Flynn did not deny it.
“But why?” she asked as the detective knocked impatiently on Flynn’s window. “Why didn’t you just tell me what you were doing? Why did you have to lie about the computers and the homicide—”
“Actually, the homicide was not a lie.”
“You could have just said—”
“No, I couldn’t have, because we thought—at least in the beginning—that you were perhaps involved somehow.”
This had to be her worst nightmare, and she was humiliated beyond comprehension. She should have trusted her instincts—guys like Flynn did not fall for chicks like her. “You honestly think that I could do something like this?” she asked, fighting tears.
“Of course not!” he said. “But there are other opinions to consider.”
“Oliver! Let’s go!” the detective yelled.
He had doubted her. He had wondered if she could be part of this, and Rachel was out of her mind now, because the only person who could clear her was a man who had used their friendship unconscionably.
It was more than she could endure, and abruptly, she was moving with blind emotion, fumbling with the door, practically falling out of the car, racing to Myron’s apartment as the detective yelled at her to stop. But she didn’t stop, she ran up the steps and banged on the door, and shouted Myron’s name.
He opened the door a moment later. He was stoned again, she could tell from the lazy look in his eye and the fact that he laughed when he saw her. “Rachel!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise! What are you doing here?”
“I want my goddamn phone back,” she said.
Myron blinked. “All right already—” And then his eyes bugged out, just like in the cartoons.
As it turned out, that was the last thing Myron would say as a free man, because at that precise moment, Flynn came flying past Rachel to grab Myron by the collar and push him up against the wall.
But Rachel tripped when he shoved past, and fell into Flynn and Myron, which made Myron flounder and try to struggle free, and Dagne shrieked, and there was a flurry of arms and legs and a lot of scuffling around and then Flynn was manhandling Myron as Myron bellowed like a cow.
Everything seemed to happen in one huge blur. Someone was helping her up; Myron was sitting on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. Flynn and Detective Keating and two cops in uniforms were inside the condo, and one of the cops had another man up against the wall, spread eagle as he patted him down.
There were several antiquities inside, too, scattered around the small living room—china, silver candelabra, hand-painted bowls, and gold commodes set into mahogany chests.
The other man, the one against the wall, was a Brit, as it turned out. He handed Flynn his identification as Rachel wandered around stunned. Flynn took one look, said, “Hallo, Geoffrey. Fancied a life of luxury, did you?”
And then more cops came, taking statements from everyone. Flynn and Joe asked Rachel a long list of questions: When did the items first begin to appear, how many of them had she seen, where they were kept, what had she done with them. Had she ever asked Myron why he continued to bring her gifts, since they were no longer lovers? How long had it been since she and Myron were lovers? How long were they actually lovers? They were lovers, weren’t they?
Rachel went from frightened to humiliated to numb.
Later, after they had taken Myron and the British guy off in handcuffs (and Rachel’s phone was given over to evidence), the detective and Flynn drove Dagne and Rachel to the Hilton Head airstrip, and ordered her plane to be readied for the flight back to Providence.
“So what happens next?” Dagne asked the detective.
“We’ll stay behind to inventory the stuff and get our reports in order,” he said.
“I still don’t get it,” Dagne said thoughtfully. “What were they going to do with all that stuff?”
“Perhaps sell it on eBay, just as you did,” Flynn guessed. “Or dump it in the ocean. It’s terribly difficult to move that sort of art and antiquities on the black market.”
“But I still don’t get it,” Dagne insisted.
“It went something like this,” Flynn said patiently. “Geoffrey is a claims adjuster for Lloyds. He and Myron met up somewhere along the way and concocted the scheme that would make them rich . . . or so they hoped. Essentially, they took small items from the various RIHPS properties and dumped them in Rachel’s basement, or in Geoffrey’s car—he brought them here, you see. Apparently, it’s only used in the summer months, so they were quite safe here for a time. And at Rachel’s, well . . .” He looked at Rachel, smiled a little. “They were lost, or used as fruit bowls or what have you.”