you’re on the phone, then hand it to me as soon as I stop to talk to the vultures. Make certain they’ve got the microphones aimed in my direction, first.”
“All right. You’re the boss.”
Richard flashed him a grin. “Yes, I am.”
Ben pulled over and sprang out of his seat, hurrying around to open the rearmost passenger door. Tom emerged first, mostly because Richard shoved him. God, he hated the press. Aside from their constant, annoying, biting-midge presence, two years ago they’d bloodied an already painful divorce and sent in hyenas to scavenge the remains. Well today they could work for him.
“Mr. Addison—Rick—can you give us an update on your injuries?”
“Was this a murder attempt or a robbery?”
“What was taken from your home?”
“Is your ex-wife considered a suspect?”
Richard took the phone Tom practically hurled at him as they waded through the cacophony of shouts. “Just a moment,” he said, and lifted the phone to his ear. “Miss…Jones?” he began. “Yes, four o’clock is fine. I’ll have Tomprepare the paperwork. Thanks for the help—I can use it. I’ll see you then.” He clicked the phone closed and handed it back while the shouts increased in volume around him. “I’m not at liberty to discuss precisely what was removed from my home,” he continued in a louder voice, “though several antique Meissen porcelain pieces were broken in the explosion. They were personal favorites, and I do regret their loss.”
He couldn’t say more without alerting Castillo and the FBI, but Miss Smith seemed exceptionally bright, and he would wager that she knew precisely which art objects he owned and where he housed them. Now he’d have to wait and see whether he was correct.
“But can you confirm or deny that Patricia Addison-Wallis is—”
“Excuse me, I have a meeting,” he interrupted, working to keep his jaw from clenching. Hearing the Addison and Wallis names strung together like that continued to leave him with the desire to punch someone. One of the few things the court had granted Patricia, though, was continued use of the name of which she’d availed herself for three years.
The silence of the lobby opened around him with cool, air-conditioned fingers, blissful after the humidity that had come with the sunrise and the tight, barking overlay of voice-coached news personalities. He couldn’t help brushing off his sleeves and checking his collar for hidden microphones as he waited for Donner to catch up to him.
“Jesus,” Tom said as he pushed past security and the rotating door. “I think I left an arm out there.”
“What did you get from my blathering?” Richard asked, his voice echoing faintly as he continued toward the brass-plated elevator doors at the far end of the high-ceilinged lobby.
“I got the Jones/Smith bit, which was pretty obvious, and the four o’clock meeting. You lost me with the missing porcelain reference, though.”
“Not ‘missing.’ Meissen. Meissen antique porcelain figures are quite the rage for some collectors. And the shophousing the largest collection in the world happens to be right here, on Worth Avenue.”
“Ah. I hope your Miss Smith is smarter than I am, then.”
Richard shrugged. “If not, I’ll be buying a Meissen at four o’clock today for no good reason.”
“This piece then, Mr. Addison?” the very helpful store clerk suggested, managing to turn, point, and show off her cleavage all at the same time. “From your description, this may be more to your liking.”
Richard glanced toward the door, as he had every minute for the past twelve. They’d played his little clue on the news at least a dozen times since this morning; if Miss Smith was anywhere near a television, she would have seen it. If she’d seen it, she would understand the message he’d sent. And she would appear, as he’d requested. He drew in a breath and returned his attention to the ornate, brightly-colored pair of wall sconces,
“All right. You’re the boss.”
Richard flashed him a grin. “Yes, I am.”
Ben pulled over and sprang out of his seat, hurrying around to open the rearmost passenger door. Tom emerged first, mostly because Richard shoved him. God, he hated the press. Aside from their constant, annoying, biting-midge presence, two years ago they’d bloodied an already painful divorce and sent in hyenas to scavenge the remains. Well today they could work for him.
“Mr. Addison—Rick—can you give us an update on your injuries?”
“Was this a murder attempt or a robbery?”
“What was taken from your home?”
“Is your ex-wife considered a suspect?”
Richard took the phone Tom practically hurled at him as they waded through the cacophony of shouts. “Just a moment,” he said, and lifted the phone to his ear. “Miss…Jones?” he began. “Yes, four o’clock is fine. I’ll have Tomprepare the paperwork. Thanks for the help—I can use it. I’ll see you then.” He clicked the phone closed and handed it back while the shouts increased in volume around him. “I’m not at liberty to discuss precisely what was removed from my home,” he continued in a louder voice, “though several antique Meissen porcelain pieces were broken in the explosion. They were personal favorites, and I do regret their loss.”
He couldn’t say more without alerting Castillo and the FBI, but Miss Smith seemed exceptionally bright, and he would wager that she knew precisely which art objects he owned and where he housed them. Now he’d have to wait and see whether he was correct.
“But can you confirm or deny that Patricia Addison-Wallis is—”
“Excuse me, I have a meeting,” he interrupted, working to keep his jaw from clenching. Hearing the Addison and Wallis names strung together like that continued to leave him with the desire to punch someone. One of the few things the court had granted Patricia, though, was continued use of the name of which she’d availed herself for three years.
The silence of the lobby opened around him with cool, air-conditioned fingers, blissful after the humidity that had come with the sunrise and the tight, barking overlay of voice-coached news personalities. He couldn’t help brushing off his sleeves and checking his collar for hidden microphones as he waited for Donner to catch up to him.
“Jesus,” Tom said as he pushed past security and the rotating door. “I think I left an arm out there.”
“What did you get from my blathering?” Richard asked, his voice echoing faintly as he continued toward the brass-plated elevator doors at the far end of the high-ceilinged lobby.
“I got the Jones/Smith bit, which was pretty obvious, and the four o’clock meeting. You lost me with the missing porcelain reference, though.”
“Not ‘missing.’ Meissen. Meissen antique porcelain figures are quite the rage for some collectors. And the shophousing the largest collection in the world happens to be right here, on Worth Avenue.”
“Ah. I hope your Miss Smith is smarter than I am, then.”
Richard shrugged. “If not, I’ll be buying a Meissen at four o’clock today for no good reason.”
“This piece then, Mr. Addison?” the very helpful store clerk suggested, managing to turn, point, and show off her cleavage all at the same time. “From your description, this may be more to your liking.”
Richard glanced toward the door, as he had every minute for the past twelve. They’d played his little clue on the news at least a dozen times since this morning; if Miss Smith was anywhere near a television, she would have seen it. If she’d seen it, she would understand the message he’d sent. And she would appear, as he’d requested. He drew in a breath and returned his attention to the ornate, brightly-colored pair of wall sconces,
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