Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,29
leave any discussion of the location or ownership of the Ottoman Scepter until you can assure me that your principal is willing to pay for it.”
“Okay. What’s your price?”
“Ten million dollars.”
It took all of Dana’s self-control to keep from reacting. “I’ll tell my client. How can I get in touch with you?”
“I will be here on Friday morning. Let’s agree to meet at the same time.”
“What if my client isn’t willing to pay that much? Do you have a cell phone or e-mail?”
The countess smiled. “This is not a negotiation. If your client wishes to meet my price you will be here on Friday morning and we will work out the details of the sale. If you are not here I will know your client has declined.”
The bodyguard escorted Dana to the elevator. On the way down, the private investigator was overcome once more with a feeling that something was not right. As soon as the doors opened, Dana walked over to the desk clerk, who was manning the desk by himself.
“This is some place,” she said, smiling.
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“What does one of these condos go for?”
“You’ll have to talk to the rental agent. I don’t have that information.”
“Yeah, good. Can you give me the agent’s name and number?”
The clerk handed Dana a card.
“I was just in 515. Does the countess own that or is she just renting?”
“I can’t tell you that information.”
Dana had anticipated this type of response. She placed her palm on the counter and pulled her hand away, revealing four fifty-dollar bills.
“Are you sure you can’t help me?”
The clerk eyed the bills greedily. Then he looked down the hall across from his station, on the alert for the security guard. When he was certain they wouldn’t be disturbed he leaned toward Dana and whispered.
“The woman and a blond guy checked into the condo yesterday, but she doesn’t own it.”
“Who does?”
“Horace Blair.”
Dana had never heard of Horace Blair.
“Thanks,” she said. “One more thing.” She slid another fifty onto the pile. “What car is the woman in 515 driving? A license number would be great if you have it.”
Dana staked out the condo’s garage. Ferries left for Vancouver every hour. If the countess was headed back to the mainland she would be leaving soon. Two hours later, a Volvo that had seen better days drove out of the garage with the countess at the wheel and the bodyguard in the passenger seat. The arrangement struck Dana as odd, and the car was not of the sort she was expecting a countess to own.
Dana let several cars get between them once she was certain where the Volvo was headed. Then she drove onto the ferry just as the countess and her companion were getting out of their car to go to an upper deck. The bodyguard was still dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, but he wasn’t packing. The countess had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and was wearing jeans and a green cable-knit sweater.
Dana decided to stay in her car during the trip to Vancouver. She didn’t want to risk being seen. While she waited, she reviewed everything that had happened in the past few days, starting with her meeting with Margo Laurent. What was her first impression of her client? She remembered thinking of her as a French femme fatale, a character out of some old mystery novel. Dana frowned. Now that she thought about it, every person she’d dealt with was like a character out of some old mystery novel. Professor Pickering was an oddball who lived in an eerie mansion on a spooky island. Captain Leone had reminded her of a pirate captain. And there was definitely something odd about Rene Marchand. A high-end antiques dealer would want to impress wealthy clients. Marchand’s office looked as if it had been thrown together hastily. It didn’t even have a phone, and she didn’t remember seeing a computer. Finally, there was Countess Von Asch with her slinky Chinese dress and Teutonic bodyguard.
But most of all, there was the case itself. In real life, private detectives were not tasked with finding golden scepters belonging to Ottoman sultans. Was it possible that none of this was real? When she thought about it, her adventures were like something out of a 1940s pulp magazine, or . . . Dana’s jaw dropped. It was like that old movie that Jake loved. They’d watched it on the Turner Classic Movies channel during an evening devoted to Humphrey Bogart.