The Florentine Deception (7 page)

Hillary tossed her shoulder-length brown hair back seductively, then said in a deadpan voice, “I don't think so.”

“Brutal.” I shook my head. “So what's the latest?”

“Oh, you'll see soon enough.” She rolled her eyes.

A few minutes later, Steven made his entrance.

“You look like a postman,” I quipped. Steven was dressed in a beige button-up shirt and a pair of matching shorts, not unlike a UPS deliveryman.

“I'm a home inspector, foolish flunky. I found them at the Goodwill store. Not bad for twenty bucks, right? Of course, I expect my cut of the treasure to be increased quadratically.”

I nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“Of course, every inspector needs props.” He held out a clipboard with a stack of official-looking forms. I flipped through them.

“Where'd you get these?” They looked like official home inspection forms to me.

“I scanned in a copy of my parents' home inspection report and cleaned it up in Photoshop. Its five years old, but it'll pass. And …”

“There's more?”

He pulled out his wallet and handed me a business card.

“Unbelievable.”

“I can't take credit for these. Hillary's the artistic one.” She curtsied, as if on cue.

“Where did you find her, Steven? Hill, got any sisters?”

Hillary gave my shoulder a squeeze and beamed with pride. Five years ago, she'd stumbled on the two of us in the Boelter basement mid-excavation, and after a grueling Q&A session, threatened to spill the beans if we didn't add her to the roster. Steven fell in love instantly and three weeks later, the two were engaged.

“So when's the inspection?” asked Steven.

“Don't get your shorts bunched up just yet. I still haven't heard from the agent.” I continued, “Hill, I was fearing you'd put the kibosh on my little adventure.”

“We're both skeptical,” she replied, “but you're the one putting up the venture capital, so what the hell.”

What a woman.

“Do you really think you'll find the diamond?” she said.

“I'm hoping we'll have a better idea once your hubby canvasses the place.”

After dinner, we moved to the family room for some muscat and tug-of-war with Pippin. Mid-tug, my cell phone vibrated.

“One sec Pip.” I dropped the rope.

“Hello.” It was Regina. Pippin had a different idea and began playing tug-of-war with my shorts.

“Hi Regina.”

“Alex, I think you're going to be very happy. The seller's reduced his price by one hundred thousand. He's countering for two-point-six million, I faxed the counter-offer to the number you gave me.”

I cupped my hands over the phone. “They're countering for two-point-six.” Then I went back to Regina. “Thanks Regina. Let me think about it and call you back tomorrow morning.”

“No problem Alex.”

Steven and Hillary gave me a “So?” look.

“It's a fair price.” I faux-stroked my chin. “I think I'll accept.”

“So what's the game plan?” inquired Hillary.

“Steven's going to case every inch of that house for diamond nooks—the attic, closets, and especially that basement. Who knows, maybe you'll find a hidden safe.” I gave him the “you never know” look. “If we don't find anything interesting, Mr. Inspector, we go with the termite-eaten-stairs excuse and I withdraw the offer. If you find something, I buy a new house and hire a safecracker.”

“You're really going to buy if he finds something? What if it turns out you buy, and there's nothing in this hypothetical safe of yours?”

“Then I've got a beautiful new house. But this isn't about the money—that diamond isn't going to make any difference to my finances. Neither will the house. This is about adventure.”
About breaking out of the damn rut I'm in.

Hillary looked skeptically at Steven, who shrugged, a Machiavellian grin on his face.

She said, “All I know is, this time I'm not bailing either of you out of jail.”

That night I had trouble sleeping. Whether it was the heat, anticipation of buying a new home, finding a lost treasure, or conning Regina into a fake inspection, I didn't know, but I woke at 4:45 a.m. and tossed for two hours.

By 7:45, I couldn't wait any longer, so I called Regina and told her I'd like to accept the counteroffer. Later that morning, I stopped by her Coldwell Banker office to sign the offer paperwork and drop off the deposit.

“Regina, I'd like to have someone inspect the house as soon as possible. I'm currently considering purchasing another home and if there are any problems with this one, I'd like to move quickly on the other.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

“I'm concerned about the basement stairway.” And then my out: “I hope that's not termite damage. That would be a deal-breaker for me.”

“Alex, it's nothing. The seller has offered to fix it before the close of escrow. But if it doesn't work out, do you need an agent to help with the other house?”

Sleazy agent. “No, I'm covered.”

“So when would you like to have the inspection?”

“If possible, tomorrow?”

“Let me check my iPhone…. No problem. I can be there any time between eight and noon.”

“It's a deal. I'll call the inspector and see you at eight.”

Chapter 11

Richard Lister's House—Malibu, CA

Five months earlier

“Did you find anything on the computer?” the brawny Russian asked.

“
Niet
. None of the forensics tools found a thing.”

“
Der'mo!
Where the fuck did you hide it, Richard?” The big Russian grabbed Lister by the collar, jerked him forward, and then slammed him hard into the chair.

Lister stared stoically up at the two men from his kitchen table. “I told you, I have no idea what you're talking about,” he responded calmly. “I deal in antiquities.”

“That's bullshit,” said the first man. “That's not what Viktor had to say.”

“Viktor?” A tiny bead of sweat coalesced on Lister's forehead, just below the hairline.

“Viktor would be so disappointed, Richard. He certainly remembers you, or rather your alter ego, Arkady. At least after we helped refresh his memory.” A pause. “And we know you've been trying to sell it, Richard. So don't bullshit us.”

“Florentine? Is that what you called it?” asked Lister. He ruminated momentarily. “I haven't purchased any Italian artifacts in years.”

The second man stepped in to slap Lister, but had his hand arrested.

“
Niet
. Not yet,” admonished the first.

“No more bullshit, Richard. We need you to return the Florentine and tell us who else knows about it.”

“Listen, I wish I knew what you were talking about. But I don't.” Lister hesitated, a nauseous feeling overtaking him. He steeled himself. “Who do you work for? Yuri? You work for Yuri, don't you?” He shook his head. “Tell Yuri that I don't have this Florentine thing he's looking for. And tell him … tell him that next time he wants to accuse me of stealing his antiquities, he should be man enough to do so himself. This is an insult.”

Lister tried to stand up. The burly man instantly stopped him.

“I'm going to ask you nicely once more,” said the man. “Where is the Florentine?”

Lister shook his head. “I told you, I don't know what you're talking about. But look, whatever Yuri's paying you, I'll double it. Two year's worth of salary to forget you found me.” He hesitated as a wave of nausea passed. “Just tell Yuri you didn't find me. I don't have this Florentine thing anyway.”

“You're a poor bull-shitter, Richard,” said the first. Then, to the other man, he said, “Get the tools.”

The second man nodded and left the kitchen.

“Why don't you just give us what we want and avoid the pain and suffering?” said the man.

Avoid the suffering. Right. You're going to kill me either way, you fucking Slav bastard
. Lister's mind raced. If he could just get to his gun he might have a chance.

“Okay, okay, I'll give it to you.”

The man shot a distrustful look at Lister.

Lister pointed upstairs, noticing for the first time a painful tightness in his right arm. He winced.

“It's in a floor safe in my bedroom,” he continued through the discomfort, “I'll go get it.”

The man looked at him warily, then took a step back, retrieving a steel-gray automatic pistol from inside his jacket. Lister rose unsteadily to his feet, and, receiving a nod from the man, began walking down the hall and up the stairs, stopping every few steps to catch his breath.

What's wrong with me?
he wondered through increasing brain fog.
Something is not right
.

Lister eased his master bedroom door open and plodded over to his bedside table. Placing one hand on the nightstand and the other on the bed, he lowered unsteadily to his knees. The shotgun was just inches from his knee, under the bed.

“Nothing funny,” said the man from the doorway.

It was now or never. Lister tried to thrust his hand toward the gun, but his arm refused to obey as a seizing pain gripped his chest. And with a sudden, final certitude he knew his life was over.

Richard Lister slumped backward to the floor, dead.

Chapter 12

Latigo Canyon House—Malibu, CA

Present Day

Regina was lost in a copy of
Modern Bride
and drinking a soy latte in her Jag when I arrived. Steven was nowhere to be seen. It was 8:05 a.m. So much for the punctual engineer.

“Getting married?”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “Hi Alex. No, my daughter's getting married next spring. I'm playing wedding coordinator.”

Ms. Bubblegum! “Was that nice girl watching the house the other day your daughter?”

“That's her.”

“That's one lucky guy.” I nearly choked on my own sarcasm.

“Yes, he is lucky. So when are you expecting the inspector?” she raised her hand and eyed her long nails with just a hint, ever so slight, of annoyance.

“It won't be long,” I prognosticated, and just a few seconds later I heard a truck pushing up the driveway. Upon Steven's arrival, Regina threw the
Modern Bride
on the passenger seat, emerged from the Jag, and proceeded to unlock the front door.

Steven burst from the pickup with the overzealousness of a second-rate actor who'd just landed his first role at a Renaissance fair. Clad in his brown UPS ensemble, a handyman utility belt, and a hideous fake moustache, it took my entire self-control to prevent a fit of hysterical laughter. Steven bounced up to Regina, issued a cheery “Good morning ma'am,” and extended a business card. “I'm Steven Crouch of Crouch Home Inspections.”

“Good morning,” Regina replied and carelessly shoved the business card into her purse.

She pushed the front door open, and turning her back on the two of us, walked into the house. “Mr. Crouch, please feel free to start as soon as possible. I hope you don't mind, but I've been asked by the seller to oversee the inspection.” She didn't sound too enthusiastic.

“That shouldn't be a problem ma'am.” I gave Steven a finger-slashing-the-throat gesture and shook my head. Steven responded with a dismissive wave of the hand, and followed Regina in.

“Ma'am, I have a few questions. Does this house have a basement or an attic?”

“Both.”

Steven scratched a few marks on his form. “Thanks. Can you please show me where I can access the attic?”

“I have no idea.”

“No problem ma'am. How about the basement.”

“That's over here.” She walked over to the recessed door and pointed. “But you won't be able to go down there. There's some temporary damage to the stairs and it's too dangerous.”

“Thanks ma'am, it shouldn't be a problem. I'm insured.”

She seemed unconvinced.

“Does the house have any hidden features that I should know about?”

“Hidden features?” she asked, baffled.

“A panic room, wall safes, secret passages—these all need to be inspected.”

“No. I'm not aware of any secret passages,” she rolled her eyes, “or panic rooms in the house.”

“Or wall safes?”

I gave Steven a dirty look.

“Or wall safes. No wall safes. The seller would have disclosed it.”

Steven then proceeded to the bathroom off the entry hall with the two of us in tow. Upon arriving, Regina leaned against the wall and pulled out an emery board.

Steven advanced to the toilet. “These models are sometimes problematic,” he offered authoritatively to no one in particular, and removed the top of the tank.

With his face just inches above the open tank, Steven began a series of flushes. After each flush, Steven placed a tick on his inspection form, for what purpose, I had no idea.

“Ma'am, does the house have a septic system or a sewer line?”

“It's a septic system. The tank was replaced two years ago.”

Steven placed his ear against the tank and listened, motionless, for what seemed like two minutes, before Regina interrupted: “I'm sorry, what exactly are you doing?”

“Trying to detect septic gas leaks, ma'am. This shouldn't take more than ten or fifteen more minutes.”

Regina issued an audible sigh and finally, exhausted of her patience, abandoned the room after seven farcical minutes of intimacy between Steven and the toilet tank. “I'll be out in my car. I have some calls to make.”

“Happy?” asked Steven, a huge grin radiating from beneath his bristly brown moustache.

“Very. Let's get down to business.”

Steven stepped out of the bathroom and after surreptitiously checking for Regina, gave me a nod.