Trophies (44 page)

"Not now, Lindsay," Caren said.

But I pulled the stakeout map from the front
of my shirt and handed it to her. I didn't give a damn whose
fingerprints decorated it because the police were never going to
see it. Lindsay stared. Even Sherlock glanced at it, while paused
at a light, then looked away to accelerate.

"That is not good news."

"I need to warn Prissy. And it's time to take
him down."

"You got a plan?"

"That's your job, boss."

current time

At the gallery, the others waited in the
Camaro while I ran inside. Prissy met me in the showroom. Today she
wore a strapless dress made from pieces of blue silk not quite sewn
together, topped with a discreet green satin jacket. Again in
flats, she didn't have to reach up to kiss me on the cheek.

"Sidnë's here," she whispered, "and I still
want you to meet her."

"Perhaps in a minute." I handed her the
stakeout map.

For a long silent moment she examined it, her
face still. Finally she looked up. Her usual posturing was gone.
"What does this mean?"

"If you had to double security for a few
days, would you require extra funds?"

She returned the map to me. I folded it and
tucked it away.

"My security's pretty tight already."

I didn't bother disabusing her of that
notion, even though we both knew how I'd previously used her
gallery as a breaking-and-entering playground. "Hire a few armed
guards, preferably with dogs. Keep them inside, random patrols.
I'll pay for the cleaning, too."

"Do you insist?"

I kissed her cheek. Dirty tactics, I
know.

"You insist." I felt her relax. "All right,
Charles, you have twisted my arm sufficiently with your gloved
hands — why are you wearing gloves in July? — despite my better
judgment, despite my allergy to dogs—"

"Oh, stow it, woman."

She had the grace to laugh. "Now come and
meet Sidnë."

"I'm sorry, I really don't have time right
now. The others are waiting for me in the car."

Prissy maintained her grip on my arm and
dropped her voice to a whisper. "She hasn't sold a single painting
and she's inconsolable. She's talking about changing her prices,
rearranging the panels, bringing in different ones, oh, whatever
she can think of. I keep telling her to be patient, breaking out in
this game takes time, but she—"

I leaned over to murmur in her ear. "How much
has Trés sold?"

She pulled back far enough to give me an
amused reproachful look, then leaned closer than I dared. "Not
quite half. Oh, yes, widen your eyes, young man. It's no
exaggeration. I meant to warn you yesterday when you were here, if
there's something you want, you'd better buy it now because there's
no guarantee it will still be available tomorrow or even this
afternoon. Just don't make eyes at any of those pastels; a
collector is taking serious notice there. Danny's sold one, as
well, but Sidnë—" She paused for breath.

We rounded the corner of the display holding
Trés' charcoal portraits and I caught a glimpse between panels of a
woman striding toward the door. Prissy called out, "Sidnë! Wait, I
want you to meet Charles. Jaime, don't you open that door."

The security guard obeyed Prissy, so at the
closed door Sidnë turned.

She wasn't pretty in the conventional sense:
her eyes were too large, her mouth too wide, and her body too bony.
Instead, she was stunning in an unconventional sense. She was
intense and fully wired; from her naturally shining fingernails to
her flat abdomen, it seemed high-voltage current danced just
beneath her light mocha tan, unencumbered by such trivialities as
makeup or hair spray. Her turquoise tank top matched the shade of
her huge eyes and showed off small taut breasts, perfectly aligned
without need of restraint, and her golden denim skirt matched her
shoulder-length frizzy hair. Flat leather sandals matched nothing,
not even her white canvas shoulder bag.

The effect was a zap of sexual electricity
and the male animal within me stirred. She was a woman to admire,
respect, throw atop a mattress, but not to coo over or cuddle —
completely at odds with her sultry artwork. It was impossible to
judge how much of her appearance was studied and deliberate; then,
surprised, I wondered the same about her painting.

Her clasp was firm but her hand was cold.
"Captain Ellandun, a pleasure to finally meet you." Her voice
wasn't warm and encouraging, either.

I paused at her slight emphasis on
finally.
There was an undertone here, something charged.
Somehow I'd offended her. Was it not meeting her on opening
night?

"Give us some room here, would you,
Prissy?"

"She's already gone." Sidnë slung her
carry-all back over her shoulder and folded her stick-thin arms
beneath her breasts. "I suppose we should settle this."

Or was it something that had happened, or not
happened, since then? I was tempted to match her body language, but
instead thrust my hands into my black fatigue pockets. They were an
unusually tight fit and again I was reminded of those kid-leather
gloves. "What is there for us to settle?"

"Are you sure you won't change your mind
about me?"

I just stared at her. I had no idea what she
was talking about.

"Why
are
you wearing gloves,
Captain?"

Finally I understood. "You've been
eavesdropping, haven't you? You listened to my conversation with
Prissy just now and you overheard us speaking the other day."

She shrugged, setting her breasts rocking. "I
have sensitive hearing. It's not my fault if your voice carries.
You said you were certain you wouldn't change your mind about me. I
could only assume you meant you'd honor your dear aunt's wishes and
never sponsor me again."

And now I was angry, at my own gullibility as
well as her brazenness. "You set me up. You cast suspicion on me to
deflect it away from yourself. Did you really see someone in Aunt
Edith's car that night or did you make it up so you would have
something to tell the police?"

She tossed her hair off her shoulder. The
view was just as enticing but this time I wasn't tempted. "There
was someone in her car. I didn't make it up."

"For your information, Ms. Righetti, you
completely misunderstood my conversation with Prissy. I encouraged
her to report that argument to the police, yes, but I said if it
damaged your career, I'd sponsor your shows for as long as it took
to recover."

She stood very still. Her eyes, already huge
and now dominated by black pupils, glittered in the fluorescent
lighting. "I don't believe you. And I prefer to be called
Sidnë."

"I don't care." I yanked off the gloves and
stuck them in my pocket.

She stared at my hands for a long moment.
"That's a really nice ring, you know."

And suddenly I'd had enough of her. "That's
what Aunt Edith had against you, wasn't it? The fact that you're so
studied, so pretentious, I mean. How many different concepts did
you try and discard before you decided on a sexy, feminine persona
for your art? Did you think it would sell better than whatever it
is you truly prefer to paint? That's an artistic lie, and that's
odd, considering how forthright your conversation is. Aunt Edith
was right, Sidnë: you're a snake. And your hidden meaning is dead
on: this is an ugly ring. I never will sponsor you again."

I suppose my anger radiated ahead of me to
the entry, for Jaime had the door open before I reached it. On the
stoop I glanced down at that spot and then back, past the line of
Trés' charcoals. Sidnë stood where I'd left her, near Danny
Vasquez's big signature piece, and her stunning face was twisted
and ugly. At that moment it seemed impossible someone so cold and
calculating could have painted her sensitive canvases.

That was what Prissy had wanted me to see in
Sidnë's big signature piece,
We Could Have Danced All Night.
I wondered how I could have missed it.

Yes, it was sensitive.

It was also two-faced.

But I wasn't going to think along those lines
and instead made my way back to the car. Dealing with one snake at
a time was enough.

seven years earlier

I must admit, I was not immediately thrilled
by my Army experience, either, particularly as my consistent and
repetitive cheek earned me a lot of push-ups. However, this was
rather different from Harvard and Cambridge; I couldn't simply make
myself
persona non grata
and expect to be sent home as a
naughty boy. Instead, to my delighted surprise, I found I developed
some fairly nifty pectorals and biceps once past the painful
stage.

The morning I looked in the mirror and first
noticed that, another fundamental magnetic pole shifted within me,
in the same manner as when I'd first met Aunt Edith. The delight I
felt reached beneath the veneer of sophistication I fostered as a
shield against judgmental relatives and Boston society; it actually
touched my soul. There was more to Charles Ellandun, I realized,
than being one of the family's black sheep. I was no longer stuck
in the role where I was typecast.

For the first time in years, I liked
myself.

After that morning, I engaged the Army, not
as an experience to be survived so I could extract some revenge
against Aunt Edith for even suggesting such an idiotic move, but
rather with a keen desire to learn who this new person might be.
The man I met was a natural marksman, a resolute fighter, and once
physically conditioned, graceful even in combat boots. I also found
that, when I smiled more, the guys in the barrack and the ladies in
town liked me better, as well, in uniform and very much out of
it.

Our training sergeant, after using me to
assist his demonstration of unarmed combat techniques, seemed
impressed when I made not a sound no matter how many times my
anatomy was thumped, and we developed if not a cordial then at
least a mutually respectful working relationship. With all my heart
I wanted his whistle as a trophy; when I considered being caught by
that bull-necked, competent man, digging through his personal gear,
I left it alone. It was perhaps not coincidental that my first
months in the Army concurred with my abandonment of trophy-hunting
as an actively-practiced hobby, and it was the sergeant's
recommendation that put me into Officer Candidate School and
ultimately the Intelligence Corps.

current time

Theresa was at the house when we returned. At
first, I was surprised — surely we wanted to keep an eye on
Glendower? — then I relaxed. Glendower wasn't going anywhere; he'd
proven that. And as I'd told Sherlock, it was time to make a plan
and take him down, and that was best accomplished with the presence
of as many members of the team as possible.

"What in the hell is that?" she asked me.

We were gathered in the dining room, where
Patricia and Lindsay had set out lunch. The stacks of copied
deposit slips and itemized bank statements still sprawled across
the bottom half of the table; Patricia's notes, the logs I had seen
Caren and Sherlock reading, and the maroon leather address book
were piled in the center. Theresa, however, pointed to my left
hand, where Uncle Hubert's ring glittered against the bottle of
Moosehead in my fist.

"It's a ring," I said. "The damn thing isn't
all that horrible, is it? You're the second person to comment on it
in the past hour and I'm becoming as paranoid as you."

She ignored my tirade and held out a hand.
"Let me see that."

Peace with Theresa was worth any price. I
yanked it off, set it in her hand, and returned to the lager.

I was unprepared for the intense way she
scrutinized that ring. She brought it close to her eyes, held it
back, turned it this way and that, peered at the inside of the band
and, for the longest time, at the huge blue rectangle that
shimmered and sparked at its heart.

"Someone get my kit," she finally said.

Lindsay rose. Sherlock gave her a look, she
sat back down, and he gave another one to Bonnie, who rose and left
the dining room. It was so like the way Aunt Edith used to manage
me that I blinked. Bonnie trotted up the stairs, then a bedroom
door opened on the second floor.

"Theresa, what on earth is wrong? It's just a
bit of jewelry we found in my aunt's wardrobe upstairs, along with
a bunch of old shoes and clothing and stuff. It's nothing
special."

She stared at me and I was forcefully
reminded of Sidnë's huge blue eyes, dominated by black pupils,
staring at me in shock. My pulse picked up speed, a thrumming in my
ears. I tried to remind myself that Theresa was certifiable. This
time it didn't work.

"What makes you think that?" she asked.

I laughed. "You're joking, right? I mean,
look at the size of that thing. If it's something special, then it
must be—"

"Exactly." She took the salesman's case from
Bonnie. I hadn't even heard her return. "It must be priceless—"

—the Suburban's windshield was starred.
Another big hole was smashed into its radiator grille, which no
longer resembled hungry teeth but a screaming mouth. But no water
spewed. It was moving again. In reverse. It recoiled across the
parking lot like a wounded animal retracting into its den. Between
us lay Sherlock, stretched on the concrete, unmoving. The skid
marks stopped—

"You there, Robbie?"

Sherlock's voice intruded on my waking
nightmare. The bottle of Moosehead in my hand was cold, and wet,
and the label was peeling at one corner where I'd fussed with it. I
hoped the sensation would anchor me to reality, and pushed my plate
aside.

"Theresa, tell me you're wrong."

She held a loupe in one hand, another
odd-looking small device that I didn't recognize was on the table
nearby, her case covered a stack of bank statements, and her entire
attention was riveted to that big blue stone.