Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Seven

The storm broke Sunday morning and Captain Leone’s boat docked shortly after noon. Dana drove to Seattle on high alert because of the murder attempt on Isla de Muerta, but she didn’t see anything that made her think she was being followed.

After checking into the Hotel Monaco in downtown Seattle, Dana walked to Yesler Way, a steep street known as Skid Road in the 1850s, when the area was teeming with trees and a chute was used to skid logs to Henry Yesler’s sawmill. When Seattle’s city center moved north, the area became a dilapidated haven for drunks and derelicts and went from being called Skid Road to Skid Row, a term eventually used all over America to refer to a down-and-out section of a town or city.

Rene Marchand had an office in a six-story building on First at Yesler. On the way there, Dana spotted a seedy hotel advertising cheap rooms but most of the twenty-five-square-block Skid Row district—now more popularly known as Pioneer Square—was filled with hip boutiques, coffee shops, restored buildings, restaurants, and art galleries.

There was an old-fashioned elevator in the lobby of Marchand’s office building. Dana slid the accordion gate open, then closed it and took the car to the sixth floor. Halfway down the hall, Dana saw RENE MARCHAND ANTIQUES stenciled in bright gold letters on the glass in the upper part of a door. She tried the knob but the office was closed. After knocking loudly twice Dana returned to her hotel.



Monday morning, Dana dressed in a black suit and white man-tailored blouse so she would look businesslike and headed back to Marchand’s office. During her short walk, she checked for a tail or anything unusual, but nothing aroused her suspicions. This time when Dana tried the door it opened into a small waiting room. There was a desk, two chairs, and a small end table on which lay two magazines about antiques. No one was sitting at the reception desk, so Dana rapped her knuckles on a plain wooden door next to it. Moments later, the door opened and a man in his late thirties with a trim mustache and slicked-down thinning brown hair stared at her through the lenses of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The man was slender and several inches shorter than Dana, and he was dressed in an open-neck sky-blue shirt, a navy-blue blazer, and gray slacks.

“Yes?” he asked, apparently surprised to have a visitor.

“Are you Rene Marchand?”

“I am, but I generally see customers by appointment only.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dana said with what she hoped was a winning smile. “But I’m here now, so can we talk?”

“About what?”

“The Ottoman Scepter.”

Marchand’s only reaction was a rapid blink but it was enough to give him away.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” the antiques dealer said.

“I think you are. Professor Otto Pickering examined the scepter in this very office not long ago.”

Marchand hesitated. Then he stepped aside and ushered Dana in. The furniture in Marchand’s office looked secondhand, as had the furnishings in the waiting room. Through a begrimed window, Dana could see the train station, the stadiums where the Mariners and Seahawks played, and the Smith Tower, which had been the tallest building west of the Mississippi in 1914. The view was interesting, but it occurred to Dana that the office was run down for someone who supposedly dealt in high-end antiquities.

“Why do you want to know about this scepter?” Marchand asked when they were seated.

Dana handed the antiques dealer her card. “I’m acting on behalf of a client who is very interested in acquiring it.”

Marchand leaned back in his chair and examined the card. Then he set it down on a faded green blotter.

“You’re aware of the Ottoman Scepter’s history?”

Dana nodded.

“Then you know that the gold alone makes the object expensive but its historical value puts it beyond price.”

“My client is very motivated to acquire the scepter. And I’m not motivated to engage in a lot of fencing, so let’s cut to the chase. Do you have the scepter?”

Marchand crossed his legs and studied Dana long enough to make her uncomfortable. Dana returned Marchand’s stare.

“I’d like you to step into the waiting room while I make a call,” Marchand said.

Dana left the room and Marchand shut the door behind her. It occurred to Dana that she had not seen a telephone on Marchand’s desk, so she assumed he was using a cell.

Dana wandered over to the end table and thumbed through one of the magazines. It was several years old. Dana smiled. Maybe that was appropriate in the office of an antiques dealer.

Ten minutes passed, then the door to Marchand’s office opened and he signaled her in.

“For a price, I can put you in touch with someone with whom you can deal,” Marchand said.

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Dana laughed. “I’ll give you one thousand. If your contact is legit, I’ll come back with the rest. If this is a setup, I’ll find you and take back more than the money.”

Marchand lost color. “I don’t like being threatened.”

“Mr. Marchand, I do not make threats. I make promises.” Dana took out a wad of bills and peeled off one thousand dollars of Margo Laurent’s money. She placed it on the desk and covered it with her hand. “The name and address, please.”

Marchand eyed the money. He hesitated, and Dana knew he was deciding if he could push her. Dana’s features hardened.

“Do you know where Victoria Island is?”

“It’s near Vancouver, British Columbia.”

“Correct. The countess will be there on Wednesday. She’ll be staying in her condominium on the harbor.” Marchand wrote an address. “Be there at nine a.m., and don’t be late. The countess detests people who aren’t prompt.”

Dana took the paper with the address and Marchand grabbed the money. As she rode to the lobby, Dana thought back on the past few days. There was something about her meeting with Margo Laurent, the trip to the island, and her meeting with Marchand that didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

When Dana stepped outside, a harsh wind was gusting off of Elliott Bay. Ferries were crossing the stormy waters but the weather was keeping pleasure boats away. As Dana headed back to her hotel she saw movement in her peripheral vision. She paused to look in the window of a coffee shop and pretended to study the menu. A large man with close-cropped blond hair and wearing a knee-length black leather coat stepped into a doorway half a block behind her. He was far enough away so she couldn’t make out his features in the reflection.

Dana started walking. She stopped at a restaurant and saw the man reflected in the window. He stopped walking when Dana stopped and pretended to look in a store window. Dana went inside and found a seat facing the street. The man walked by on the other side.

Dana ordered coffee and took her time finishing the cup. When she left the restaurant half an hour later her tail was nowhere in sight but she spotted him again two blocks from the hotel. Dana wondered if her secret admirer was the man who had tried to kill Otto Pickering. Dana had not gotten a good look at the shooter, so she had no way to know. Instinctively, she brushed her pocket and felt the reassuring bulge created by the .38 nestled there.

When Dana was in her room, she locked the door and called Margot Laurent to give her an update. The call went to voice mail.