Hidden Riches

leather shoes, all highly glossed, waited on glass shelves to be chosen.
    There was a single pair of white Nikes to go along with his exercise clothes. It was one of his butler’s responsibilities to dispose of these every two weeks and replace them with another spotless white pair.
    His ties were arranged meticulously according to shade, the blacks giving way to the grays, the grays to the blues.
    His formal attire was kept in a stunning rococo armoire.
    In his bureau were neatly folded stacks of crisp white shirts, monogrammed at the cuffs, black argyle socks, white silk boxer shorts and Irish-linen handkerchiefs. All were lightly scented with the lavender sachet his housekeeper replaced weekly.
    The master suite included the dressing room, two walls mirrored from floor to ceiling. There was a small wet bar in case the gentleman grew thirsty while preparing for an evening out. There was a balloon-back chair and a gilded console table with a Tiffany butterfly lamp, in the event he needed to sit and contemplate his choice of attire.
    To the right of the dressing room was the master bedroom. Paintings by Pissarro, Morisot and Manet graced the white silk walls, each with its own complementary lighting. The furnishings here were lushly ornate, from the Louis XVI boulle bureau to the cabriole nightstands to the gilded settee flanked by Venetian blackamoor torchères. Overhead a trio of Waterford chandeliers sprinkled light.
    But the bed was his pride, his joy. It was a massive affair, designed in the sixteenth century by Vredeman de Vries. It had four posters complete with tester, headboard and footboard, constructed of oak and deeply carved and painted with cherubs’ heads, flowers and fruit.
    His vanity had tempted him to install a mirror in the tester, but the devaluation that would have caused brought him to his senses.
    Instead he had a camera, discreetly hidden by the carved lintel near the ceiling, that aimed directly at the bed, operated by a remote control gun kept in the top drawer of his nightstand. He paused and flicked on the monitor.
    They were preparing lunch in the kitchen, the pheasant salad he’d requested. He watched the cook and the kitchen maid work in the sunny white-and-stainless-steel room.
    Finley switched the monitor to the drawing room. He watched DiCarlo sip at the club soda and lime, rattle the ice, tug at his tie.
    That was good. The man was worried. Overconfidence displeased Finley. Efficiency was vital. Overconfidence bred mistakes. He supposed he should let the poor boy off the hook soon. After all, he had brought the merchandise two days ahead of deadline.
    Initiative was worth something. Perhaps he wouldn’t have the boy’s arm broken after all.
     
    DiCarlo tugged at his tie again. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. The sensation had him checking his hair, the line of his suit, his fly.
    He took another swallow and laughed at himself. Anybody would feel as though they were being watched, he decided, if they were stuck in a room with a hundred statues and paintings. All those eyes. Painted eyes, glass eyes, marble eyes. He didn’t know how Finley stood it.
    He must have an army of servants to dust all this junk, DiCarlo thought. Setting his glass aside, he rose to wander the room. He knew better than to touch. Well aware of how fanatic Finley was about his acquisitions, DiCarlo kept his arms at his sides and his hands to himself.
    It was a good sign, he concluded, that Finley had invited him to the house rather than demanding an office meeting. It made it friendlier, more personal. Over the phone, Finley’s voice had sounded pleasant and pleased.
    With enough charm, DiCarlo figured he could smooth over the missing painting, convince Finley that it was simply a matter of a little more time. All in all, DiCarlo was certain that they would part amicably and he could return to the Beverly Hills Hotel to find some willing woman to toast in the new year with him.
    And tomorrow, he thought, smiling, Mexico.
    “Mr. DiCarlo, I trust I haven’t kept you waiting overlong.”
    “No, sir. I’ve been admiring your home.”
    “Ah.” Finley crossed to a japanned liquor cabinet. “I’ll have to give you the grand tour after lunch. Would you like some claret?” He held up a Victorian jug in the shape of a cockatoo. “I have an excellent Château Latour.”
    “Thank you.” DiCarlo’s confidence began to soar.
    “Dear me.” Finley lifted a brow and let his eyes