waiters. He brought the bill and she started to sign it.

  "My treat tonight, dear," I said as I reached for my wallet.

  "Not tonight, darling. They don't accept cash or credit cards."

  "What forms of payment do they accept?"

  "At the end of the month, a statement is sent to the member or their representative. Mine go to my attorneys, who pay all my bills. That way I never have to carry large amounts of cash or even credit cards, and I'm less of a target for thieves."

  "I see."

  After she had signed the bill and the waiter had left, she said, "Shall we go, darling? I'm ready to let you mess up my makeup."

  ~ ~ ~

  "We need some furniture," Mia said the following morning as we enjoyed our coffee. "I'd like to have a place to sit other than in bed."

  "I've kinda been enjoying sitting in bed since you arrived."

  "That's only because we spend so little time actually sitting."

  I chuckled and said, "Yeah, you're right."

  "I'm going to redecorate the entire apartment. We'll start today."

  "Today?"

  "The sooner we begin, the sooner the apartment will be a home instead of just an empty shell where you come to sleep."

  "How long do you think it'll take?"

  "Weeks. Maybe even months. Of course, we never really finish decorating our homes. We must always add or change as time passes and styles and tastes change."

  "Months? I can't spend months decorating the apartment. I have to work."

  "Just leave it to me, darling. I'll take care of everything."

  "New York is too dangerous. I can't let you run around alone."

  "I won't be alone. I'll have my security people to protect me when you're not around. You just concentrate on doing whatever you have to do, and I'll take care of everything else."

  "Uh, okay. Just one thing. The small room I'm using as an office is off-limits. I don't want anybody coming in to measure or plan or anything else. My work involves reading and preparing highly confidential materials. I'm going to lock the doors to that room."

  "Of course, darling. Your office is strictly off-limits. I promise."

  ~ ~ ~

  I had been ecstatic when my remodeling was finished and the workmen were gone, but as Mia began decorating the co-op, the place was once again alive with workers making a mess throughout the day. There were decorators, painters, furniture salespeople, accessories salespeople, movers, and numerous others in the apartment throughout the
day. I had taken Mia down to the security desk so she could have her picture taken and be listed as an occupant of the co-op. Then I helped her set up the voice recognition so the front door would open on her verbal command and registered her handprint so she could open the inside door. Lastly, I showed her how to operate all of the video systems so she could check on visitors before they were inside the apartment. Mia's security people were always there to protect her during the day, so I stayed locked in my office so I could accomplish as much as possible.

  Just after the work began, Brigman sent me a note to report to the office.

  ~ ~

  For the first time I didn't regret sitting outside Brigman's office for an hour. It was wonderful to get away from all the noise and commotion for a while.

  "How did you come up with this lame-brain idea, James?" Brigman asked when I was finally called into his office and I approached his desk. He always called my ideas foolish, absurd, or crazy, but every one of them had closed an open case. The same three people who had been present every time I visited Brigman's office were there today.

  "I documented everything, sir. The facts fit my theory perfectly when you take the hard evidence and throw in my speculation. The filed reports speculate that the thieves were pros because the robbery seemed so practiced, the actions so well coordinated, and there was absolutely no dissention or even discussion among the thieves. I submit that it went so smoothly because the thieves were brothers, used to working together as a close knit group on a daily basis."

  "You're saying these four brothers perpetrated the bank robbery to buy a couple of car engines?" the lone woman asked.

  "High-performance racecar engines are extremely expensive, and you don't have a chance of winning a major NASCAR event if you don't have one under the hood. And you always need a backup."

  "And you got onto this path simply because a teller said the leader of the robbery had a unique accent?" one of the men asked.

  "It was all I had to work with, so I performed a follow-up. Then I learned about the four brothers when I visited their hometown and spent some time talking to a clerk in a small local convenience store."

  "It's thin," the other man said.

  "It's imaginative," the woman said.

  "It's all we've got," the first man said. "Does anyone feel we should forget this theory?"

  No one suggested they not investigate the four brothers.

  "Okay," Brigman said. "I'll assign a couple of real special agents to look into it. Here're your next two assignments, James. That's all."

  I slipped the paper containing the two case numbers into my wallet and left.

  As I headed uptown, I smiled. I would now have months before I had to produce another case solution. I could begin my work on the Delcona problem without worrying about being terminated by the Bureau.

  ~ ~

  The co-op was a frenzy of activity when I arrived. Entering from the inner vestibule door, the view was an open-concept panorama of the main living room, kitchen, and formal dining area. There were people in each area, painting, measuring, or holding fabrics up for Mia and her decorator to approve or disapprove. Two of her security people were there as well.

  As I walked in, Mia hurried over and kissed me, then pulled me into the main living room to look at some fabric. I nodded and said 'nice' or 'very nice' several times if it seemed like something she liked. When I was allowed to leave, she kissed me and turned back to discuss something with her decorator. I headed immediately for my office before I was subjected to a new round of opinions.

  When I bought the co-op, the steel door of the safe-room could only be activated from inside. I'd had it changed so I could open or close it from outside with a tiny controller like the fobs used for car alarm activation or deactivation. If the door was closed using the switch inside, the fob wouldn't operate it. Since Mia had arrived, the steel door was always closed when I wasn't in the room. When I was using the room, I only closed the two wooden doors for privacy, but I locked the doors to make sure no one entered while I was using the gizmo. I knew the safe-room was secure from snooping, but once the workpeople were all finished and gone, I would perform a full security sweep of the apartment.

  Since leaving FBI Headquarters, the only thing on my mind had been Delcona. I was finally free to implement my plan for revenge. But as I sat down, I saw the message light blinking on my answering machine.

  The machine recorded messages forwarded by the computer system in my downtown office. Although my website was operational, no one had yet attempted to hire me to recover anything. And the only other way someone would have my number was if they were given it by Fodor. Of course, the call could be from one of those damned annoying telemarketer systems that simply dialed every number in sequence. I had long ago instituted a personal policy with telemarketers, to wit, I would never buy anything, ever, from a telemarketer, because it only encouraged them to keep calling people at random. If everyone, everywhere, stopped buying from telemarketers, we might finally be able to enjoy our dinnertimes in peace.

  I pressed the button on the machine and sat back to listen to the message. The call was from an insurance executive who identified himself as Charles Schiller. He said he'd been referred by Saul. It wasn't an art theft this time but an automobile theft. A collector had arrived home from a business trip ten months ago to find his most prized antique car missing from the special building he'd built to house his collection next to his home in Maryland.

  The 1957 Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa, of which only twenty-two had been produced, was insured for thirty-two million dollars. My jaw dropped when I heard the amount. The insurance company had just six weeks left before they had to pay the claim. The caller had left both his office number and his cell number.

  I really wanted to begin work on my special project because I knew it was only going to be a matter of time before Delcona made an attempt to acquire the gizmo again. I was surprised he hadn't tried already, but I supposed the investigations into Morris's death and the attack at my apartment were still forcing him to keep his head down.

  His home was no doubt still under twenty-four seven surveillance by either the New York State Police or the FBI. I knew I was going to have to be extra careful to avoid detection when I made my first move. But I also needed to start paying down the mortgage on the new co-op, and a million six after taxes for recovering the Ferrari would sure sweeten my depleted bank account. I sighed and went online to pick up some quick information about the vehicle.

  A Ferrari from that year and series had reportedly been sold in the U.K. for an estimated thirty-nine million dollars. It was a private deal, so the amount hadn't been publicly released but reportedly came from well-placed sources. I decided to put my private project on the back burner and called the Hartford, Connecticut number left by the caller.

  A receptionist answered the phone, and when I identified myself, she asked me to hold while she put the call through. A couple of seconds later, Charles Schiller answered the phone with, "Mr. James. Thank you for returning my call. I doubt there's an insurance executive in the industry who hasn't heard of your successes, but you're a hard man to locate. I was fortunate that Saul Fodor had your phone number. Do you think you can help us?"

  "Mr. Schiller, it's been more than ten months since the theft. That car is probably overseas, sitting in some Russian oil tycoon's collection. These days, stolen cars that aren't chopped up for parts are usually out of the country within days."

  "We realize that. But if it's been shipped overseas and we can learn who has it, we can begin to put international pressure on them to return it. But we won't know what we can do until we know who has it."

  "Okay. What's the recovery fee?"

  "We're offering the standard ten percent."

  "That would have been acceptable nine months ago, but now you're asking me to drop everything else and work this case because you have to pay off on the policy in six weeks. The international implication means this could be a lot more
complex and a lot messier than domestic theft cases."

  "Saul said you'd probably require more than the standard recovery fee. He mentioned they paid you two million for the recovery of the Merchendes Collection, which had an insured value of eleven million dollars, because they were just thirty days away from having to pay the claim. The Ferrari was insured for almost three times the artwork, so my Board of Directors has approved six million if you can recover the car before we have to pay the insured."

  "And if I locate the car in a foreign country that ignores international laws pertaining to stolen vehicles?"

  "We'll still pay the original ten-percent fee of three point two million dollars if you can provide irrefutable proof that the car is where you say it is. There's a clause in the policy that allows us to postpone paying the insured for an additional six months if we can prove we know where the vehicle is. The six months is to allow us time to recover it."

  "Okay, Mr. Schiller. I'll need a complete copy of everything in your files regarding the investigation to date. I'll also need a letter from you detailing our recovery fee agreement. If the perpetrators are out of the country, I can't promise they'll ever be arrested. And even if they're still here, I can't promise arrests, but I'll identify them for you."

  I gave Schiller my address so he could send the files and required letter and told him I'd get back to him as soon as I had something.

  "I forgot to mention that the Board requires weekly reports," he said.

  "Then give them weekly reports."

  "No, I mean they require weekly reports from you."

  "I'm sorry, but the only report I make is when the case is solved. I'm an independent businessman, not an employee of your company, and I don't take orders from your Board of Directors. If such a requirement is included in the letter you'll be sending, you can spare yourself the effort because I won't be taking on the case. I don't do progress reports, but I'll notify you as soon as I have something to report."