“This is crazy. Speaking hypothetically, because that is the only way in which we can even discuss this situation, just what do you expect me to discover?”
“I'm hiring you to find a suspect other than Tony who had both motive and opportunity to steal ARCANE. I want you to realize that my brother is not the only suspect or even a very likely suspect. I want you to stop focusing on Tony and look at the big picture.”
“Damn it, Tony is the most likely suspect.”
“You're reacting emotionally, not logically, Stark.”
“If you mean I'm getting more than a little annoyed, you're right. I am not, however, being illogical. You're the one who isn't being logical.”
“I don't have any particular interest in logic, per se,” Desdemona said. “Granted, it works for some people, but we Wainwrights rely more on intuition.”
“Then apply your intuitive powers to the problem of paying my fee,” Stark said in a thoroughly dangerous voice.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Stark said very deliberately, “that you cannot afford me.”
“Ah, now, that's where you're wrong,” Desdemona said. “I have something you want, and you have something I want, and we're both business people. We should be able to negotiate a deal here.”
There was a moment of acute silence. Stark's next words were coated in ice. “What, exactly are you offering?”
Desdemona tightened her grip on the phone. “In exchange for your services as a computer security investigator, I am willing to provide free catering to your company for one full year.”
There was another long silence. “I see.”
Desdemona scowled at the receiver in her hand. “What's the matter? You sound weird.”
“I thought you were going to offer something else.”
“My lush, lovely, nubile body?”
Stark cleared his throat. “That thought did cross my mind.”
“Tacky, Stark, very, very tacky.”
“Yes, I guess it was.”
“Now, then, to get back to the terms of our deal.”
“What deal?” he asked.
“Pay attention, Stark. You will have the services of Right Touch without charge for twelve months. We'll have to draw up a new contract, of course.”
“Desdemona—”
“Keep in mind that the only thing you're getting for free is my services. You will still have to pay for the basic expenses: food, equipment, rentals, ice sculptures, that kind of thing. But I won't charge you for the planning, preparation, and cleanup.”
“You're going to subtract your fee from the bills?”
“Right.”
“Tell me,” Stark said. “Do you have any idea of how little of my time you're going to be able to purchase with this arrangement?”
“I know you're expensive.”
“Very expensive.”
“But I figure that a hotshot security specialist such as yourself should be able to crack this case in short order. I have great faith in your talents, Stark.”
“Let us suppose, just for the sake of argument, that I do turn up another possible suspect. That doesn't mean Tony isn't guilty.”
“No, but it means that you can't dump all of your suspicions on him. You will be forced to acknowledge that there is a reasonable doubt. And,” Desdemona concluded, “you will be forced to apologize to me.”
“For what?” Stark asked blankly.
“For calling me a naive, gullible fool.”
“Hell, if that's what's really bothering you, I'll apologize right now.”
“No good. You don't mean it.”
“Desdemona?”
“Yes?”
“What would it take for you to acknowledge that your stepbrother tried to rip me off last night?”
“Overwhelming proof, and you can't supply that, Stark, because it doesn't exist. I've known Tony since I was five years old, and he's not a thief.”
“You can't get past the fact that he once saved your life, can you?” Stark asked quietly. “What did he do? Rescue you from a swimming pool?”
“No.”
“Whatever it was, you've cast Tony in the role of hero, and you can't believe he might not still be one.”
Desdemona glanced at her watch. “Look, I've got to run. Have we got a deal?”
“Desdemona, this is crazy.”
“It's business. What's your answer?”
“I'll think about it and get back to you,” Stark muttered.
“You do that. But don't take too long to make up your mind.”
“Why not?”
“The trail will get cold. If you dawdle, I'll have to find another security expert.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes, it is. You can call me here before ten with your decision. If you dither around until after ten—”
“I do not dither,” he said ominously. “I think things through carefully before I act.”
“Yes, well, if you think things through until after ten, you can reach me at Exotica Erotica later this afternoon. I'm catering the grand opening. Bye, Stark.”
“Hell.”
Desdemona hung up the phone. She perched on the corner of her desk and nervously swung one foot as she considered what she had just done. A shiver of dread went through her.
She reminded herself that she was a Wainwright. Wainwrights were
theater people
. Risk-takers by definition. Only a true gambler would stake everything on a career in front of the footlights.
The curtain had just been raised in a new drama that featured herself and Stark. She was stepping out on stage with an unseen script and an unpredictable leading man. There was no knowing how the play would end.
There were so many things that could go wrong. Stark might never call back. Or he might accept her offer to investigate and come to the same false conclusion that he had reached last night. He was, after all, a very stubborn man. A real linear thinker. A man who trusted only what he could see, hear, or touch.
The door of the office opened. Tony slouched into the room wearing an artificially beat-up leather jacket and black jeans. A young Marlon Brando, sullen and vengeful.
“I just talked to Aunt Bess and Juliet.” Tony propped one shoulder against the wall. “They said you're trying to hire that bastard, Stark, to prove himself wrong.”
“Yes, I am.”
“That's stupid. Why the hell would he want to prove I'm innocent? He hates my guts.”
Desdemona contemplated that. “I don't think so. But I will admit he's not exactly the trusting sort.”
“Then why bother with him? Cut your losses, kid. The jerk isn't for you. He can't prove a damn thing against me, so he's not going to press charges. We've got nothing to worry about. Walk away from him.”
“I can't,” Desdemona said quietly. “I'm in love with him.”
“Shit.” Tony straightened away from the wall. “You're going to be sorry you ever got involved with him. Trust me, a guy like that will turn on you in a second.”
“He won't turn on me.”
“Are you kidding? If he ever decides that you're directly involved in what happened last night, not just my innocent, gullible victim, he'll tear you to pieces.”
Desdemona stopped swinging her foot. She gazed at Tony, unable to think of anything to say. She had an uneasy feeling that he was right.
Dane closed the menu and set it aside. He glanced around the crowded downtown restaurant with a practiced eye. Stark knew that he was checking to see if there were any clients, past, present, or future, in sight. Dane always kept an eye on business.
When Dane had finished the automatic survey he regarded Stark with wry amusement. “I hate to be the one to bring this up, but has it escaped your attention that Miss Wainwright might be in this up to her cute little ears?”
Stark's fingers tightened around the menu. He had invited Dane to join him for lunch today because he wanted to discuss the bizarre situation in which he found himself. He was not very hungry, however. He wondered if the overly sweetened breakfast cereal he had ingested might have destroyed his entire digestive tract.
“You mean you think she's using Right Touch as a cover for her light-fingered relatives?” Stark asked with forced casualness. “That she's running a burglary ring?”
Dane cocked a brow. “I'd say it's a distinct possibility. I can't believe that you haven't already thought about it.”
“Hmm.” Something cooked without too much grease or sauce, Stark thought. That's what his stomach needed. Something mild. Something soothing.
“Maybe this is a regular routine for the Wainwright clan,” Dane continued. “It wouldn't be the first time an entire, close-knit family has been involved in crime. You've got to admit there's a certain logic to it. Especially for a family that appears to have had no stable means of support for three generations.”
“I know.” Stark decided on the halibut and put down the menu. “A caterer is in a perfect position to rip off her clients. She sets them up through a legitimate business relationship. She and her staff have ample opportunity to case the premises and identify valuables.”
“They make their move during a time when the house is full of people. There are literally dozens of suspects, assuming the victim even realizes when the theft occurred.”
“Yes.”
“So you've at least considered the possibility.”
“Yes.”
Dane raised his hands, palms out. “Then I will say no more.” He grinned briefly. “Except to comment that you're beginning to sound like a genuine private eye. I'm impressed. You've even got an attractive female client, just like the fictional investigators always seem to get.”
Stark ignored that. He was not at all sure if he still had Desdemona, and the uncertainty was eating at his insides. It was probably doing more damage than the cereal had done. He folded his hands on the white linen tablecloth. “I don't think we're dealing with a crime family.”
“No?”
“No. The Wainwrights are theater people. They're romantic. Melodramatic. Emotional.”
Dane looked thoughtful. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that if they were involved in criminal activities, they would be more likely to steal expensive necklaces or rare vases or paintings. Not hard disks and computer programs.”
“I'll admit that stealing a hard disk isn't quite like stealing an expensive necklace or a rare vase,” Dane said. “Special expertise is involved.”
“Yes. And I think Tony Wainwright is the only member of the Wainwright clan who can tell a hard disk from a floppy disk.”
“In all fairness, Miss Wainwright is correct about one thing,” Dane said. “There may well have been some other people at the reception last night who possessed the skill and the will to dig a hard disk out of a computer.”
“True,” Stark said. “But none of them had the kind of motive or opportunity that good old, lovable Tony had. Or a past history of having been involved in an embezzlement case.”
“So what are you going to do about Miss Wainwright's offer?”
Stark looked up, mildly surprised at the question. “I'm going to take it.”
Stark had not called by four o'clock that afternoon.
Desdemona surveyed the buffet table she had arranged in the center of Exotica Erotica. The opening of Kirsten's shop was a gala affair. The sky was still overcast, but no rain had appeared. A good-sized crowd had materialized. The throng was composed of Wainwright family and friends, such as Ian Ivers, some neighboring shop owners, and curious passersby who drifted in off the streets of Pioneer Square. Everyone gathered beneath a colorful canopy of multicolored, helium-inflated condoms that decorated the ceiling.
Stark had not called
.
The food was going fast. The guests munched on egg-plant spread, mushroom pâté, marinated mussels, and a variety of dips and chips.
She had been so certain that he would call
. Her intuition had told her that he would.
Kirsten's talents as a set designer had proved invaluable in the design of the new store. Exotica Erotica was a warm, stylish, upscale shop. She had hired a local artist to turn one wall into a colorful mural featuring a medieval maiden in a bower. Elegant glass display cases lined the walls. They housed a variety of paraphernalia, including vibrators, massage oils, condoms, and sexy garments.
The bookshelves of Exotica Erotica were stocked with sexual treatises that ran the gamut from the
Kama Sutra
to Masters and Johnson. There was also an extensive collection of cultural histories of sex and several authoritative guides to solving sexual problems such as frigidity.
Maybe she would never see him again
.
Desdemona plucked a book titled
Secrets of the Female Orgasm
off the shelf. She thumbed through it dispiritedly.
“There you are, Desdemona.” Kirsten appeared out of the crowd. She was flushed and excited. The world always looked brightest to an entrepreneur on the first day of business. Taxes, economic downturns, and competition were all out of sight for the moment. “I've been looking for you. Everything's going fabulously, isn't it?”