Hot Property

Turning thirty was tough, Wendy Thayer mused glumly as she waited forever at a traffic light on Lemmon Avenue.

First, there was the new laugh line she’d seen while looking in her mirror that morning. It had displayed incredibly bad timing by showing up on her birthday.

Second, there was James and his gift of a gold electroplated bracelet. When she’d opened the box during their rushed lunch date, it had been clear—so clear—what had gone through his mind in picking out her combination birthday/I’m-dumping-you gift.

What’s the least amount of money I can spend and still save face?

The answer was $12.95, on sale at Lux Warehouse Jewelry. She’d seen the ad the day before when she’d been clipping coupons for her clients.

The light turned green and Wendy shifted into first gear. She felt remarkably unperturbed at getting
dumped. Boyfriends were just too much trouble. The door dent in her brand-new Born to Shop company van was more upsetting.

At least she could look forward to her next client.

Barnie Neff was the sweetest little old man, a shut-in with severe arthritis and emphysema. Three months earlier he’d called her after seeing her ad on cable TV. He’d needed someone to pick out some library books for him.

He’d quickly become a regular customer, despite his humble lifestyle. She had recently expanded her personal-shopping business to include errands, and Mr. Neff often gave her unusual tasks, like delivering a box of old books to a dealer for appraisal, or taking his ancient radio to a repair shop. Once he’d had her deliver some old blankets to a homeless shelter. Today her job was more mundane—laundry, cold medicine, and a new pair of house slippers.

Mr. Neff’s rickety frame house stood about as straight as a drunken sailor, and it hadn’t seen paint in so long, Wendy couldn’t determine the original color. But inside it was always cozy and comfortable. Wendy pulled up to the curb, collected Mr. Neff’s laundry from the back of her van, and headed for the front porch.

“Come on in, sweetie,” Mr. Neff called to her before she’d even rung the bell.

She pushed open the door. The scent of banana bread hung invitingly in the air. He must be having a good day, Wendy concluded. When he was feeling up to it, he liked to bake bread.

Mr. Neff hobbled out of the kitchen to greet her, dragging along his oxygen tank. He wore a frilly apron tied around his fragile waist and a smudge of flour on his nose.

“Hiya, sweetie!” he said. “Look at that laundry. You do too much, you know. I’ll bet you don’t take laundry home for your other clients.”

“You’re special,” Wendy said, putting down the laundry basket and leaning over to give Mr. Neff a peck on the cheek. “The slippers are blue—that was the only color in your size. But they were on sale.”

“Sure, sure, anything’s fine.” He examined the slippers sitting on top of the laundry and nodded, satisfied.

“And the cold medicine is the nondrowsy kind. I had a fifty-cent coupon.”

“Cold medicine.” He made a production of coughing. “You’re in the nick of time with that stuff.”

“You must not be feeling too bad if you’re in the kitchen.”

“Oh, well, it comes and goes. What’s the damage?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Twenty-three fifty,” she said, handing him a piece of paper bearing a complete accounting of her work and the charges.

He studied the accounting a moment. “For the slippers and the cold medicine, maybe, but that laundry was hard work. Come on, now, charge me a fair price.”

“Twenty-three fifty,” she insisted. “I threw the
laundry in with mine. It was hardly any trouble at all, and I did charge you for it.”

He laboriously counted out exact change and handed it to her. “You’re a bargain, sweetie. Don’t know how I ever did without you. Now, before you rush off, I have a special errand for you. Have a seat on the divan, I’ll be right back.”

Wendy cleared some magazines off the threadbare brown sofa and sat down, then looked at her watch. She hoped whatever errand Mr. Neff had in mind wouldn’t take long.

He reappeared shortly bearing a stack of velvet boxes. “Wait till you get a load of these.” Then he opened the first box, and Wendy could feel her eyes bulging. Nestled on a satin lining was the most beautiful sapphire necklace she’d ever seen. The three gems that comprised the teardrop design were at least one carat each, a deep midnight blue cut in the old style and set in an art deco platinum setting.

“Oh, it’s lovely.”

“It was my mother’s. All of these things were hers. But … no sense in leaving them in a drawer to collect dust.” He opened another box to reveal a diamond and pearl bracelet; another carried two dinner rings, one a ruby surrounded by baguette diamonds, one a square-cut emerald flanked by two oval-cut diamonds. Mr. Neff continued to open boxes and set them on the coffee table for her inspection.

“Try them on if you like.”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I’d be tempted to slip one into
my purse. They’re beautiful.” She ran one finger over the finely detailed links of a silver chain.

“I’ve found a buyer. John Winstead at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart on Maple. You deliver ’em, he’ll give ’em a quick eyeball—”

“You’re selling these beautiful heirlooms?”

“Look, sweetie, I got no daughters or sisters, and I ain’t gonna wear ’em myself.” He laughed a little at his own joke. “I’m okay financially, but I can use the money.”

“Why doesn’t this Mr. Winstead come here?”

“Frankly, I didn’t want him to see where I live. Might drive down the price.”

“Oh. Well, this is beyond my normal services.…”

“You’re bonded and insured, aren’t you? Anyway, I’ll make it worth your while.”

He opened one final box. In it was the loveliest pair of diamond stud earrings Wendy had ever seen. “You keep these for yourself.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t accept such an extravagant—”

Mr. Neff started laughing. “You don’t think they’re real, do you? I’m not that crazy. They’re strictly costume. But Mother wore them a lot. I’d be pleased to know they’re being enjoyed by someone like you, someone nice.” He paused, then got a little misty. “Mother would have liked you. Have I told you you look a lot like my younger sister, God rest her soul?”

Only about a dozen times. “All right, I’ll accept the
earrings. And thank you.” She gave him a hug, wishing all of Born to Shop’s clients were as sweet.

The old man waited until the sound of Wendy Thayer’s van faded into the stillness of the early spring afternoon. Then he whipped off the stupid apron and pulled the oxygen tubes out of his nose. “Coast is clear,” he called in a voice suddenly stronger.

Two burly men appeared from upstairs, each of them loaded down with empty packing boxes. With practiced efficiency, they began packing up the knick-knacks. The old man could feel it in his bones—it was time to clear out, for good this time. Another couple of days and he’d be on his way to Tahiti.

He picked up the phone.

“Three-two-oh,” a bland male voice answered.

“The hook’s set,” the old man said. “The fish will be at the rendezvous at the agreed-upon time. Wait until you receive confirmation that the funds have been deposited before taking further action.”

“Understood.”

With an unfamiliar twinge of conscience, the old man added, “Oh, and don’t let the fish suffer, okay? Make it clean.”

“I always work clean.”

He hung up, again without any small talk, and sighed. Wendy was the best pack mule he’d ever used. Who could suspect that face, those big green eyes? But she was also a nice girl. She
did
look like his sister. He would miss her.

Turning thirty-five was hell, Michael Taggert thought as he stretched and tried to work the kinks out of his back. His body told him he wasn’t a kid anymore. Stakeouts, even short ones, made his muscles ache. If he missed his morning run, he noticed. Even coffee, which he used to drink by the gallon, made him jittery now.

“Feeling your age, old man?”

“Don’t rub it in, Joe. Or I’ll start making bald jokes.”

Michael’s partner, Joe Gaglione, laughed and rubbed his shiny head. “Wait’ll you get to be my age. Baldness is the least of my worries. Hell, I’d gladly look like Kojak if I could ditch the low-fat diet. Then there’s the dental work—I’m lookin’ at dentures in ten years if I’m not careful. Don’t even get me started on my prostate—”

“Joe, please. My birthday is depressing enough without you reminding me of what’s to come.”

Joe laughed again. “Aw, you’re still a kid. In twenty years, when you’re my age, you’ll look back at this day and wonder what you were bitching about.” He gulped down the last of his coffee.

Joe was right, Michael acknowledged. He was still young enough that the FBI wanted him—had actually recruited him. If they accepted his application, he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his life as a lowly sergeant in the Theft Division of the Dallas Police Department.

He’d hoped to make an arrest on the Art Deco Museum case by his birthday. Cases came and went, but this one had been stuck in his craw for longer than most. His lack of progress on the six-month-old jewel and art heist had become a bone of contention between himself and his captain. Solving the case would look good on his résumé.

Today, though, he was about to turn a corner. According to his snitch, who worked at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart, something big was going down, some kind of substantial off-the-books delivery.

“Anything happening in there?” Joe asked.

Michael peered through his binoculars into the main showroom of the Trade Mart. “Our bad boy is working the counter closest to the door.” The “bad boy” was the fence ID’d by Michael’s snitch.

“And our snitch?”

“Right at his elbow.” The snitch had promised to
call Michael the moment he spotted anything suspicious. Everything was in place.

“You get an invite to Patterson’s retirement party?” Joe asked in a bored voice.

“Yeah. I heard everyone who ever worked for him got one. You going?”

“Hell, yeah. I’ve never seen the mayor’s mansion. You?”

Michael shook his head and shrugged, shooting new waves of pain through his back. He needed a good massage therapist.

A white van with green lettering pulled into a parking spot near the Trade Mart’s front door.

“Born to Shop?” Michael read off the side of the van.

“Yeah, haven’t you heard of them? Rich people who don’t have time hire these ladies to do their shopping and run errands. They got ads all over cable TV.”

“I don’t watch TV, and if I ever saw an ad for something like that, I’d forget it as soon as possible. Sheesh.” He paused, thinking about the concept a moment. “My ex-wife could have started a company like that.”