Triple Threat Read online

  “What’s the name?” Hawes asked.

  “You should know,” Wilcox answered quietly. “You were the one who put her behind bars.”

  Hawes thought for a moment. “Helen Doyle. The last time I saw her, she’d become a nun. She was out of that business.”

  “She is out of the business, and she’s still a nun. But she’s still connected. Sister Helen is the only person we have right now who might be able to refer us to the right people.”

  Three

  Philadelphia

  Sunday, June 20

  The grillwork and wrought-iron railings effectively set off the solid facade of redbrick and white trim. The classical doorway, with its graceful arch and fan-shaped glasswork above, added an air of distinction to the colonial look. Like a lot of the houses and shops along Pine Street, the building dated back to around 1770.

  Ellie Littlefield had her Early Americana antique shop on the street level. The second floor consisted of an art studio with separate spaces that she rented out to struggling artists and friends. She lived in an apartment on the third level, beneath the sloping eaves. A large balcony, shaded by the top branches of a century-old oak, looked out over the tiny backyard of her building and that of a home being renovated on the next street.

  The house had all the quirky annoyances that an eighteenth-century building would normally have—plumbing that could be downright ornery, drafty windows and the occasional rat in the basement—but Ellie worshipped this little gem of a home that she’d been the proud owner of for almost six years. To her, everything about the place was perfect—except for the steep, narrow stairs.

  “The bitch is too wide. Go back up a step. Wait, I’m stuck.”

  “Relax, Victor! Just follow my lead. We’re almost at the bottom. Lift this side off the railing,” Ellie ordered from five steps up. She put a slim shoulder under the upper end of the mirror’s frame and lifted.

  “Wait…Christ!” Victor complained when the entire weight of the mahogany-framed monster slid down across his sculpted biceps and muscled chest. “You just scratched the wall.”

  “Don’t worry about the wall, Vic. Lift your end.” Ellie gasped, resting the frame partially on top of her head and trying not to collapse under the weight. “I can’t hold on to this thing much longer. Come on, back down a step.”

  Victor inched the frame up onto his chest and went back down a step. “Wait, it’s still scratching the wall.”

  The bell inside the shop door rang.

  “Then tilt it. Come on, another step.”

  “Somebody’s at the door.”

  “We’re closed. They’ll see the sign and go away.”

  The bell rang again.

  “Maybe they can’t read.”

  “Another step. We’re almost there.” Ellie felt the sweat trickling down her face and arms as Victor lifted the massive thing and followed her direction. “Great. Don’t forget, at the bottom of the stairs turn right.”

  “It’s a he.”

  Ellie groaned when Vic turned left toward the door instead of right, wedging her painfully between the mirror and the wall with the railing digging sharply into her hip. “I said turn right…right.”

  “Your right or my right? He’s a hunk. A suit hunk!”

  “Vic!” she cried painfully. Her fingers couldn’t hold on to the weight anymore, and she let the corner of the mirror rest on the hand railing. The fifteen-foot stretch of railing gave only a slight creak before popping out of the wall and crashing down on the steps. The mirror and Ellie crashed right down next to it.

  The bell rang again.

  “You let it go.” Victor complained from around the corner. “It’s bad luck breaking a mirror. Did you break it?”

  “No, I didn’t break it,” Ellie snapped, fisting and unfisting her fingers, thankful that none of them had been crushed under the weight of the thing.

  “Look at what you’ve done.” Victor’s horrified face appeared over the mirror after he put his end down. Despite the exertion, the young man had not broken a sweat, and Ellie wondered how was it that she was covered with dust and dirt, and he looked as if he’d just stepped out of some calendar centerfold. “Now, if you’d listened to me and waited until this afternoon, then I would’ve had Brian and—”

  The sound of persistent knocking tore his attention away. She saw him wave at someone. “Who’s there?”

  “The same one. The suit. He wants to come in.”

  “Too bad. We’re closed.” She stood up in the cramped space and wiped her dirty hands on the butt of her jeans. “Help me get this down, will you?”

  “He’s motioning to me.”

  “Victor!” Ellie called louder. “It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday. We don’t open before noon. Ignore him. He’ll go away.”

  She knew her words were landing on deaf ears when he bit the end of one gloved hand and then the next. Victor put the gloves on the top ledge of the mirror.

  “Damn, I broke a nail.” He looked from his fingers back toward the door. “He probably got lost on his way to church. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Ellie let out a deep sigh of frustration. Putting her shoulder to the edge of the mirror, she made a weak attempt to push it down the stairs on her own. It wouldn’t move an inch.

  She sat back down on the stair. She’d have to wait for Vic. A third-generation Italian with a sculpted face and the body of a model, at five-foot-five Victor Desposito had been told he was too short to make it in the fashion business, but he was a treasured friend and an invaluable employee. In addition to having plenty of brain and brawn, he also did an excellent job of running Ellie’s business and even, sometimes, her life.

  Victor’s only flaw was that he was helpless when it came to tall hunks in suits.

  Some motorcycle driver on Pine Street, deciding on that moment to test the decibel level of his or her engine, drowned out the intruder’s conversation with Victor. Ellie wiped at a scratch mark on the frame and leaned down to make sure there was no damage to the thick beveled glass.

  She’d asked Victor to come over early this morning to help her with some rearranging in the shop. When it came to tourists and spending money, this year’s Fourth of July was supposed to see the largest crowds Philadelphia had ever seen. To gear up for it, Ellie had gone farther afield for inventory, and she’d definitely hit more than her share of auctions these past couple of months. The collections in her packed front and rear showrooms were a testimony to her efforts. The problem was, though, that there was no room left to breathe, never mind to walk around the shop. Opening up her back storage room to the customers was the only solution Ellie had been able to come up with. But with no windows, she had to rely on temporary track lights and this monster of a mirror to brighten the space.

  The four-by-six mirror had been hanging in the second-floor studio when she’d bought the house. Beveled glass, steel backing, mahogany frame…now she understood why the last owner had been so generous in leaving the pricey item behind. The damn thing weighed a ton.

  Ellie caught her reflection in the mirror and cringed. No shower, no makeup. A smudge of dust staining her left cheek. At least she was thankful for the baseball cap covering her short mop of black hair. Taking a second look, she decided that in the sleeveless T and jeans shorts, she could pass for a twelve-year-old at a Philly game, though she’d have a hard time proving she was the same sophisticated antique dealer who had been invited to co-chair—alongside Main Line socialite Augusta Biddle—the Children’s Hospital Celebrity Auction next Thursday night. The thought of moving in those circles sent a small tingle of pleasure up her arms, and she let herself bask in the glow of everything that had been going right in her life these past few months.

  The ringing of Victor’s cell phone jarred Ellie out of her reverie. She remembered him putting it next to his keys on a side table at the bottom of the stairs. A second later, he appeared and snatched it up.

  “He wants to talk to you!” he whispered, shaking one hand
and mouthing “hot” before going toward the rear of the shop.

  “Victor, get me out of here,” Ellie called after him. Getting no response, she pushed herself to her feet and made another futile attempt at shoving the mirror out of her way. From what she could hear, Victor had already started another one of his ongoing arguments with his mother. Mrs. Desposito, after a recent trip to Rome, had elevated her denial of her son being gay to wanting to find him a wife.

  Ellie remembered the person by the open front door. She pressed her back against the wall and was about to attempt climbing over the mirror when a dark gray suit filled the bottom of the staircase.

  As she felt the old-and-familiar sensation of her hackles rising at the back of her neck, she had no doubt about what she was dealing with. If this guy wasn’t a cop, then she couldn’t tell the pope from a potato. Instinctively Ellie retreated, climbing up a step to where she was at eye level with him.

  “Need a hand?”

  She stared down at the large hand extended in her direction. She shook her head. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  The hand slowly withdrew. She forced herself to look up past the wide shoulders into his face. Intense blue eyes. Short brown hair, brushed back. A bump on his nose where it must have been broken at one time. A small scar on his cleft chin. The button-down white shirt and a dark tie and suit completed the effect. All in all, a nicely weathered and conservative package. To anyone else, he could have been an insurance salesman or a political lobbyist. For her, his looks only reaffirmed what her instincts had told her right off. She was looking at an intelligent, macho, former athlete turned cop. Taller than the usual flatfoot, though. Definitely Victor’s style.

  “I’m not a police officer.”

  “If you say so.”

  He ignored her, turning a critical eye on the demolition site on the stairs. “Doing a little remodeling here?”

  “Looks that way.” Her instincts were never wrong, and she wasn’t about to make small talk. “Listen, we’re running a little behind, so if you aren’t here in some official capacity, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The store is closed. You can come back at noon.”

  His blue eyes turned hard when he looked into her face. “Are you this friendly with all your potential customers, or is it just me?”

  Ellie wasn’t going to make this personal. She had good reason to distrust the police—her history was full of good reasons—and this guy was not giving her any cause to be nice to him.

  “I’m afraid my charm-school training doesn’t kick in until twelve noon. That’s when the store will open. You can come back then if you want.” She looked over at Vic, who was still talking on his phone. Ellie moved down a step and started to climb over the mirror.

  He didn’t ask this time, but took hold of her elbow and helped her over. “Are you sure you don’t need a hand in moving the mirror?”

  “No, thanks. This is exactly where I wanted it.” His grip was like steel, and she pulled her arm away, trying not to rely on his help but only managing to stumble against him at the bottom of the stairs.

  “It’ll be one hell of a show watching you maneuver up and down the stairs a couple times a day.”

  He was even taller and broader now that she was on his level. And she wasn’t about to be taken in by the crooked half smile. Ellie couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

  “Well, it can only get easier from now on. So if you don’t mind?” She motioned toward the door, expecting him to go. He turned and sauntered to one of the glass cases.

  “You have an impressive collection here.” He bent over and looked at some of her rare Early Americana books.

  “They look a lot better with the lights on. We turn them on at noon.”

  “America’s First Conscientious Objectors,” he said, reading the tag on one of the books. “Isn’t this one about the Philadelphia Quakers who were held in the Mason’s Lodge before being exiled to Virginia?”

  “First edition, second issue, and the price is five hundred fifty dollars.” She crossed her arms, leaning a shoulder against the open door, not wanting to be impressed with the fact that he’d recognized the book.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Yes, at noon.”

  “I won’t be available then.”

  “We’re open until five.”

  “That’s not good for me, either.”

  “We have extended hours during the week.”

  “I’m afraid not.” He gave her a cool glance and moved down the glass case. “You know, I’m pretty sure your attitude can’t do much good for your business.”

  “Actually, I have no problem attracting customers. In fact, business is very good,” she said arrogantly.

  “Then it must be me.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Okay. Tell me how to do it right.”

  “I suggest that you call in ahead and make an appointment for a mutually convenient time with my assistant, Victor Desposito, whom you met when you came barging in here.” Ellie glanced at Vic, who was standing with his back to them, the phone still attached to his ear. “Victor will be more than happy to spend whatever—”

  “I’d like to make that appointment with you.”

  Ellie bit back her immediate urge to refuse. “Whatever. If there is something that Victor can’t help you with, we could always arrange a time when you can meet with me and my attitude. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  “Is your collection limited to what is in these showrooms, Ms. Littlefield?”

  “How is it that you know my name, Officer—pardon me, Mr.—by the way, may I see some identification?”

  He straightened, but instead of looking at her, he went around another glass display case. “My name is Nate Murtaugh. And I know your name from this.” He picked up one of her business cards from the top of the glass case. “And do you ask for an ID from all your customers?”

  “Only the ones who insist on coming in when we’re closed.”

  “Fair enough.” He reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and opened it. He placed it on the glass case. Even without picking it up, she could see it contained a New York driver’s license. “I assume you also want to check the limit on my credit card before we go any further.”

  A middle-aged couple walking down the street appeared in the open door and started inside. Ellie made some quick excuses and told them to come back at noon, closing the door and reluctantly trapping herself inside.

  “Look, Mr. Murtaugh, I’m very busy,” she said in as controlled a tone as she could manage. “Why don’t we just cut the nonsense and get down to why you’re here and what you want?”

  “Do you ever do any consulting work, Ms. Little-field?”

  Finally they were getting somewhere. She walked to the other side of the glass case and took a good look at the address on his license. She pushed the wallet toward him.

  “What kind of consulting?” she asked cautiously. “Appraising?”

  “No, what I’m looking for is your expertise and your connections. I need to find a specific item that falls within the area of Americana.”

  She planted her elbows on the glass and leaned toward him. “Do you mean ‘specific’ like a certain edition of some book, or ‘specific’ like the only copy of it left?”

  “The only copy left. But I’m not talking about a book.”

  “One-of-a-kind items have a way of finding a home and being perfectly happy in them. And unless the present owner has made known that he or she is willing to part with this specific item, then you’re wasting your time.”

  “But you will be able to identify the who and where.”

  That prickly feeling on her neck became more distinct. “I’m afraid not.”

  Many priceless antiques, including stolen or smuggled artifacts, were held by collectors who preferred to remain nameless and faceless. These people believed that laws against the antiquities trade were designed to be violated rather than enforced. And there were many differen
t government and insurance agencies that existed solely to prove this privileged lot wrong. Ellie considered involvement with either group an occupational hazard she would rather do without.

  “Mr. Murtaugh,” she said in a low voice, looking up into the man’s steely blue eyes. “I’m not an informant, and I am certainly not as connected in the collectors’ universe as you seem to think. I’m just a shop owner like the other dozen or so lining this block. I don’t break any laws. I don’t trade in stolen goods. In terms of expertise, I’m afraid my knowledge is limited to what I regularly buy and sell in the shop. In so many words, what you see is what I’ve got.” She took a breath, told herself to stay calm and sound rational. She could not push him out with force, but maybe reason would work. “I don’t know what or who convinced you to come in here, as opposed to any of the other shops on Pine Street, but the fact remains I may be the least qualified to help you with your problems. If you’d like me to refer you to someone else—”

  “Ms. Littlefield…”

  Ellie held up a hand. “That’s the best I can do. I have a lot to do before we open at noon, so you’re going to have to leave.”

  The wallet disappeared inside his pocket. Ellie busied herself straightening the stack of business cards as he came around the display case and headed toward the door. Vic was sitting in a Windsor chair by the window, listening to his mother on the phone. Ellie was very relieved that Murtaugh was leaving. He stopped with his hand on the door and turned around.

  “Maybe you would answer one last question.” He didn’t wait for her to speak. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask you to give away any of your friends.”

  Ellie wasn’t rising to his bait. She watched him reach inside the pocket of his jacket and take out a picture.

  “Would you just tell me if you’ve seen this boy?”

  “What boy?” She approached him and took the small photo he held out to her.