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“Interpol,” Gwen said, investing the word with an immense amount of disgust. “They’re dropping the investigation of the one-penny Mauritius.” Her voice vibrated with frustration. “A million dollar stamp, one of the rarest in the world, and they’re just giving up.”
“How can they drop the case? I thought you knew who had the stamp.”
“I have a theory, even a name, but apparently that’s not enough.”
“They’re investigators, aren’t they?” Joss set down her coffee. “Can’t they figure it out?”
Gwen pushed back from the desk in annoyance. “They can’t find any leads. They say there’s nothing to follow up on.”
“I suppose Jerry could have just cooked up the story to make Stewart look bad,” Joss speculated.
Gwen shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense to me, not the way they were talking that night in the hotel room. I mean, Jerry says he stole the stamps for Stewart because the collector wanted them. It makes sense that Stewart might have slipped and said too much to him. They were buddies.”
“Is that why they’re testifying against one another?” Joss asked wryly.
“I think Jerry took it kind of personally that Stewart shot him.”
“Sensitive. So Interpol doesn’t believe that Jerry’s Swedish collector is the same guy who tried to buy the two Mauritius stamps from Grampa?”
Gwen shrugged. “I don’t know if they don’t necessarily believe it, but they can’t find anything to substantiate it.” She rose and stalked over to rip a photograph of the smiling Stewart off a bulletin board and toss it in the trash can. “The stamps Stewart had stolen from Grampa’s collection were for Karl Silverhielm, I’d bet money on it,” she said, crossing back to her seat. “He’s got a reputation for being obsessive and he’s been after the Post Office Mauritius pair for the past five years.”
It mystified Joss that anyone could be that hung up on little squares of colored paper. “What’s the big deal about the Mauritius, anyway?”
“There are two of them—the one-penny and the twopenny. You know the two-penny stamp, it’s the indigo one.”
“The Blue Mauritius.”
Gwen nodded. “The one-penny is a kind of red-orange.”
“The Orange Mauritius?” Joss guessed.
“No one calls it that. They just say the one-penny Mauritius.”
“Does anything about stamp collecting make sense? I mean, how can a measly stamp be worth over a million dollars? Why does anyone care?”
Gwen smiled. “They’re over a hundred and sixty years old, for one thing, and they’ve got a story. It was all a big mistake, see? That’s where the most valuable stamps usually come from.”
“Like the upside down airplanes?”
“Sort of, only whole sheets of the Inverted Jennies are out there. Only a handful of Post Office Mauritius stamps exist.”
“So what’s the big deal? What was the error?”
“They were made by an island printer when the local post office ran out of stamps. The postmaster told him to print ‘Post Paid’ on them but he screwed up and put ‘Post Office’ on them, instead.”
“The wrong words? That’s what a million dollars of fuss is all about?” Joss shook her head in amazement. “You collector types.”
“Silverhielm wants a Post Office Mauritius pair, badly.”
“So why didn’t Grampa sell? He’s ready to retire, why not take the money?”
“I don’t think he liked Silverhielm,” Gwen said slowly. “There’s something a little off about him and I think Grampa sensed it. Besides, his offer was only a million for each.”
“I thought that was what they were worth.”
“Separately. Together, they’ve gone at auction for as much as three million.”
It paralyzed Joss to think about that kind of money. It paralyzed her that she’d been the one responsible for losing at least part of it. “Did Grampa have any idea they’d be worth that much?”
“He got them from his grandfather and they probably weren’t cheap when he got them. Like investing in gold bars. Expensive, but worth it.”
“Except that it’s not so easy to stick gold bars in your pocket and walk away with them the way Jerry did with the stamps.” Joss stared moodily into her coffee cup. “It kills me to think about telling Grampa about this.”
“It’s not as bad as it was,” Gwen said softly. “We got most of them back.”
“You got most of them back, and you almost got shot doing it.” Joss picked a quarter up off the desk and began rolling it in her fingers. “So why is Interpol dropping the case? Didn’t they look into Silverhielm?”
Gwen nodded. “They say they’ve done some investigation but their hands are tied at this point. They can’t just walk in and search his house or his safe-deposit boxes.”
“I suppose not, but have they interviewed Stewart?”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Or won’t say.” He was a thug and a liar. As far as Joss was concerned, there was no reason he might not be a coward. Still… “Why don’t you try talking to him?” she asked suddenly. “He might tell you.”
“I’m not sure I could do it,” Gwen said, resting her chin against her hands. “It’s too hard, knowing what he did and seeing him again. He was practically family.”
Fresh anger coursed through Joss. Stewart had worked at the store when Gwen had been a gawky fourteen-year-old, looking up to him. She’d trusted him. They’d all trusted him and gotten only betrayal for their troubles.
Gwen shook her head. “Anyway, even if he confirmed that it was Silverhielm, what am I going to do, fly to Stockholm and camp out on the guy’s front porch?”
“Stockholm?” Joss blinked and sat up. “Wait a minute, isn’t the International Stamp Expo in Stockholm next week?”
“Yes, but I’ve got too much going on here. I can’t go.”
“No, but I could,” Joss said, her eyes flashing. “Remember? Travel is likely.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why is that ridiculous? You did it.” A chance, she thought, a chance to make things right.
“I went to Las Vegas. This is Stockholm. You don’t even speak the language,” Gwen said in exasperation.
“I’ll find someone who does. Hell, I’ll hire a translator. Look, Gwen, all of this was my fault.”
“It was both of our faults.”
Joss shook her head. “If I hadn’t left Jerry in the store with access to the safe, he’d never have had the chance to steal everything.”
“He would have gotten to them sooner or later,” Gwen countered. “I should never have hired him.”
“Which you did because of me. I’m going.” In an instant, it had gone from a passing thought to something Joss wanted passionately. Needed passionately.
“There are other ways.”
“How?” Joss jumped to her feet and began pacing. “You’ve done all the work here. I’ve just sat around doing nothing.” And it had rankled her, every minute. “I want my chance to make it right. You already had yours.”
“And I almost got a bullet in my brain, remember?” Gwen said hotly. “It’s too risky. Silverhielm isn’t just some rich guy. He had Stewart hurt, Joss. He scared him to death. It’s not a job for us. It’s a job for the police.”
“The police aren’t doing anything,” Joss flared. “Do you want to just write off a million dollars of Grampa’s retirement? I don’t. I can’t, Gwen. I couldn’t live with it.”
“You may not live if you try to get it back.”
“So I’ll get some help.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’ll call my friend Tom, the promoter at Avalon.”
“A music promoter’s going to be able to go with you to Stockholm and get stolen property back from a criminal?”
“Why not? A sportswriter helped you. Look, Tom knows this town inside and out. He might be able to point me to someone who could help.” Joss sank back down in her chair and looked at Gwen pleadingly. “I want to do this, Gwen. I need to.”
Gwen sighed. “Well, we’ve still got most of my poker winnings as a war chest. We’ve got the money to do it, but only if you find someone who can really help you,” she warned. “Not the music promoter. Someone who’ll know what to do when you hit Stockholm.”
“Okay.” Joss reached out for her coffee and took a sip. “Can he be cute?”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t cook all this up just so you could have sex on an airplane, did you?” Gwen asked skeptically.
Joss laughed. “Who, me?”
2
JOHN BAXTER leaned back in his chair and stared at the check in his hands. Smack in the upper end of the five figure range. Not bad for three months’ work, he thought in satisfaction. For the first time since he’d started his executive security business two years before, he’d banished the wolf from his door. Not just banished it, kicked its ass from here till Sunday.
It was about time for a vacation.
The corner of his mouth curved a bit at the thought. It was an uncompromising mouth, some might have said hard, as they might have called the planes of his face hard with the high cheekbones, straight nose and taut jaw. Lines of care had been etched into his forehead and bracketed his mouth, but those who looked closely enough would see lines of humor as well.
Always, it was a face that was impossible to read. He’d cultivated the look in the seven years he’d spent working for the FBI and then Interpol. Even now, two years later, his eyes could still flatten into cop eyes that gave away nothing.
He hadn’t left because he couldn’t handle the work, he’d left because he’d been sick to death of politics and the endless levels of supervision and interference. Then again, he’d always done his best work alone.
He tore the check along the perforation and endorsed it, laying it on top of the deposit slip he’d filled out so he could hit the bank on the way home. His office was spare, the mahogany desk clear of nearly everything but a blotter, the check and the phone that now burbled at him.
He picked up the receiver. “Baxter.”
“Bax, Simon Fleming.”
“Hey, Si.” Simon Fleming, his contact at Mayfield, Cross and Associates. The young attorney was quick, a little cocky and hellaciously good at one-on-one basketball, as Bax regularly found out the hard way. Bax was under retainer to do occasional investigations for the law firm and they, in turn, sometimes steered clients his way. Like the client who’d written the hefty check Bax was currently admiring. “I didn’t think you lawyers worked this late.”
“Are you kidding? I’m trying to make partner. This is lunchtime.”
Bax grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So what’s up?”
“I’m sending someone over to see you. She’s a friend of one of our clients, needs some work done.”
“She?”
“Damsel in distress. Isn’t that what you P.I. types live for?”
“I’m not a P.I., I’m an executive security specialist.”
“So that’s why your rates are so high.”
“My rates are high because I’m good.” Bax scrubbed at his wavy brown hair, kept cropped short for convenience. “So what’s her problem?”
“Like I would know? I’m just trying to help out a client. It’s your job to make me look good.”
Bax grinned. “Is that covered by the retainer?”
“Making me look good? You know it, buddy.”
“Then I want a bigger retainer.” A light flashed on the phone. Bax frowned. “Wait a minute, she’s not coming over here now, is she?”
“Dunno. Depends on how desperate she is. I talked with her a little while ago.”
“Hell, Si, it’s the end of the day. I’m surprised the receptionist is even still out there to page me.”
“Maybe you’d better go check it out.”
“Whatever she wants, it’s going to have to wait,” he warned Simon. “I just finished the last job you threw my way. I’m taking a couple of weeks off.” His first vacation in over three years, a trip to Copenhagen to see his cousins, maybe, or a jaunt to Prague.
“It’s no big deal. A slick guy like you can probably figure it out while you’re still booking your flight.” He cleared his throat. “You make my client happy, you’ll make me happy.”
Bax snorted. “Next time we go back to contract, I’m upping my rate.”
“Whatever you say, buddy, whatever you say.”
Bax hung up the phone and stepped out into the hallway that led to the reception area of the communal office suites. So maybe having space here cost a couple hundred more in rent than a one-room office somewhere, but it gave him access to a receptionist, mail room and a slick conference room. More important, it gave his business an established air that reassured the kinds of clients he sought. Just because he worked without a staff didn’t mean he had to look like a one-man show.
As long as he was a one-man show.
“MR. BAXTER will be with you in just a moment,” the blond receptionist told Joss, punching the button on her console with one red-lacquered nail before she pulled off the telephone headset and prepared to go home.
Joss turned to the deep, pewter-colored couches that lined the walls. A receptionist? Who’d ever heard of a private eye with a receptionist? Then again, who’d ever heard of a private eye having a lobby with ice-blue carpet so thick you could snag a heel in it? And five-foot-tall ficus plants? Weren’t P.I.s supposed to work out of tiny offices with venetian blinds and half-glassed doors, in tired old buildings on the wrong side of town?
Tom’s lawyer was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She should have known better than to trust his referral. Simon Fleming had told her his investigator might be able to help her out. He’d neglected to tell her the guy was going to be some corporate clown.
