Hidden Riches

settled himself behind his desk. “We’ll just call that right on up. What was the problem, exactly?”
    “The merchandise shipped was not the merchandise received.”
    Tarkington’s fingers dropped away from the keys of his computer. His face took on a pained look, as though he were suffering from intestinal gas. “Oh Lordy, Lordy, not again.”
    “You had this happen before?” Jed demanded.
    Recovering, Tarkington punched keys. “I assure you, Mr. Skimmerhorn, Premium has a top-notch reputation. I can only say that the Christmas rush this year was unusually bad. December seventeenth, you said.” His little eyes brightened. “That could be it!”
    “What?”
    “There was another complaint about a shipment that went out that very same day. The client was very upset, let me tell you. Not nearly as patient as you and Miss Conroy.”
    “DiCarlo,” Dora said involuntarily.
    Before Jed could snarl at her, Tarkington was beaming again. “Righto. Do you know him?”
    “We’ve met.” Dora kept an easy smile on her face.
    “Isn’t that a coincidence?” Shaking his head at the way of the world, Tarkington happily tapped keys. “This takes a weight off these old shoulders, let me tell you. I’ve done everything possible to locate Mr. DiCarlo’s merchandise, and now it seems likely that the two shipments were mismarked and misdirected. I can’t come up with a ready answer as to how that could have happened, but the solution seems simple as apple pie. I’ll contact Mr. DiCarlo immediately.”
    “We’ll take care of that.” Jed scanned the computer screen over Tarkington’s shoulder and noted the shipping clerk’s name.
    “That would save me an embarrassing moment.” He slurped at his coffee and winked, showing Jed and Dora that they were, indeed, happy campers. “We will, of course, reimburse both you and Mr. DiCarlo for all shipping charges.”
    “Fine.”
    “I was right,” Dora said under her breath as they walked away.
    “Pat yourself on the back later.” Jed walked up to the nearest clerk. “Where’s Johnson?”
    “Opal?” The clerk jerked his head toward another conveyor belt. “Over there. Line six.”
    “What are we doing now?” Dora asked.
    “Checking tedious details.”
    Dora didn’t find it tedious at all. Not when they’d sat with Opal in the employee lunchroom and listened to her story. Because she was obviously fascinated and sympathetic, Jed sat back, lighted a cigarette and let Dora play good cop.
    He wasn’t about to tell her, but he’d have said she’d been born for it.
    “Can you believe it?” The excitement was drumming again as they made their way across the parking lot. “She drops a handful of invoices, and we end up with a smuggled Monet.” She grinned as Jed unlocked the car door. “Maybe I like police work after all.”
    “Stick with selling knickknacks,” Jed advised.
    “At least you could say I did a good job.”
    “You did a good job. Don’t get cocky.”
    “I’m not cocky.” She slipped out of her shoes. “But now we know how, we know why and we know who. All we have to do now is find DiCarlo.”
    “Leave that one to the big boys, baby.”
    “You’re going to turn it over?” Astonishment shimmered out of every pore. “You’re going to turn it over now?”
    “I didn’t say that. I said it’s time for you to step back.”
    “You’re not making one move without me, Skimmerhorn. If I hadn’t bought smuggled goods and ended up in themiddle of this mess, you’d still be sulking and lifting weights.”
    “You want me to thank you for that?”
    “You will. When you come to your senses.” Relaxed, she sighed and smiled. “Sure you don’t want to take me up on that expensive hotel?”
    “I’ve seen enough of New York, thanks.”
    And he had something else to check out now. Bill Tarkington’s computer screen had been a fount of information, including the intended recipient of DiCarlo’s illicit shipment. Abel Winesap of E. F., Incorporated, Los Angeles.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
    T he chill in the air didn’t prevent Finley from his morning ritual. Every day, regardless of the weather, he swam fifty laps in his hourglass-shaped pool while Vivaldi poured out of the speakers hidden in the jasmine plants. It was, to him, a matter of discipline. Of course, the water was heated to a pleasant eighty-three degrees—exactly.
    As he cut through the warm water with strong, sure strokes, thin fingers of steam curled up into the cool winter