Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Thirteen

Vancouver, British Columbia, was a symphony of towering snow-capped mountains and picturesque bays that made its setting one of the most beautiful in North America. On Tuesday, Dana phoned Margo Laurent from Seattle before driving there, but the call went to voice mail. She phoned again after she checked into her hotel in Vancouver, with the same result.

On Wednesday morning, Dana caught the 6:00 a.m. ferry to Victoria. One and a half hours later, the ferry docked in the Inner Harbor and Dana found herself facing the Empress, a massive, elegant Edwardian-style hotel that would have been at home in England. The glass-and-steel building where Dana was headed was only a few blocks from the Empress, but centuries away architecturally.

Dana walked through the revolving door into a thoroughly modern lobby at five to nine. A security guard and a desk clerk examined her closely.

“Will you please tell 515 that Dana Cutler is here?”

Five minutes later, the doors of Dana’s elevator car opened into a living room that was almost as big as Jake’s house. The blond giant who had followed her from Rene Marchand’s office was waiting for her. He was wearing Nike trainers, pressed jeans, a black turtleneck, and a shoulder rig. The butt of a .45 automatic protruded from the holster attached to the rig. Behind the bodyguard, through floor-to-ceiling windows, Dana saw a seaplane landing in the Inner Harbor.

“The countess is ready for you,” the blond said in German-accented English. He reminded Dana of the Nazis in World War II movies. She was tempted to ask him if he was just following orders when he tailed her in Seattle, but she tamped down the desire to crack wise.

The Aryan turned his back to her and walked to the far end of the living room, where a stunning blonde was seated. The countess had high cheekbones and iridescent blue eyes and looked to be an inch or so taller than the detective. She was dressed in a black-and-red body-hugging, floor-length, high-necked silk cheongsam decorated with flowers and dragons that made her look like a madam in a Shanghai brothel.

“I am Countess Carla Von Asch, Miss Cutler. Please sit down. Can Kurt get you something to drink?”

Once again, Dana heard a German accent.

“I’m good,” Dana said as she sat in a comfortable armchair opposite the countess. “Let’s discuss the scepter? Do you have it?”

“If we can agree on a price I will be able to secure it for your client.”

“So you don’t have it?”

The countess smiled. “Let’s leave any discussion of the location or ownership of the Ottoman Scepter until you can assure me that your principal is willing to pay for it.”

“Okay. What’s your price?”

“Ten million dollars.”

It took all of Dana’s self-control to keep from reacting. “I’ll tell my client. How can I get in touch with you?”

“I will be here on Friday morning. Let’s agree to meet at the same time.”

“What if my client isn’t willing to pay that much? Do you have a cell phone or e-mail?”

The countess smiled. “This is not a negotiation. If your client wishes to meet my price you will be here on Friday morning and we will work out the details of the sale. If you are not here I will know your client has declined.”

The bodyguard escorted Dana to the elevator. On the way down, the private investigator was overcome once more with a feeling that something was not right. As soon as the doors opened, Dana walked over to the desk clerk, who was manning the desk by himself.

“This is some place,” she said, smiling.

He nodded but didn’t say anything.

“What does one of these condos go for?”

“You’ll have to talk to the rental agent. I don’t have that information.”

“Yeah, good. Can you give me the agent’s name and number?”

The clerk handed Dana a card.

“I was just in 515. Does the countess own that or is she just renting?”

“I can’t tell you that information.”

Dana had anticipated this type of response. She placed her palm on the counter and pulled her hand away, revealing four fifty-dollar bills.

“Are you sure you can’t help me?”

The clerk eyed the bills greedily. Then he looked down the hall across from his station, on the alert for the security guard. When he was certain they wouldn’t be disturbed he leaned toward Dana and whispered.

“The woman and a blond guy checked into the condo yesterday, but she doesn’t own it.”

“Who does?”

“Horace Blair.”

Dana had never heard of Horace Blair.

“Thanks,” she said. “One more thing.” She slid another fifty onto the pile. “What car is the woman in 515 driving? A license number would be great if you have it.”



Dana staked out the condo’s garage. Ferries left for Vancouver every hour. If the countess was headed back to the mainland she would be leaving soon. Two hours later, a Volvo that had seen better days drove out of the garage with the countess at the wheel and the bodyguard in the passenger seat. The arrangement struck Dana as odd, and the car was not of the sort she was expecting a countess to own.

Dana let several cars get between them once she was certain where the Volvo was headed. Then she drove onto the ferry just as the countess and her companion were getting out of their car to go to an upper deck. The bodyguard was still dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, but he wasn’t packing. The countess had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and was wearing jeans and a green cable-knit sweater.

Dana decided to stay in her car during the trip to Vancouver. She didn’t want to risk being seen. While she waited, she reviewed everything that had happened in the past few days, starting with her meeting with Margo Laurent. What was her first impression of her client? She remembered thinking of her as a French femme fatale, a character out of some old mystery novel. Dana frowned. Now that she thought about it, every person she’d dealt with was like a character out of some old mystery novel. Professor Pickering was an oddball who lived in an eerie mansion on a spooky island. Captain Leone had reminded her of a pirate captain. And there was definitely something odd about Rene Marchand. A high-end antiques dealer would want to impress wealthy clients. Marchand’s office looked as if it had been thrown together hastily. It didn’t even have a phone, and she didn’t remember seeing a computer. Finally, there was Countess Von Asch with her slinky Chinese dress and Teutonic bodyguard.

But most of all, there was the case itself. In real life, private detectives were not tasked with finding golden scepters belonging to Ottoman sultans. Was it possible that none of this was real? When she thought about it, her adventures were like something out of a 1940s pulp magazine, or . . . Dana’s jaw dropped. It was like that old movie that Jake loved. They’d watched it on the Turner Classic Movies channel during an evening devoted to Humphrey Bogart. What was it called? The Maltese Falcon! That was it. This case was exactly like that movie.

But someone had tried to murder Otto Pickering, and the money was real. Margo Laurent had given her twenty-five thousand American dollars and a first-class ticket to Seattle. If it wasn’t so she could find the Ottoman Scepter, what was it for? Still, the whole setup didn’t feel right. When they docked, Dana planned to follow the countess. Maybe she would see something that would help her make sense of the Case of the Ottoman Scepter.