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MIAMI, late August
Chapter One
Some people steal for thrills. Others steal for
simple profit or for dark, psychological reasons.
Art recovery agent Avy Hunt stole for justice—or
so she liked to tell herself. The truth was a
little more complicated.
Avy certainly wasn't a femme Robin Hood, since
she worked on commission and eschewed green tights
for the sheerest of thigh highs. She preferred
a 9 mm Sig Sauer P230 to a cross-bow and usually
avoided bands of merry men, since they tended
not to keep their hands to themselves.
Only in the name of a job would she deliberately
go home tonight (from the raucous Clevelander
Hotel on South Beach) with this particular merry
man. Dave Pomeroy, with his greasy, lurid grin
and his I'm-a-multi-millionaire strut, gave her
the creeps.
But here she sat in his giant black Hummer, dressed
like the Cheap Trick he'd cranked up on the CD
player.
South Beach on a late August Saturday night was
a fast, undulating samba in a salt-tinged sauna.
Spot-lit against a moody night sky, royal palms
waved in the humid breeze like passing acquaintances
who wouldn't remember your name. Sand and ocean
stretched to the right beyond the palms, and art
deco hotels rose along the left, past Dave's shoulder
on the driver's side of the vehicle.
Collectively, the facades of the lighted, pastel
buildings looked like a Hollywood backdrop for
some steamy soap opera. People were out on the
town, dressed up or dressed down, indulging in
dinners, drinks, dancing, deals and drugs. Laughter
mingled with shouted insults and the bass of crawling
car engines, their stereos playing everything
from rap to rock to Brazilian dance music.
It was a short drive to Star Island, where Dave's
status symbol of a house stood. They were waved
through at the guarded gate to the causeway, and
the repulsive Dave decided to caress her knee
as they traversed the water.
Avy forced herself to sit still until his fingers
crept higher, at which point she dredged up a
vacuous giggle and caught his ham-like hand in
her own.
They turned into a long drive, where a pair of
ornate wrought-iron gates opened as if by magic.
The house that stretched before them looked more
like a government building than a home. The architecture,
with its harsh angles and sterile feel, was a
bad rip-off of Le Corbusier.
Inside it was a mirrored white palace with all
the warmth of a hospital. Their footsteps echoed
like gunshots on the ceramic tile.
Pomeroy had very Vegas taste. He'd decorated in
Early Eighties Nightclub, except for the occasional
big game trophy like the twelve-foot alligator
in the corner of his living room. That added a
cozy touch.
Avy let out an appropriate squeak of excitement,
though, and Dave puffed up with pride. "You live
here all by yourself?" she asked.
"Well, I have staff, honey, but they have the
night off. Hey, you need to take a whiz? The john's
right there. I'll make us some drinks."
As she stood in his bleak silver powder room,
Avy's heart hurled against her rib cage and her
stomach slid around like a big glob of mercury.
Not fear, she told herself. Adrenalin. Nerves
on edge before the job. Normal.
She took a disgusted look into the mirror at her
temporary persona, vaguely surprised that she
could even see out from under her tarantula-like
false eyelashes.
A tight, shiny, black spandex micro mini-skirt
rode her hips. A red push-up bra promoted her
assets like a media blitz; the matching thong
peeked out above the skirt like a paid endorsement.
She'd done unspeakable things to her hair and
applied her makeup with a trowel.
Bile rose in her throat--she looked a little too
much like the type of woman her father occasionally
took to a seedy motel.
She fingered the deluxe Swiss army knife that
rested next to her lipstick in a satin cosmetics
pouch. Normally she wore the Victorinox on a cord
around her neck. Her dad had given the knife to
her--his little tomboy--on her twelfth birthday,
and in the seventeen years since, she'd worn off
the brand name with use.
She'd cut her Barbie's hair into a punk style
with it; She'd carved her initials into trees
and benches; as she'd grown up she'd employed
the knife on more than one occasion to open everything
from beer bottles to car and apartment doors.
And that was all before she'd really learned how
to use it.
Though she felt more like opening the knife than
the lipstick, the red schmear was, for now, the
better weapon. So she used it without compunction,
then blotted her lips on a tissue.
This guy Pomeroy didn't scare her. And besides,
her trainee Gwen was right outside with her surveillance
equipment. If Avy got into serious trouble, Gwen
would have her back.
At least she hoped so . . . |
