Die in Plain Sight (13 page)

Savoy Hotel

Thursday morning

L
acey leaned against the expensive rare-wood counter of the hotel and waited for the manager to get around to her. She’d been waiting for more than twenty minutes, watching people hurrying through the lobby with armloads of stuff destined for one of the hotel’s seventy-nine rooms. Suites, actually. When accommodations started at four hundred dollars a night and went up fast, patrons expected enough room to spread out.

Scents from the restaurant adjoining the hotel drifted through the lobby—or perhaps the delectable odors were pushed by fans through the building’s ventilation system to lure more patrons. The pricey eatery had unofficially opened two weeks ago, but the media opening wouldn’t be until this Saturday.

“Ms. Marsh?” The concierge paused and said more loudly, “Ms. Marsh?”

Lacey jumped and reminded herself that she was Ms. Marsh. She
turned toward the sleek Eurasian woman who was helping out behind the registration desk. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.”

The woman smiled. “It is a beautiful place to dream, is it not?”

Lacey sighed and wondered why some women got all the elegance and she got all the klutz. Her own blouse and worn fleece jacket were clean, if paint-stained, but only a connoisseur of garage-sale couture would approve of her jeans. The concierge’s accent and clothing were indelibly French, her looks riveting, and she carried herself like the unusual beauty she was.

“Mr. Goodman is on his way,” the concierge said. “Perhaps you would like some tea or coffee while you wait?”

“Mr. Goodman? Is he your manager?”

“No, but he is the one responsible for the security of the art for the auction. Our manager would like to help you with your request, but cannot, as it is Mr. Goodman’s responsibility. He will be only a few moments. May I show you to the cafe? It would please the hotel to offer you a complimentary breakfast.”

Lacey looked at her oversized wristwatch. The face of a vivid green
Tyrannosaurus rex
leered back at her. She thought the fluorescent orange teeth were a particularly nice touch, even if it made the dark hands of the clock look like roving tooth decay—and for fifty cents, who could resist? It kept hours and minutes just like the five-thousand-dollar models.

“I’m really slammed for time,” Lacey said. “I had no idea there would be any problem picking up
my
paintings. Surely someone here has a key to the storage room?”

“I am very sorry, Ms. Marsh.” The concierge smiled and made a graceful gesture with her hands. “I have not the authority, especially as you have not the identification.”

“I have a receipt signed by Mr. Goodman.”

“Yes, but without personal identification…” She spread her hands. “It is difficult, you understand?”

Lacey smiled without warmth. The concierge was polite, but it was a definite
gotcha
. Lacey had plenty of ID, and none of it was in the name of Ms. January Marsh.

“Coffee would be lovely,” Lacey said through her teeth.

No sooner had she been seated in the luxurious seventies retro cafe,
with blandly psychedelic tableware, than Mr. Goodman came hurrying forward, looking worried.

“Ms. Marsh, this is most distressing,” he said, sitting down at her booth before she could stand up. “Is it something we’ve done? Are you unhappy with the way we’ve handled your paintings?”

Lacey tried not to sigh. “Not at all. I’ve simply decided to withdraw them from the function.”

“But why?”

“Does it matter? The paintings are mine and I’ll be taking them with me when I leave.”

“Oh, dear. La Susa will be terribly upset. She was so enthusiastic.”

Lacey simply lifted her left eyebrow and said nothing.

“Have you talked with La Susa about this?” Mr. Goodman asked.

“No.”

A server brought coffee and poured it into rainbow-hued oversized cups. Lacey ignored hers.

“Perhaps if you would talk with her,” Goodman said, “she could reassure you that—”

“No,” Lacey interrupted, forcing a smile. She’d learned in dealing with her mother that a polite, gentle stance simply didn’t get the job done. You have to know what you want and stick to it. “I understand that you’re the only one who can open the room where the paintings are.”

“Ah, er…” He looked as uncomfortable as he sounded.

Lacey’s smile thinned. “I see. Some people enjoy playing Button, Button, Who Has the Button, but I’m too old for that game. Do you have the key with you?”

Quietly Goodman cursed the Forrests for putting him in this unhappy position. On the other hand, Ms. Marsh would come and go from his life like the wind. The Forrests were forever.

“Mr. Savoy Forrest will be here soon,” Goodman said.

“How nice. The key, Mr. Goodman.” Lacey wasn’t smiling any longer. She was getting angry—and frightened.

Always pushing. Always have to do it your own way.

I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s too late for me to change
.

Now she was trying to do the right thing and that wasn’t working, either. It should have been so easy, damn it. The paintings were hers.

All your stubbornness won’t change the fact that my father was a forger. Now the whole world will know
.

“The key,” she repeated tightly to Mr. Goodman. “I’m running late as it is.”

“It won’t be but a minute.”

Anxiety streaked through Lacey. She didn’t want to believe that she was going to be the cause of her father’s career going in the toilet.

But you’ve always wanted to be a judge.

You don’t always get what you want
.

“Mr. Goodman,” she said distinctly, “are you telling me that until a third and wholly irrelevant party arrives, I can’t have access to my own paintings, which I left in your care?”

Goodman smoothed the one long strand of hair that he had combed from his right ear to his left in a vain attempt to cover his balding head. “Mr. Forrest has expressed great interest in the paintings.”

Lacey bit back on the rising turmoil of her emotions. That was another thing she had learned when arguing with her mother: the person who lost her temper first lost the argument as well. That was one of the two reasons she hadn’t gone over the table, put her face in Goodman’s, and started yelling about lawyers, police, and newspapers.

The second reason was that she didn’t want the cat any further out of the bag than it already was.

“I’m aware of Mr. Forrest’s interest in my paintings,” Lacey said evenly, “just as he is aware of my
dis
interest in selling the paintings to him. Am I to understand that somehow he is in a position to prevent me from reclaiming my paintings?”

“Er, no, not at all. It’s just that—” Goodman broke off and pushed to his feet with a relieved smile. “Mr. Forrest, how nice of you to join us on such short notice.”

“I’m always ready to rush around to accommodate the arts,” Savoy said. “Fortunately, my father had a set of spare hotel keys. I brought them immediately when you told me you were having a problem.”

“Keys?” Goodman said blankly. “Oh, yes. The desk said there was a problem. They didn’t say what it was.”

Savoy smiled and held out his hand to the casually dressed young woman whose eyes snapped with temper and intelligence. “Ms. Marsh,
I presume? Savoy Forrest. Sorry to keep you waiting. Things are a little crazy when you’re running late on a grand opening.”

Ingrained good manners had Lacey accepting the handshake even though she wanted nothing to do with Mr. Savoy Forrest.

“How do you do,” she said formally, letting go of his hand almost in the same instant she touched it. “Mr. Goodman was trying to explain to me why I can’t take my paintings. He wasn’t very effective. Perhaps you can do better?”

Savoy smiled even as he sized up Ms. Marsh. Like Bliss, she had a temper. Unlike Bliss, she could keep it on a tight rein. Also unlike Bliss, Ms. Marsh was either not interested in fashion or not able to afford it. Considering the fact that she was supposedly an artist and had the paint-stained jeans to prove it, he rather guessed that expensive clothing wasn’t high on her personal must-have list.

“Mr. Goodman was doing me a favor,” Savoy said. “So I did him a favor and came here.”

Lacey didn’t smile. “I figured that out all by myself. Now I would like someone to do me the
courtesy
of no longer wasting my time. I came here for my paintings. Whichever of you gentlemen has the key to the storeroom, please put it to use. I’m sure both of you have other places to be. I know that I do.”

“The Savoy Museum is willing to offer you fifty thousand dollars for one of those paintings,” Savoy said, and watched the young woman’s mouth drop open.

“Holy—er, fifty thousand for an unsigned painting by an unknown artist?” Lacey asked in disbelief.

Savoy shrugged. “As you’re very well aware, the painting may or may not be by an unknown artist. If it’s a Lewis Marten, the museum will have made a wise investment. If it’s not, we will still have a fine example of California plein air painting to add to the museum’s collection. Either way, you will have fifty thousand dollars.”

Sweet God, no wonder Grandpa Rainbow sold the occasional painting when cash got scarce. And if he didn’t sign them, who could prove fraud on his part?

“That’s very generous of you,” Lacey said. “I’ll think about it. While I do, I want the paintings in my possession.” She gave him a double
row of teeth. “Considering their surprising value, I’m sure you understand.”

Savoy almost smiled himself. She’d neatly turned his argument back on him and hadn’t promised to sell a single canvas, much less the one that would fit best into his father’s collection. If the old man wasn’t so hard to buy gifts for, Savoy would have been tempted to throw up his hands. But his father was difficult and the son would go a long way to get the occasional pat on the head. Savoy didn’t like that about himself, but he hadn’t been able to change it any more than Bliss had. Both of them still craved their father’s approval on a level too deep to deny or ignore.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Savoy said with equal amounts of approval and irritation. “Seventy-five thousand.”

Lacey looked at his hard eyes and soft smile and wondered how on earth she was going to get out of this without blowing her father’s career straight to hell.

“I’ll think about that, too.” She looked at her watch, then at Goodman. “Now I really have to go.”

Goodman looked at Savoy, who nodded.

As soon as Lacey was out of sight, Savoy went to the plainclothes deputy who had been hanging around the lobby of the hotel just in case someone wanted to see the paintings.

“Did you get photos of her off the security cameras?” Savoy asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then follow her wherever she goes, show the pictures around when she stops, and find out who Ms. Marsh really is.”

Savoy Civic Center

10:30
A.M.
Thursday

R
ory Turner picked up the phone on the second ring. It was his private phone line, the one that didn’t run through his assistant’s desk. The caller ID came back as Moreno County Sheriff’s Department.

“Yeah?” Rory said.

“Deputy Glendower, sir, reporting as requested.”

“Go on.”

“No young woman met the subject, Susa Donovan, at Savoy Hotel. Before she went painting at the Savoy ranch, subject’s escort drove to a shop in Newport Beach called Lost Treasures Found, just off Pacific Coast Highway in the—”

“Put it in the report unless you found Ms. Marsh there.”

“No young woman came out of the shop with the escort, Ian Lapstrake. He was carrying something that looked like a movie poster from an old John Wayne flick. He handled it like it was valuable.”

Rory grunted. If the Forrests started collecting movie posters, he’d care. Until then, he didn’t. “Keep talking.”

“Subject Donovan was then driven to the Savoy ranch, and from there over various ranch roads. At the moment, we’re having an early lunch, since we all were up before dawn.”

“Where are you eating? Last time I checked, there weren’t any fast-food joints on ranch land.”

“Ms. Donovan’s escort was aware of us. He parked and introduced himself. On their second stop they bought enough food for four.”

Rory laughed and silently saluted Susa Donovan’s style. “How long did it take Lapstrake to catch on?”

“Less than two miles on PCH.” Glendower’s voice was rueful. “We didn’t think we were working with a pro or we would have approached the subject in a different manner.”

“No problem. He called me to double-check that you really were deputies instead of wise guys with costume badges. I told him you were real.” Rory hesitated as a thought struck him. “How’s the plainclothes car holding up? Some of those ranch roads are rough.”

“Lapstrake told us we’d need four-wheel drive, so we called ahead. A Savoy ranch vehicle was waiting for us at the south gate.”

“What you’re saying is that Lapstrake’s not trying to lose you or make life hard on you.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

The phone beeped; someone else was trying to call Rory.

“Anything else?” Rory asked.

“No, sir.”

“Keep me posted.”

Before Glendower could answer, Rory broke the connection, picked up the incoming call, and said simply, “Turner.”

“Deputy Mendoza, sir.”

Rory flipped through his mental file and came up with the right man. “You’re on the Savoy Hotel assignment.”

“Yes, sir. At approximately nine-thirty this morning, a young woman calling herself Ms. Marsh asked to have three paintings returned to her.”

Rory’s hand tightened around the phone. “What?”

“She had the correct receipt but no personal identification, so the
concierge stalled as instructed. Mr. Goodman came to the hotel and identified the subject as Ms. Marsh.”

Rory thought of all the ways Ward could make his life miserable if the paintings vanished. “Did she take the paintings?”

“Not right away. Savoy Forrest came to the hotel. He told me to print photos of Marsh off the security cameras, then went and talked with Goodman and Marsh. By the time Marsh got the paintings and left, I had the photos and was in place to follow her.”

“Good.”

“She went to a shop a few blocks off PCH in Newport Beach, a place called Lost Treasures Found.”

Rory made a satisfied sound. When the same place showed up twice in one day, a cop could be pretty sure he had his subject’s home ground.

“She parked in back, took the paintings inside, and hasn’t been out since,” Mendoza continued. “I showed the pictures of her around the shops on either side of her business. Some woman wearing crystals and turquoise robes assured me it was Lacey Quinn, a part owner of Lost Treasures Found. Ditto the counterman at the deli down the street. Lacey Quinn comes in there all the time for bagels or sandwiches. Very positive ID.”

“Did you run that name through our computers?”

“Of course, sir. No wants. No warrants. Valid driver, vehicle, and business license. Current voter registration. All the outward signs of a solid, tax-paying citizen.”

“Home address?”

“She lives in an apartment above the shop. Should I continue surveillance?”

Rory thought quickly. Lacey Quinn had the paintings and was at her place of work, which was also her home. There was nothing to suggest that she was going to grab the paintings and run. Even if she did, she wasn’t a rootless street person who would be hard to find.

“Go back into the computer and get all the information you can on her and her business partner,” Rory said. “Find out if she has any family or other close friends. If she bolts, we want to know where to start looking.”