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“Yes, I have Mr. Delgatto’s items. It would thrill me to move them along.”
The note of eager desperation in his voice and the fact that he addressed Tony as “mister” increased my apprehension. No one called Tony mister. He was ayo, brokind of wise guy. Only Uncle Jimmy garnered that kind of respect back in Jersey.
“Wonderful. When can I pick them up?” Sooner would be better. This guy sounded fragile. If he fucked up, I’d get blamed. The pills and cold coffee churned in my stomach.
“Oh, um, let me check. I have to review my calendar.” De Wispelaere sounded frazzled. I could envision him searching for a date book on a cluttered desk.
“Sure.” I rolled my eyes. For a guy sitting on millions in hot merchandise that he was trying to offload, he was making my life difficult.
“Great.”
The line went silent. I held the phone away from my ear to check the call was still connected. Fucking Chuck had put me on hold. Pretentious art dealer.
I tapped my nails on the desk, and Onyx lifted his head at the sound. I stopped and considered the bagel again. Pulling on the corner of the napkin, I dragged it in front of me. The yeasty smell made my lip curl. I picked a few stray sesame seeds off the napkin with my fingertip and put them on my tongue. Ugh.
Jimmy and the watches were only half my problem.
I was making myself sick over a man. A man I didn’t even have a real relationship with. Real. I snorted at the thought. What the fuck did that mean, anyway?
I lifted the bagel to my lips and tried to force myself to take a bite. Yeah, not happening. I tossed it and the napkin in the trash.
I should have known better than to enjoy Derek. Happiness was for other people. The only real things in my life were diamonds.
“Ms. Vance, I can meet you tonight. Say nine.” So much for anonymity. I could imagine Charles clapping his hands in glee at the prospect of passing his problems on to me.
“Fine. Where?” I’d much rather have dealt with this during business hours like civilized criminals.
“My gallery.” He sounded affronted that I asked. “Mr. Delgatto confirmed he gave you a key for the service door. Let yourself in. Don’t be late.”
I closed the key in my palm. Maybe Chuck wasn’t the idiot I’d assumed. I’d bet a dozen of the stolen watches I was picking up that he’d been on another phone line confirming with Tony, not consulting any calendar… Interesting.
“Of course.” I hung up the phone.
Charles De Wispelaere was not unknown to me, but this was my first direct contact with the other fence. My professional curiosity piqued, I typed his name into a search engine. His website was tasteful. He sold fine art and high-end knickknacks. His website offered free antique evaluations. There was an entire page dedicated to his skill valuing the work of high-end silversmiths from the 17thand 18thcenturies.
He was little more than a slick salesman swindling little old ladies out of silver tea sets. I wondered why Jimmy would have ever thought De Wispelaere had the connections or capabilities to move the merchandise.
After leaving the gallery website, I returned to Google. I ran one of my favorite searches: an individual’s name and DUI. Bingo! They had arrested Charles on South Beach about five years ago for drinking and driving. Wonder what his silver-selling old ladies thought about his mug shot. Charles looked like a pudgy silver-haired Kurt Russell after a weeklong bender in the grainy picture.
Having exhausted my interest in Charles De Wispelaere, I had nothing but a long wait until the ungodly hour of nine p.m. to look forward to. At least I’d have plenty of time to take Onyx home and feed him before the meeting. His tail in a shop like I’d seen on De Wispelaere’s website would be a hazard. And I’d have my .22 to keep me safe.
I cracked a fresh bottle of water open and pulled a container of Tums from next to the Advil in the desk drawer. Better living through chemistry. Maybe I’d be hungry when lunch rolled around. If not, I’d be sure to order something Onyx would appreciate.
Chapter 29
Derek
MyMondaywasoffto a shitty start. Hell, the entire weekend had been ugly. Since waking up Saturday morning alone, nothing had gone right.
When I found Lee’s note on Saturday, I wanted to punch something, so I did. A wall. My hand throbbing, I’d checked my tracking app; she was at the fucking grocery store. Back to her normal routine and I was wallowing. That had been the last straw for me.
In a daze, I’d spent the rest of the day patching the resulting hole and fixing other last details around the house. Now that Lee wasn’t coming back, I had no reason to stay in that house. I’d called the realtor. I was done with this place. The sooner it sold, the faster I could leave the memories of Lee behind.
A new flip would be an excellent distraction. I itched to swing a demo hammer. Far more cathartic than punching drywall with my bare hand.
Sunday, when the photographer should have been taking pictures for the real estate listing, it had been pouring rain. No photos. She rescheduled for later in the week. The staging complete, I was dealing with the added annoyance of living in a museum of domestic perfection.
This morning when I got in my Smith Agency SUV, the battery had been dead. Thankfully, I was able to jump start it, but I was dripping with sweat when I finally finished and got on the road.
