“Since this a highly confidential matter, Ms. McGillis, it would be prudent not to call attention to yourself.”
“Emerson, these people are my friends. Not speaking to them would be the best way to call attention to myself.” She leveled gray-blue eyes at him.
A muscle in his left jaw twitched. “Mr. Fitzpatrick is waiting.” He wheeled and headed for the house, a sprawling, two story brick affair.
“That Lady of the Manor tone could make refrigerators obsolete,” Nick teased, his voice low.
“Comes in handy now and then.”
The interior of the house was chilly. Emerson preceded them through double carved doors into a room dominated by a mahogany desk. The man standing behind it made no move to cross the Oriental rug to greet them. After closing the doors, Emerson positioned himself at the end of the desk. “Nick Ransom,” Liz said, her voice as cool as the air in the room, “this is Hanley Fitzpatrick.”
Hanley Fitzpatrick moved away from the light spilling through the french doors. His silver hair was immaculately trimmed and combed. The Armani suit would have fit no other body. Though the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, no sign of humor touched the green eyes. “You don’t look like a bounty hunter,” he said.
Nick shrugged broad shoulders. “Liz made me leave the chains and leather at home.”
Liz sat in one of the two Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk and laid her small beaded purse on the edge of the smooth mahogany. Nick took the other chair, stretched one long leg out along the Oriental rug, propped his elbows on the chair arms. Fitzpatrick glanced at the purse, glittering crimson against the dark wood, before sharing his near smile. “Every time I see you, Lisbon, I’m more struck by the idea of you and your mother as two sides of the same coin. Dark and light. Yin and yang.”
“Laurel and Hardy,” Nick added.
The smile disappeared. “I have heard you’re as quick with your tongue as you are with your fists and your guns, Mr. Ransom.”
Only Liz noticed the tensing muscles. Nick’s smile was lazy. “Everyone has to be good at something.”
Emerson cleared his throat. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, may I suggest that it would be prudent to return to the party before you’re missed?”
With blunt-ended fingers, Fitzpatrick pushed a nine by twelve manila envelope across the desktop. “Two weeks ago a painting of mine, a fairly valuable painting, was stolen. The thieves have offered to return it for a fair percentage of its market value. I want the two of you to make the exchange.”
“What exactly is a ‘fair percentage of its market value’?” Nick asked as Liz fingered the envelope toward her and then opened it.
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Liz extracted a photograph and a typed sheet of paper. “I assume the insurance company agrees with your assessment of the ransom as fair.”
“This doesn’t concern the insurance company.”
Liz lifted her head so that her eyes just were visible under the brim of the hat. “Insurance companies pay ransoms on stolen artwork all the time. They consider it good economics, since thieves rarely ask for anything close to the insured value.”
“My reasons for choosing to pay the ransom and handling the exchange myself are of no concern to you.”
“If you want the exchange to go smoothly,” Nick said, “we should decide that.”
“The instructions are in the envelope. The thieves have made it very clear they are only interested in the money. If the two of you do your job correctly, there will be no problems.”
“Then you don’t need me.” Nick’s voice was level. “The insurance company Liz freelances for has entrusted her with far more than a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Ransom. I’m not in the habit of hiring just anyone, even if she is the daughter of one of the state’s wealthiest families. When your name appeared in conjunction with hers, I continued my inquiries. What I learned is the reason you’re here.”
“Seems a waste of money to me.”
The almost smile materialized. “One of the many advantages of having wealth, Mr. Ransom, is being able to dispose of it any way I choose.”
Liz folded the sheet of instructions and put it, the snapshot, and a check into her purse. Standing, she tossed the empty envelope back onto the desk and handed Nick a check. “We will need the money at least three hours before the exchange is to take place. You can expect us no later than one hour after the designated time. Since secrecy seems so important to you, we’ll use the service entrance.”
Emerson’s nose lifted another quarter inch. “We prefer to think of it as discretion.” Liz’s eyes never left Fitzpatrick’s face. “I assume you have no interest in catching and prosecuting the thieves.”
“You assume correctly. Now I must return to my daughter’s engagement party. Emerson will show you out.”
“We can find our way back.” Liz smiled. “I don’t think it would be wise to leave all those people who saw us come in here wondering why we didn’t return to the party.”
Once they were in the hallway Liz’s smile became a frown. “Tell me again why we’re doing this.”
Nick linked his arm through hers. “As a favor for your mother, whose friendship with Mrs. Fitzpatrick goes back to their art school days in Paris.”
“Every time I do a favor for one of my mother’s friends, I end up regretting it,” she grumbled.
“Now you tell me.”
“I should have told him what he could do with that envelope.” Liz watched a bag boy round up stray shopping carts.
“Look at it this way,” Nick said. “We’ve both dealt with jerks before, none of whom ever paid so well for such an easy job.”
“I’m a rich kid, remember? The money doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Nick grinned. “Your consideration of us less fortunate folk is appreciated.”
They were in Nick’s black Blazer, a vehicle that usually managed to look as if it had just come from an off-road race. The instructions had enumerated all the specifics of the exchange except the exact location, offering instead two points where they could position themselves to wait for the final communication. Fitzpatrick would relay the message via the portable cellular phone at Liz’s sneakered feet. They would have ten minutes to make the rendezvous.
“Why would Fitzpatrick have an uninsured painting?” Nick’s gaze took in the supermarket’s half-filled parking lot.
“Questionable provenance.”
“Questionable what?”
“Provenance. A painting’s pedigree, if you will. Who painted it when. Whom you bought it from. Whom they bought it from, and so on.”
“So we’re talking hot art.”
“Or it could have been smuggled out of a country with strict laws governing the removal of artworks. Or the art world might be unaware of the existence of such a painting, and if you can’t prove provenance, it still doesn’t exist, in a manner of speaking.”
“One less thing us normal people have to worry about.”
“No one who knows you would ever consider you normal, Nicholas Ransom.” The phone at her feet chirped, and she answered it. “Yes?” She nodded at Nick, who started the Blazer. “Got it.” She replaced the receiver. “An alley on Memphis, between Third and Fourth.”
Nick wheeled the Blazer out of the parking lot. “Nice neighborhood.” He nodded toward the back seat. “That Kevlar might come in handy.”
“You never did explain how you came to possess two bulletproof vests,” Liz said.
Nick made a quick lane change despite the protests of another motorist. “The body-guarding gig I just finished. Another rich guy with too much money and too little imagination when it came to spending it.”