Hidden Riches

grateful for the reprieve.
    Finley had paid a great deal of money for the merchandise, and a great deal more to have that merchandise concealed and smuggled. Having each piece stolen, then disguised, transported from various locations to his factory in New York. Why, the bribes alone had run close to six figures.
    To calm himself, he paused by a decanter of guava juice and poured generously.
    And if there had been a mistake, he thought, steadier, it would be rectified. Whoever had erred would be punished.
    Carefully, he set the Baccarat low-ball glass aside and studied himself in the oval George III mirror above the bar. He brushed a fussy hand over his thick mane of dark hair, admiring the glint and gleam of silver that threaded through it. His last face-lift had smoothed away the sags under his eyes, firmed his chin and erased the lines that had dug deeply around his mouth.
    He looked no more than forty, Finley decided, turning his face from side to side to study and approve his profile.
    What fool had said that money couldn’t buy happiness?
    The knock on his door shattered his mood. “Come,” he snapped out, and waited as one of his receiving clerkswheeled in a crate. “Leave it there.” He jabbed a finger toward the center of the room. “And go. Abel, remain. The door,” he said, and Winesap scurried to shut it behind the departing clerk.
    When Finley said nothing more, Winesap blanched and walked back to the crate. “I opened it as you instructed, Mr. Finley. As I began to inspect the merchandise, I realized there had been an error.” Gingerly he reached into the crate, dipping his hand into a sea of shredded paper. His fingers trembled as he pulled out a china teapot decorated with tiny violets.
    Finley took the teapot, turning it over in his hands. It was English, a lovely piece, worth perhaps $200 on the open market. But it was mass-produced. Thousands of teapots exactly like this one were on sale across the world. So to him it was completely worthless. He smashed it against the edge of the crate and sent shards flying.
    “What else?”
    Quaking, Winesap plunged his hand deep into the crate and drew out a swirling glass vase.
    Italian, Finley deduced as he inspected it. Handmade. A value of $100, perhaps $150. He hurled it, barely missing Winesap’s head, and sent it crashing against the wall.
    “There’s—there’s teacups.” Winesap’s eyes darted to the crate and back to his employer’s stony face. “And some silver—two platters, a candy dish. A p-pair of crystal goblets etched with wedding bells.”
    “Where is my merchandise?” Finley demanded, biting off each word.
    “Sir, I can’t—that is, I believe there’s been . . .” His voice drained out to a whisper. “An error.”
    “An error.” Finley’s eyes were like jade as he clenched his fists at his sides. DiCarlo, he thought, conjuring up an image of his man in New York. Young, bright, ambitious. But not stupid, Finley reminded himself. Not stupid enough to attempt a double cross. Still, he would have to pay, and pay dearly for this error.
    “Get DiCarlo on the phone.”
    “Yes, sir.” Relieved that Finley’s wrath was about to find a new target, Winesap darted to the desk to place the call.
    As Winesap dialed, Finley crunched shards of china into the carpet. Reaching into the crate, he systematically destroyed the rest of the contents.

CHAPTER
TWO
    J ed Skimmerhorn wanted a drink. He wasn’t particular about the type. Whiskey that would burn a line down his throat, the seductive warmth of brandy, the familiar tang of a beer. But he wasn’t going to get one until he’d finished carting boxes up these damn rickety back steps and into his new apartment.
    Not that he had a hell of a lot of possessions. His old partner, Brent, had given him a hand with the sofa, the mattress and the heavier pieces of furniture. All that remained were a few cardboard boxes filled with books and cooking utensils and other assorted junk. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept even that much when it would have been easier to put it all in storage.
    Then again, he wasn’t sure of a lot of things these days. He couldn’t explain to Brent, or to himself, why he’d found it so necessary to move across town, out of the huge oldColonial and into an apartment. It was something about fresh starts. But you couldn’t start fresh until you’d ended.
    Jed had been doing a lot of ending lately.
    Turning in his resignation had been the first