Hidden Riches

against the spreading stain before his knees crumpled beneath him.
    “You disappoint me, Mr. DiCarlo.” Finley didn’t raisehis voice but bent low to let the words carry. “Did you take me for a fool? Did you think so much of yourself that you believed I would take your pathetic excuses and wish you bon voyage?”
    He straightened and, while DiCarlo writhed in pain from the gunshot, kicked him viciously in the ribs.
    “You failed!” he shouted, and kicked again, again, screaming over DiCarlo’s groaning pleas for mercy. “I want my painting. I want what’s mine. It’s your fault, your fault I don’t have it.”
    Spittle ran from Finley’s mouth as he shot DiCarlo’s left kneecap, then his right. DiCarlo’s thin scream of pain faded away into animal whimpers.
    “I would have killed you quickly if you hadn’t insulted my intelligence. Now it may take you hours, hours of agony. And it’s not enough.”
    He had to force himself to replace the revolver in his pocket. He took out a handkerchief and gently dabbed the perspiration from his brow.
    “Not enough,” he repeated. He bent down close again, pressing his face into DiCarlo’s. “You had your orders. Did you forget who was in charge?”
    “Please,” DiCarlo moaned, too deep in shock to realize his pleas were useless, and that he was already dead. “Help me. Please.”
    In a fussy gesture, Finley replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket. “I gave you plenty of time, more than enough to redeem yourself. I’d even considered giving you absolution. I can be a generous man, but you, you failed me. Failure, Mr. DiCarlo, is unforgivable.”
    Still shaking with rage, he straightened again. He knew he would need an hour of meditation at the very least before he would manage to compose himself for the formal affair he was attending that night.
    Ineptitude, he fumed. Inefficiency in employees. He brushed dust from his sleeve as he walked back toward the solarium. Intolerable.
    “Winesap!” he snapped.
    “Sir.” Winesap tiptoed in, folded his nervous hands. He’d heard the shots, and was very much afraid of what was coming next.
    “Dispose of Mr. DiCarlo.”
    Winesap’s shoulders slumped. “Of course, Mr. Finley. Right away.”
    “Not now.” Finley took out a genuine tortoiseshell comb to straighten his windblown hair. “Let him bleed to death first.”
    Winesap glanced through the glass wall to where DiCarlo was lying on his back, babbling piteously at the sky. “Should I wait in here?”
    “Of course. How else will you know when he’s dead?” Finley sighed, replaced his comb. “I realize that tomorrow’s a holiday, Abel, and I wouldn’t dream of interfering with whatever plans you might have. So I’ll ask that you focus your attention the following day on gathering all the information you can on this Isadora Conroy in Philadelphia.” He sniffed his hand, wrinkled his nose at the scent of gunpowder. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take care of this matter myself.”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
    “H appy New Year!”
    Jed was greeted at the lobby doors of the Liberty Theater by a bald beanpole of a man dressed in a red leather jumpsuit studded with silver stars. Caught by surprise, Jed found himself bear-hugged and back-patted.
    His new friend smelled strongly of wine and Giorgio for Men.
    “I’m Indigo.”
    Since the man’s skin approximated the color, Jed nodded. “I can see that.”
    “Marvelous party.” Indigo took out a slim black cigarette, tucked the end into a gold cigarette holder and posed with one hand on his narrow hip. “The band’s hot, the champagne’s cold and the women . . .” He jiggled his brows up and down. “Are plentiful.”
    “Thanks for the update.”
    Cautious, Jed started to ease by, but Indigo was the friendly sort and draped an arm over Jed’s shoulders. “Do you need some introductions? I know everyone.”
    “You don’t know me.”
    “But I’m dying to.” He steered Jed through the lobby crowd toward the concession stand, where drinks were being poured by two quick-handed bartenders. “Let me guess.” He stepped back half an inch, cocked his head, drew once on the European cigarette. “You’re a dancer.”
    “No.”
    “No?” Indigo’s mobile face creased in thought. “Well, with that body, you should be. Gene Kelly had the most marvelous athletic build, you know. Champagne here.” He waved his cigarette toward a bartender. “And one for my friend.”
    “Scotch,” Jed