Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,28
had cultivated manners that would have met with approval in the home of a British royal, and even though he was ruthless in legal matters his adversaries rarely disliked him.
“I’ve received some very upsetting news, Jack.”
Blair, who was not given to emotional displays, was visibly upset.
“What happened?” Pratt asked.
“Carrie has disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. This morning, I received a visit from a Lee County homicide detective. No one has seen Carrie since Monday afternoon. She hasn’t come home or to her job, and no one knows where she is.”
“You said a homicide detective. Do they think she’s been murdered?”
“They don’t know. She’s just disappeared.”
Pratt frowned. “This can’t be good, Horace. Carrie has every reason to be here this week.”
“Yes, she does, and the prenup is the reason I called you. I had a visitor this evening. Do you know a lawyer named Charles Benedict?”
“I don’t know him, but I’ve heard of him.”
“What’s his reputation like?” Blair asked.
“I really don’t know. He practices criminal law, so we don’t run in the same circles. Do you want me to check him out?”
Blair nodded. Suddenly Pratt smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Horace asked.
“I just remembered. Benedict is an amateur magician. I saw him perform at a Virginia Bar Association awards dinner a few years ago. He did card tricks, and he was pretty good.”
“There’s nothing funny about what happened tonight. Benedict knows about the prenup.”
Pratt stopped smiling. “How did he find out?”
“Carrie told him after they . . .” Horace flushed. “He was screwing her, Jack. She cheated on me, and Benedict isn’t her only lover.” Horace held up the DVD. “He gave me this. It’s a recording of them . . . doing it. I want you to take it and put it somewhere safe. I don’t know why she’s gone missing but she’s going to show up again to demand her money.”
Blair paused. Pratt could see that he was furious. “She is not to get one penny, Jack. Not one red cent.”
Chapter Thirteen
Vancouver, British Columbia, was a symphony of towering snow-capped mountains and picturesque bays that made its setting one of the most beautiful in North America. On Tuesday, Dana phoned Margo Laurent from Seattle before driving there, but the call went to voice mail. She phoned again after she checked into her hotel in Vancouver, with the same result.
On Wednesday morning, Dana caught the 6:00 a.m. ferry to Victoria. One and a half hours later, the ferry docked in the Inner Harbor and Dana found herself facing the Empress, a massive, elegant Edwardian-style hotel that would have been at home in England. The glass-and-steel building where Dana was headed was only a few blocks from the Empress, but centuries away architecturally.
Dana walked through the revolving door into a thoroughly modern lobby at five to nine. A security guard and a desk clerk examined her closely.
“Will you please tell 515 that Dana Cutler is here?”
Five minutes later, the doors of Dana’s elevator car opened into a living room that was almost as big as Jake’s house. The blond giant who had followed her from Rene Marchand’s office was waiting for her. He was wearing Nike trainers, pressed jeans, a black turtleneck, and a shoulder rig. The butt of a .45 automatic protruded from the holster attached to the rig. Behind the bodyguard, through floor-to-ceiling windows, Dana saw a seaplane landing in the Inner Harbor.
“The countess is ready for you,” the blond said in German-accented English. He reminded Dana of the Nazis in World War II movies. She was tempted to ask him if he was just following orders when he tailed her in Seattle, but she tamped down the desire to crack wise.
The Aryan turned his back to her and walked to the far end of the living room, where a stunning blonde was seated. The countess had high cheekbones and iridescent blue eyes and looked to be an inch or so taller than the detective. She was dressed in a black-and-red body-hugging, floor-length, high-necked silk cheongsam decorated with flowers and dragons that made her look like a madam in a Shanghai brothel.
“I am Countess Carla Von Asch, Miss Cutler. Please sit down. Can Kurt get you something to drink?”
Once again, Dana heard a German accent.
“I’m good,” Dana said as she sat in a comfortable armchair opposite the countess. “Let’s discuss the scepter? Do you have it?”
“If we can agree on a price I will be able to secure it for your client.”
“So you don’t have it?”
The countess smiled. “Let’s