From the Heart

operator. From the information I have, they’ve narrowed down the possibilities for dump sites, and this shop is one of the . . . chosen few,” he decided dryly. “It’s believed someone on the inside is on the take.” Pausing, he adjusted the picture frame on his desk. “They want to put an operative on it, inside, so that the head of the organization won’t slip away from them this time. He’s clever,” Dodson mused, half to himself.
    Again Dodson gave Slade a moment to question or comment, and again he went on as the other man remained silent. “Allegedly, the goods are hidden—cleverly hidden—in an antique, then exported to this shop, retrieved, and ultimately disposed of.”
    “It seems the Feds have things under control.” Barely masking his impatience, Slade reached for a cigarette.
    “There’s one or two complications.” Dodson waited for the hiss and flare of the match. “There’s no concrete evidence, nor is the identity of the head of the organization known. A handful of accomplices, yes, but we want him . . . or her,” he added softly.
    The tone had Slade’s eyes sharpening. Don’t get interested, he warned himself. It has nothing to do with you. Swallowing the questions that had popped into his head, he drew on his cigarette and waited.
    “There’s also a more delicate problem.” For the first time since Slade had walked into the room, he noticed Dodson’s nerves. The commissioner picked up his gold pen, ran it through his fingers, then stuck it back in its slot. “The antique shop alleged to be involved is owned and operated by my goddaughter.”
    Dark brows lifted, but the eyes beneath them betrayed nothing. “Justice Winslow’s daughter.”
    “It’s generally believed that Jessica knows nothing of the illegal use of her shop—if indeed there is illegal use.” Dodson reached for the pen again, this time holding it lengthwise between both hands. “I know she’s completely innocent. Not only because she’s my goddaughter,” he wenton, anticipating Slade’s thoughts, “but because I know her. She’s every bit as honest as her father was. Jessica cherishes Larry’s memory. And,” he added, carefully setting down the pen, “she hardly needs the money.”
    “Hardly,” Slade muttered, picturing a spoiled heiress with too much time and money on her hands. Smuggling for kicks, he mused. A change of pace from shopping and parties and jet-setting.
    “The Bureau’s closing in,” Dodson stated. “The next few weeks could bring the whole mess down around her ears. It might be dangerous for her.” Slade controlled the snort of derision. “Even the shield of ignorance isn’t going to protect her once things come to a head if her shop’s involved. I’ve tried to convince her to come to New York for a visit, but . . .” His voice trailed off. Amused exasperation moved over his face. “Jessica’s stubborn. Claims she’s too busy. She tells me I should come visit her.” With a shake of his head, Dodson let out what passed for a sigh. “I considered it, but my presence at this point could jeopardize the investigation. However, I feel Jessica needs protection. Discreet protection. Someone trained to deal with the situation, who can stay close to her without causing speculation.” A smile touched his eyes. “Someone who could assist the investigation from the inside.”
    Slade frowned. He liked the conversation less and less. Taking his time, he stubbed out his cigarette. “And how do you expect me to do that?”
    Dodson smiled fully. He liked the irritation in Slade’s voice as much as the directness. “Jessica will do what I want—to a point.” Leaning back in the overstuffed leather chair, he relaxed again. “She’s been complaining lately about the mess her library’s in, about not having enough time to sort through and catalog. I’m going to call her, tell her I’m sending the son of an old friend of mine and her father’s. That’s true, by the way,” he added. “Tom and Larry knew each other some years back. Your cover’s simple enough. You’re a writer who needs a quiet refuge for a few weeks, and in turn, you’ll sort out her library.”
    Slade’s eyes had darkened during Dodson’s casual rundown. “Jurisdiction—” he began.
    “Some paperwork,” Dodson interrupted easily. “It can betaken care of. After all, it’s the boys from the Bureau who’ll make the collar when it’s time.”
    “I’m supposed to play librarian