The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “Cash or charge?”

  “Charge.” He pulled out a credit card. “She used to have this mutt, you see,” he continued as he followed Terri to the counter. “A brown-and-white spotted dog who curled up on the rug and slept twenty hours out of twenty-four. Aunt Maria adored that dog. I was hoping to find something that looked like him.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Terri nestled the Staffordshire in tissue paper. “You must be a very considerate nephew.”

  “Well, Aunt Maria helped raise me.”

  “It’s too bad you weren’t in a few days ago. We had a piece very much like you’re talking about. In china, a spotted hound, curled up asleep. It was only in the shop a day before we sold it.”

  “Sold it?” DiCarlo said between smiling teeth. “That’s too bad.”

  “It wasn’t nearly as fine a piece as the one you’ve just bought, Mr. DiCarlo,” she added after a glance at his credit card. “Believe me, your aunt’s going to love you come Christmas morning.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I notice you also carry art.”

  “Some. Mostly posters and old family portraits from estate sales.”

  “Nothing modern, then? I’m doing some redecorating.”

  “Afraid not. We’ve got some stuff piled in the storeroom in back, but I haven’t noticed any paintings.”

  While she wrote up his bill, DiCarlo drummed his fingers on the counter and considered. He had to find out who had bought the dog. If it hadn’t been broad daylight, with a wide display window at his back, he might have stuck his gun under the clerk’s pretty chin and forced her to look up the information for him.

  Of course, then he’d have to kill her.

  He glanced at the window behind him. There wasn’t much traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. But he shook his head. A young girl wrapped in a parka zoomed by on Rollerblades. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Just sign here.” Terri passed him the sales slip and his card. “You’re all set, Mr. DiCarlo. I hope you and your aunt have a terrific Christmas.”

  Because she watched him through the window, DiCarlo set the box carefully in the trunk of the car, then waved cheerfully before climbing in. He slid smoothly away from the curb.

  He’d go somewhere for a late lunch. When it was dark, when the shop was empty, he’d be back.

  Dora gave Jed’s door her best businesslike rap. She knew he was going to growl at her—it couldn’t be helped. The fact was, she’d gotten used to the way he snarled and spat. She didn’t look forward to it, but she’d gotten used to it.

  He didn’t disappoint her.

  His short-sleeved sweatshirt was damp with sweat. His forearms glistened with it. She might have taken a moment to admire the basic masculinity, but she was too busy studying the scowl on his face.

  Jed gripped the ends of the towel he’d hooked around his neck. “What do you want now?”

  “Sorry to disturb you.” She peeked over his shoulder and spotted his weight equipment scattered over the living area. “When you’re so involved with building muscles, but my phone’s out of order. I need to make a call.”

  “There’s a phone booth on the corner.”

  “You’re such a sweet guy, Skimmerhorn. Why hasn’t some lucky woman snapped you up?”

  “I beat them off with a stick.”

  “Oh, I bet you do. Be a pal. It’s a local call.”

  For a minute, she thought he was going to shut the door in her face. Again. But he swung the door wider and stepped back. “Make it fast,” he told her, and stalked into the kitchen.

  To give her privacy? Dora wondered. Hardly. Her judgment proved correct when he came back in glugging Gatorade from the bottle. Dora juggled the phone, swore softly, then dropped the receiver back on the hook.

  “Yours is out, too.”

  “Not so surprising, since we’re in the same building.” He’d left his door open, as she had. From her apartment he could hear the strains of music. Christmas music this time. But it was something that sounded like a medieval choir, and intrigued rather than annoyed.

  Unfortunately, Dora had exactly the same effect on him.

  “You always dress like that to talk on the phone?”

  She was wearing a slithery jumpsuit in silver with strappy spiked heels. A chain of stars hung at each ear. “I have a couple of parties to drop in on. How about you? Are you spending Christmas Eve lifting weights?”

  “I don’t like parties.”

  “No?” She shrugged and the silver silk whispered invitingly at the movement. “I love them. The noise and the food and the gossip. Of course, I enjoy having conversations with other human beings, so that helps.”

  “Since I haven’t got any wassail handy to offer you, why don’t you run along?” He tossed the towel aside and picked up a barbell. “Make sure your date doesn’t hit the Christmas punch.”

  “I’m not going with anyone, and since I don’t want to have to worry about how often I dip into the Christmas punch, I was calling a cab.” She sat on the arm of the couch, frowning as she watched Jed lift his weights. She shouldn’t have felt sorry for him, she mused. He was the last person on earth that inspired sympathy. And yet she hated to imagine him spending the evening alone, with barbells. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  The long, silent look he sent her had her hurrying on.

  “It’s not a proposition, Skimmerhorn. Just a couple of parties where you hang out and make nice.”

  “I don’t make nice.”

  “I can see you’re rusty, but it is Christmas Eve. A time of fellowship. Good will among men. You might have heard of it.”

  “I heard rumors.”

  Dora waited a beat. “You forgot bah-humbug.”

  “Take off, Conroy.”

  “Well, that’s a step up from this morning. People will say we’re in love.” She sighed, rose. “Enjoy your sweat, Skimmerhorn, and the coal I’m sure Santa’s going to leave in your stocking.” She stopped, tilted her head. “What’s that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  “That.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Oh boy. Don’t tell me we do have mice.”

  He lowered the barbell and listened. “Someone down in the shop.”

  “What?”

  “In the shop,” he repeated. “The sound carries up through the vent. Don’t you know your own building, Conroy?”

  “I’m not over here that much, and not when the shop’s open.” She started to dismiss it, then froze. “But the shop’s not open.” Her voice had lowered to a stage whisper. “There’s no one down there.”

  “Somebody is.”

  “No.” Her hand slid up to rub at the nerves in her throat. “We closed hours ago. Terri left by three-thirty.”

  “So she came back.”

  “On Christmas Eve? She’s giving one of the parties I’m going to.” Dora’s heels clicked smartly on the floor as she crossed to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs, of course. Somebody must have cut the alarm and broken in. If they think they can gather up a sack of goodies from my shop, they’re in for a surprise.”

  He swore, ripely, then took her arm, pushed her into a chair. “Stay there.” He strode into the bedroom. Dora was still working out what name to call him when he walked back in, carrying a .38.

  Her eyes rounded. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a parasol. Stay in here. Lock the door.”

  “But—but—”

  “Stay.” Jed closed the door behind him. It was probably her assistant, he thought as he moved quickly, silently down the hall. Or her sister, who’d forgotten some package she’d hidden. Or the old man, looking for a bottle.

  But there was too much cop in him to take chances. And too much cop to dismiss the fact that the phones were out, and that the sounds coming through the vent had been stealthy, rather than careless.

  He reached the door that led down to the storeroom, eased it open. There was no generous spill of light from below.
He heard a sound—a drawer closing.

  Did she keep cash down there? he wondered, and swore under his breath. Probably. In some old-time canister or cookie jar.

  A movement behind him had him braced and pivoting. And swearing again. Dora was three steps back, her eyes swallowing her face, and a barbell hefted in one hand.

  Jed jerked a thumb. She shook her head. He curled his hand into a fist. She lifted her chin.

  “Idiot,” he muttered.

  “Same goes.”

  “Stay back, for Christ’s sake.”

  He started down, jerking still when the third step groaned under his foot. There was a rapid series of pops, and the wall inches away from his face spat plaster.

  Jed crouched, took the rest of the steps in a sprint, rolling when he hit bottom and coming up, weapon drawn in time to see the rear door slam shut. He heard Dora clattering down after him, shouted for her to stay put.

  He hit the door at a run, went through low. The cold air bit into his lungs like slivers of ice. But his blood was hot. The sound of running footsteps echoed off to the right. Ignoring Dora’s frantic demands to stop, he raced after them.

  It was instinct and half a lifetime of training. After he’d run about two blocks, he heard the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires. He knew he’d lost his quarry.

  He ran on for another half a block, on the off chance that he could catch a glimpse of the car. When he returned to Dora he found her standing in the center of the small gravel lot, shivering.

  “Get inside.”

  Her fear had already turned to anger. “Your face is bleeding,” she snapped.

  “Yeah?” He brushed at his cheek experimentally, and his fingers came away wet. “The plaster must have nipped it.” He looked down at the barbell she still carried. “And what were you going to do with that?”

  “When he grabbed you and wrestled you to the ground, I was going to hit him with it.” She felt some small relief when he tucked the gun into the back of his sweatpants. “Weren’t you supposed to call for backup or something?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  Yes, you are, she thought. She might not have had much experience with the preservers of law and order, but he’d had cop in his eyes, in his moves, even in his voice. Saying nothing, she followed him toward the rear entrance of the shop.

  “Ever heard of security systems?”

  “I have one. It’s supposed to clang like hell if anyone tries to get in.”

  He only grunted and, instead of going inside, hunted up boxes and wires. “Mickey Mouse,” Jed said in disgust after one quick look at the mechanism.

  She pouted a little, brushing her bangs aside. “The guy who sold it to me didn’t think so.”

  “The guy who sold it to you was probably laughing his ass off when he installed it. All you have to do is cut a couple wires.” He held out the frayed ends to demonstrate. “He took out the phone for good measure. He’d have seen by the lights that there was somebody upstairs.”

  “Then he was stupid, wasn’t he?” Her teeth were chattering. “I mean, he should have waited until we were out, or asleep, then he could have walked in and stolen me blind.”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry. Don’t you have a coat or something. Your nose is getting red.”

  Insulted, she rubbed it. “Silly of me not to have thought to grab my wrap. What was that noise right before you took your heroic flight downstairs? It sounded like balloons popping.”

  “Silencer.” Jed checked his pocket for loose change.

  “Silencer?” The word came out on a squeak as she grabbed his arm. “Like in gangster movies? He was shooting at you?”

  “I don’t think it was personal. Got a quarter on you? We’d better call this in.”

  Her hands slid away from his arm. The color the cold had slapped into her cheeks drained away. Jed watched her pupils dilate.

  “If you faint on me, I’m really going to get pissed off.” He grabbed her chin, gave her head a little shake. “It’s over now. He’s gone. Okay?”

  “Your face is bleeding,” she said dully.

  “You already told me that.”

  “He could have shot you.”

  “I could have been spending the night with an exotic dancer. Shows you how far ‘could have’ is from reality. How about that quarter?”

  “I don’t . . .” Automatically, she checked her pockets. “I have a phone in my van.”

  “Of course you do.” He strode over to her van, shaking his head when he found it unlocked.

  “There’s nothing in it,” she began, huffing. It pleased him to see her color was back.

  “Except a phone, a stereo tape deck.” He lifted a brow. “A Fuzzbuster.”

  “It was a gift.” She folded her arms.

  “Right.” He punched in Brent’s number and waited two rings.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  “Hi, Mary Pat.” He could hear children yelling in the background over a forceful recording of “Jingle Bells.” “I need to talk to Brent for a minute.”

  “Jed. You’re not calling to make some lame excuse about tomorrow? I swear I’ll come drag you out here myself.”

  “No, I’ll be there.”

  “Two o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ll set my watch. MP, is Brent around?”

  “Right here making his world-famous sausage stuffing. Hang on.”

  There was a clatter. “Jingle Bells” gave way to “Rudolf.” “Hey, Captain. Merry, merry.”

  “Sorry to bust in on your cooking, but we had a little problem over here.”

  “Jody, let go of that cat! What sort of problem?”

  “Break-in. The shop below the apartment.”

  “They get anything?”

  “I have to have her check.” He brushed wind-tossed hair from his face and watched Dora shiver. “Took a couple of pops at me. Used a silencer.”

  “Shit. You hit?”

  “No.” He checked his cheek again. The bleeding was nearly stopped. “He had a car close. From the sound of the engine, it wasn’t an economy.”

  “Sit tight, Kimo Sabe. I’ll call it in and be on my way.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and looked at Dora, who was dancing from foot to foot in a fruitless effort to keep warm. “Maybe you’d better break out that brandy again. Come on.” Because her hands were frozen, he took them, warming them automatically as they walked back to the shop. “You can take a look around, see if anything is missing.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch anything, right?”

  “You keep up with the cop shows.”

  “Can we close the door?”

  “Sure.” He took a brief glance at the jimmied lock, then closed out the cold. After he’d switched on the lights, he simply stood and absorbed.

  The storeroom was crammed. On one wall, boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling. Shelves held uncrated merchandise in no sort of order he could discern. There were two four-drawer file cabinets shoved into a corner. The top of each was piled with more boxes.

  There was a desk, which seemed to be an island of sanity. It held a phone, a lamp, a porcelain pitcher stuffed with pencils and pens, and a bust of Beethoven, which served as a paperweight.

  “Nothing’s gone,” she said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I know my inventory. You must have scared him off.” She walked over to the shelves and tapped what looked to Jed to be an old perfume or lotion bottle. “This Daum Nancy is worth well over a thousand. This Castelli plate nearly that much. And this.” She took down a box with a picture of a child’s toy on it.

  “Nando? A kid’s robot?”

  “Boxed, it’s worth easily two thousand to a collector.” She sniffed and replaced it.

  “And you just leave this stuff out?”

  “I have a security system. Had one,” she muttered. “I can hardly drag all my stock into a vault every night.”

  “What about cash?”

  “We deposit everything but ab
out a hundred in small bills and change every night.” She walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer. She took out an envelope, flipped through the bills inside. “Here it is. Like I said, you must have scared him off.” She stepped away and heard a paper rustle under her foot. Bending down, she scooped it up. “Charge ticket,” she told Jed. “Funny, this would have been filed.”

  “Let’s see.” He snatched it out of her hand. “Timothy O’Malley. Five-fifty and tax on December twenty-first. For saltcellars?”

  “His wife collects.”

  “Five hundred for salt shakers?”

  “Cellars,” Dora corrected, and snatched the receipt back. “Peasant.”

  “Bloodsucker.”

  Unamused, she turned to replace the receipt in its file. “Look at this!” she demanded. “These drawers are a mess.”

  He came to peer over her shoulder. “They’re not supposed to be?”

  “Of course not. I keep very careful records. The IRS terrifies me the same as they terrify all good Americans. And Lea spent a week purging and updating these files last month.”

  “So he was after something in your files. What do you keep in here?”

  “Nothing of value. Receipts, invoices, mailing lists, inventory printout, delivery sheets. Business stuff.” Baffled, she ran a hand through her hair. The stars dangling from her ears sparkled in the light. “There’s no reason for anyone to break in here for paperwork. A crazed IRS agent? A psychopathic accountant?”

  As soon as she’d said it, Dora bit her tongue.

  “What was that jerk’s name the other night?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Andrew would never do anything like this.”

  “Didn’t you say he was an accountant?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And you fired him?”

  “That’s hardly any reason to—”

  “Andrew what?”

  She blew out a long breath, fluttering her bangs. “I’ll give you his name, his address, his phone number, then you can go do cop things like harass him for his alibi on the night in question.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “If it looks like a cop, sounds like a cop”—she sniffed at him—“smells like a cop . . .”

  “How would you know what a cop smells like?”