Take Me for a Ride Page 6

  McDougal reminded himself that the St. George piece was his priority, but in order to track the necklace, he had to get hot on the trail of Natalie’s kooky Nonnie, and what better place to start than her own home?

  He headed down to the street and got a cab to take him to a well-known rental-car agency, where he picked up an SUV and was headed out of the city on FDR Drive, taking exit 17 for the Triboro Bridge within twenty minutes. En route, he placed a call to ARTemis in Miami to give an update on his activities.

  “Ahtemis, may I help you?” sang Sheila Kofsky in her nasal Brooklyn accent. “Oh, it’s you, 007. Callin’ to tell me your thingy finally turned black and fell off?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Moneypenny,” he said dryly, “but my thingy is hale and hearty.”

  Sheila was the company’s receptionist/office manager and mistress of disguise. She ruled over the wardrobe room with an iron fist, not to mention her inch-long acrylic talons. She had a cloud of improbably blond hair that crowned a face like a white raisin, and she always wore somewhat astonishing outfits. Her signature was her vast collection of reading glasses, which she customized to match her ensembles.

  McDougal dropped his voice an octave and assumed a British accent. “So, tell Bond what you’re wearing today, my lovely.”

  “Eat your heart out. You’re missing out on my violet spandex dress, olive platform peep-toes and the olive readers with the tiny bunches of grapes attached.”

  Ye gods. “I’m deeply shaken, if not stirred.”

  “What d’ya want, you rodent?”

  “Moneypenny never called 007 a rodent,” he protested.

  “Moneypenny was a ditz. I got another line ringing, so what d’ya want?”

  “I’m chasing the St. George piece into Connecticut now. The target says it’s with her grandmother, but Granny’s taken a hike. I’ll check in with you later on further developments.”

  “Fine. Now, get lost.”

  “Love you, too, you old bag.” He hung up and shook his head. Without Sheila, life at ARTemis would run way too smoothly. He wasn’t sure why she’d been hired, but clearly Kelso, the silent majority owner of the company, liked having her around. It suited his warped sense of humor, McDougal figured.

  Nobody had ever seen Kelso, but he pulled all of their strings from the ether as it suited him. He played practical jokes, fed information, and occasionally interfered in cases. McDougal had tried like hell to uncover his identity but had failed, just like the other agents. Kelso found their attempts endlessly amusing.

  But McDougal found little to smile about in his current situation. He had a hunch that Natalie’s boss, Luc Ricard, had been working with black-market smugglers—nasty ones.

  The fact that he’d told her not to call the police about his beating only confirmed that instinct. Nothing about the black market surprised McDougal, but it was a vast network with many sets and subsets and spinoffs of subsets.

  Who were these particular people who’d had the necklace? Where had they gotten it? Were they Italians? Russians? Japanese? Arabs? Did they have a motive besides money? How far were they willing to go in order to get “their” stolen property back? The fact that they’d already resorted to violence was not a good sign.

  Unfortunately the black market for art and antiquities had heated up, partially inspired by the utterly insane prices that objects fetched in today’s aboveboard market. When a frankly repulsive Lucien Freud painting brought in $33 million at auction—the most ever paid for a work by a living artist—one could hardly blame criminals for slavering over a piece of the profits pie.

  And that price paled in comparison to the $83 million paid by a Japanese conglomerate for van Gogh’s Irises. Or the $103 million shelled out for a Picasso recently.

  Hell, there were times when McDougal himself was tempted to put his rather unusual skill set to use in crime, but most of his tendencies toward dishonesty had been thrashed out of him at an early age, between his three brothers, his four sisters, and the priests at St. Joseph’s.

  It was from his siblings that he’d learned to be fast, silent, and some would say stoic, since his brothers had loved to hold the small-for-his-age Eric down and tickle him—or, worse, fart on him—and his sisters had loved to hold him down and dress him up in girls’ clothes. Thank God he’d grown like a weed during puberty.

  McDougal, now on the Bruckner, headed north on 95 and exited at Atlantic Street. Then, guided by his GPS, he took a few turns that led him to Leonard Street and the picturesque little neighborhood of Springdale. Soon he was easing the rented SUV to a stop outside an unpretentious little Cape Cod.

  Natalie came quickly out the screen porch door, her face drawn, anxious, and pinched with cold. The girl he’d left the bar with had disappeared. Today she wore slim brown corduroys and brown leather boots with an oversize, artsy sweater in a purple, brown, and black abstract pattern.

  She’d styled her dark hair in an unruly pile on top of her head. The same black woolen scarf from yesterday kept her neck warm, but she wore no coat. Maybe it was still in the neighbor’s house.

  Both her embarrassment of this morning and the playful sexuality of the night before had vanished. Natalie was simply tense and miserable.

  He swung out of the car and approached her. “Hi.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. She made no move to hug or kiss him, but then, he didn’t expect her to, especially under the circumstances.

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry; we’ll find her.”

  “Where can she be?” she fretted. “Her car is gone.”

  He drew his brows together. “She has a car? Why would a woman who’s legally blind have a car?”

  “She wouldn’t let us sell it. I think she’s hung on to it with the idea of giving it to me one day, not that I can afford to garage it. I tried to tell her that.”

  “Maybe a neighbor took her to the doctor, or out to run an errand?”

  Natalie shook her head. “I’ve checked with three different neighbors, now. Mrs. Kolchek is home, and her daughter is in school. The Ormonds are in southern Spain. And nobody’s home at Colonel Blakely’s.”

  “You sure the Kolchek girl is in school?” asked McDougal skeptically.

  “Pretty sure. She’s a good kid, not the type to play hooky.”

  “Did her mother see or hear any activity at your grandmother’s house?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “All right.” He scanned the exterior of the house, looking for any signs of a break-in. No screens off. No footprints in the snow where they shouldn’t be. “Let’s go in. You have a key?”

  “Yes, but since I didn’t plan to come here today, it’s in my apartment in the city.”

  He nodded, and she followed him up the concrete steps and into the sheltered porch area. “Is there an alarm?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He made a disapproving noise and removed the Glock nine-millimeter from the holster at the small of his back. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without her noticing. Then he whipped out a small zippered case. Inside were his company-issued lock picks.

  Natalie eyed them suspiciously.

  “I only have these on me to demonstrate to customers how easy it is to break in,” he told her. Within seconds, he had the door unlocked. “Wanna purchase a state-of-the-art security system?”

  She didn’t look entirely snowed but swallowed and gave him a weak smile. Evidently, fear for her grandmother trumped concern that he might not be entirely aboveboard.

  “Why don’t you let me go in first,” he suggested. Without a word, she stood aside to let him enter. She looked as if she dreaded what they might find inside. “It’s gonna be fine,” he said. “There’s a simple explanation for all of this, okay?”

  She swallowed and nodded, tugging at the scarf around her throat as if it were cutting off her air supply.

  He entered the house and she followed close behind. Hi
s first impression was of old hardwood floors and a lot of faded chintz. Musty fabric, ancient plaster, a touch of mildew behind the Pine-Sol. The smell of years of cooking blended with lemon oil.

  A silk flower arrangement gathered dust, as did a circa 1978 TV built inside a faux-wood cabinet with a speaker. On top of the TV was a menorah. Squatting in the corner was an old phonograph that played LPs, for chrissakes. And a shelf displayed vinyl albums, all classical.

  “Nonnie!”

  No answer.

  Natalie tried again. “Nonnie! Can you hear me?”

  Evidently not.

  The layout of the place was simple, with the kitchen, dining room, and small living area on the ground floor. Dark wood stairs led to the second story. On the wall at the foot of the staircase were five Russian Orthodox icons, four smaller ones arranged around a larger one of St. George and the dragon. McDougal had no idea who the other saints were, but they appeared to like gold and wore lots of eyeliner.

  Everything so far was neat and orderly, without so much as a breakfast dish left in the kitchen sink.

  Hand on the gun in his pocket, McDougal inclined his head toward a door near the breakfast nook. “What’s that? The basement?” There was a small pet door installed near the bottom.

  Natalie nodded.

  “Your grandmother has a cat?”

  “Two.” She frowned. “They must be hiding.”

  The door was bolted, so he left it for later. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Nonnie!” she called again. “Kitties! Here, kitty-kitty-kitty . . .”

  Nothing but silence greeted them.

  McDougal rounded the newel at the bottom of the stairs and went up, the old boards creaking under his feet. At the top was a narrow hallway with two doors on the right and two on the left.

  Spare bedroom, empty. Bath, empty. The bedroom on the far right was the master. He nudged the door open with the toe of his Timberland boot, not sure what they’d find.

  Nothing. Just a queen-size bed with an antique lace coverlet over a bedspread dotted with cabbage roses. A 1930s dressing table with a round mirror. A high-boy, which, curiously enough, supported a statue of—a theme was becoming apparent here—St. George and his buddy, the dragon. Maybe the old lady really did say prayers to it. What a kook.

  But kook or not, she was nowhere to be found.

  Behind him, Natalie exhaled a shaky breath. “Oh, thank God. I was afraid—”

  From the room at the end of the hallway, right next door, came a heavy thud. Natalie jumped at least two feet in the air and shrieked.

  He pivoted left, bringing the gun out of his pocket and cocking it reflexively.

  “Dear God, what is that?!” Natalie said. He wasn’t sure whether she meant the gun or the noise.

  Two more thuds, lighter this time, came from the room.

  “Who’s there?” McDougal called.

  Silence.

  He reached forward, twisted the knob, and threw the door open. Stacks of books greeted them, and nothing else. Apparently one of the stacks had toppled over. He noticed small droppings on the floor and judged that Granny might have a rat in the house. Maybe they’d frightened it out of its literary endeavors. Natalie shuddered and confirmed that the cats were fat and useless.

  A check of the basement yielded nothing but old furniture, boxes, and knickknacks gathering dust.

  “Nonnie’s not here.” Natalie looked half relieved, since they hadn’t discovered a body, and half mystified and concerned. “Where can she be?”

  “I didn’t see a purse anywhere,” he reflected. “What about suitcases? Are there any missing?”

  He and Natalie went back upstairs to check the master bedroom closet.

  “Her old Samsonite is gone,” she said. “She’s taken a trip.” Her voice reflected shock. “But . . . with whom? She can’t see! She doesn’t leave the house, I tell you. God, Eric, what if those people have her?”

  “Deep breath,” he said. “Take a deep breath. Then tell me exactly who you mean by ‘those people.’ The ones who beat up your boss?”

  She nodded.

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Natalie. You must have some idea. What’s your boss been up to?”

  She hesitated.

  “Look, I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”

  “Who are you really? I didn’t know you carried a gun.”

  “I told you,” Eric said. “I’m a security consultant. I’d be a damn poor one if I couldn’t protect myself.”

  Still, she stared at him suspiciously.

  He fished out his wallet, pulled a fake business card from it, and slapped it into her palm. Then he gazed right back with his most open, relaxed expression.

  She read it and nodded. Seeming somewhat reassured, she tugged reflexively at her scarf again. “Okay. I think that these guys are Russian. About six months ago, Luc’s fiancée introduced him to some people who could supposedly help expand his business. They weren’t like his usual clients at all. We deal with curators, wealthy individuals, corporate collectors . . . people who have at least a veneer of polish. These other guys aren’t like that at all. They’re rough. Rude. A little scary. They make Luc nervous. Lately he seems to be making a lot more money, but he’s on edge and not really himself. Something weird is going on.”

  You got that right, sweetheart. “Why do you think they’re Russian?”

  “I’ve seen two different guys bring things to Luc for restoration. Both of them had accents, and they sounded just like Nonnie when she gets angry. She doesn’t have much of one, since she came to the U.S. as a child, but it’s more pronounced when she’s emotional.”

  McDougal nodded. “Do you know the names of these men?”

  “No. When items they bring get logged in, it’s always under Ben or Bob Ruski, which is patently false.”

  You think? “What address is in the log?”

  “I’d have to check, but I doubt it’s real, either.”

  “Phone?”

  “Maybe a cell, but again, I’d have to look in the log.”

  “Okay. We’ll put that on the back burner for now. In the meantime, who could have taken your grandmother on a trip, and where?”

  Natalie gripped her scarf with both hands, twisting the ends. “You don’t think the Russian guys have her?”

  “I doubt they’d sit around waiting for her to pack a suitcase, Natalie,” he said, trying to keep the dryness out of his voice.

  “True.”

  “And where are the cats?”

  She lifted her hands, palms up.

  “The neighbor’s not feeding them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Didn’t you mention to me that your grandmother refused to open the door until you brought her tickets to Russia?”

  Natalie’s face drained of color. “Oh, my God. That’s where she’s gone. She said the necklace was the key to something. But who would take her to another country?”

  “Someone without a regular job; that’s for sure. Which leaves students, housewives, or retirees. Who does she know in those categories? Or could she have paid someone to accompany her?”

  Natalie shook her head. “She doesn’t really have the funds to do that. Whoever went with her would have to have paid his or her own way.”

  “That rules out most students—” He stopped at the arrested expression on her face.

  “Blakely. It has to be Colonel Blakely,” she said. “She’d feel safe with him.”

  Great, McDougal thought. This is just great. Looks like I need to acquire some heavy boots and a big fur hat with sexy earflaps that tie under my chin. And unfortunately it’s time to ditch sweet, naive Natalie . . .

  Ten

  Nonnie wasn’t dead. Thank God Nonnie wasn’t dead. Just to make sure, Natalie went to her grandmother’s refrigerator and found the magnetic card for her veterinarian. She rang the vet immediately.

  “Hello, this is Natalie Rosen, Taty
ana Ciccoli’s granddaughter.” Nonnie had married an Italian man, which was how she came to be known as Nonnie, rather than Baba.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Rosen? Are you calling to check on Fitz and Floyd?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re doing just fine. They’re in a large cage together, with their beds.”

  “Oh, thank you. Listen . . . I didn’t write down my grandmother’s exact travel dates. When are we picking up the cats, again?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And, let’s see, I’m just trying to calculate the bill—she dropped them off yesterday?”

  “The day before. That nice older gentleman carried the cage for her.”

  “Colonel Blakely?”

  “Yes, honey. He takes good care of her.” The receptionist paused and then added coyly, “Do I hear wedding bells in the future?”

  Natalie almost dropped the telephone receiver. “I—uh, I don’t think so. He just comes over and reads to her.”

  “Whatever you say. At any rate, don’t you worry about Fitz and Floyd. We even have a little gal who lets them out and plays with them every day.”

  “Thank you so much. I really appreciate that.”

  “No trouble, hon. I hope your gran has a nice time in Hawaii. See you soon.”

  “Hawaii?” Natalie said aloud after hanging up.

  Eric raised his eyebrows.

  “Hawaii doesn’t make sense at all. Why would she go there?”

  “Maybe that’s just a cover story she concocted in case anyone was on her trail,” he suggested. “I’ll check the flight manifests.”

  It was Natalie’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

  “Friend in law enforcement,” he said smoothly.

  She supposed it was plausible. And he had such an open, honest face, with that direct blue gaze of his.

  And yet . . . he carried a gun. She didn’t like that. What if he was in law enforcement?

  She shook off the thought, remembering how he’d laughed when she’d been afraid he’d report her accidental theft. Do I look like Dudley Do-Right?

  No, he didn’t. And then there were those lock picks. He had that wicked edge to him that just didn’t spell c-o-p.