Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,15

I’m not motivated to engage in a lot of fencing, so let’s cut to the chase. Do you have the scepter?”

Marchand crossed his legs and studied Dana long enough to make her uncomfortable. Dana returned Marchand’s stare.

“I’d like you to step into the waiting room while I make a call,” Marchand said.

Dana left the room and Marchand shut the door behind her. It occurred to Dana that she had not seen a telephone on Marchand’s desk, so she assumed he was using a cell.

Dana wandered over to the end table and thumbed through one of the magazines. It was several years old. Dana smiled. Maybe that was appropriate in the office of an antiques dealer.

Ten minutes passed, then the door to Marchand’s office opened and he signaled her in.

“For a price, I can put you in touch with someone with whom you can deal,” Marchand said.

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Dana laughed. “I’ll give you one thousand. If your contact is legit, I’ll come back with the rest. If this is a setup, I’ll find you and take back more than the money.”

Marchand lost color. “I don’t like being threatened.”

“Mr. Marchand, I do not make threats. I make promises.” Dana took out a wad of bills and peeled off one thousand dollars of Margo Laurent’s money. She placed it on the desk and covered it with her hand. “The name and address, please.”

Marchand eyed the money. He hesitated, and Dana knew he was deciding if he could push her. Dana’s features hardened.

“Do you know where Victoria Island is?”

“It’s near Vancouver, British Columbia.”

“Correct. The countess will be there on Wednesday. She’ll be staying in her condominium on the harbor.” Marchand wrote an address. “Be there at nine a.m., and don’t be late. The countess detests people who aren’t prompt.”

Dana took the paper with the address and Marchand grabbed the money. As she rode to the lobby, Dana thought back on the past few days. There was something about her meeting with Margo Laurent, the trip to the island, and her meeting with Marchand that didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

When Dana stepped outside, a harsh wind was gusting off of Elliott Bay. Ferries were crossing the stormy waters but the weather was keeping pleasure boats away. As Dana headed back to her hotel she saw movement in her peripheral vision. She paused to look in the window of a coffee shop and pretended to study the menu. A large man with close-cropped blond hair and wearing a knee-length black leather coat stepped into a doorway half a block behind her. He was far enough away so she couldn’t make out his features in the reflection.

Dana started walking. She stopped at a restaurant and saw the man reflected in the window. He stopped walking when Dana stopped and pretended to look in a store window. Dana went inside and found a seat facing the street. The man walked by on the other side.

Dana ordered coffee and took her time finishing the cup. When she left the restaurant half an hour later her tail was nowhere in sight but she spotted him again two blocks from the hotel. Dana wondered if her secret admirer was the man who had tried to kill Otto Pickering. Dana had not gotten a good look at the shooter, so she had no way to know. Instinctively, she brushed her pocket and felt the reassuring bulge created by the .38 nestled there.

When Dana was in her room, she locked the door and called Margot Laurent to give her an update. The call went to voice mail.

Chapter Eight

On Monday morning, Commonwealth of Virginia v. Ross commenced in the most ornate courtroom in the Lee County Courthouse. It had been built in the days when floor-to-ceiling columns of real marble were affordable and workmen knew how to decorate a high ceiling with frescoes of chubby cherubs and Roman gods. Somber oil paintings of judges past stared down at the litigants and spectators from cream-colored walls, and the bench was elaborately carved oak. All in all, it was a fitting place to hold court if you thought you were royalty, which described the mind-set of the Honorable Preston L. Gardner III.

Gardner had been the youngest judge in the state when he was appointed three years earlier. He had piercing blue eyes fixed in a perpetual squint, thin lips always set in a disapproving scowl, and plastered-down, jet-black hair. He reminded Charles Benedict of the obnoxious nerds he had