Let Me Call You Sweetheart

93

Jason Arnott knew there was something terribly wrong the minute he walked in the door of his Catskill home and realized that Maddie was not there.

If Maddie’s not here and she didn’t leave a note, then something is happening. It’s all over, he thought. How long before they would close in on him? Soon, he was sure.

Suddenly he was hungry. He rushed to the refrigerator and pulled out the smoked salmon he had asked Maddie to pick up. Then he reached for the capers and cream cheese and the package of toast points. A bottle of Pouilly-Fuiss’ was chilling.

He prepared a plate of salmon and poured a glass of wine. Carrying them with him, he began to walk through the house. A kind of final tour, he thought, as he assessed the riches around him. The tapestry in the dining room-exquisite. The Aubusson in the living room-a privilege to walk on such beauty. The Chaim Gross bronze sculpture of a slender figure holding a small child in the palm of her hand. Gross had loved the mother-and-child theme. Arnott remembered that Gross’s mother and sister had died in the Holocaust.

He would need a lawyer, of course. A good lawyer. But who? A smile made his lips twitch. He knew just the one: Geoffrey Dorso, who for ten years had so relentlessly worked for Skip Reardon. Dorso had quite a reputation and might be willing to take on a new client, especially one who could give him evidence that would help him spring poor Reardon.

The front doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, then continued persistently. Arnott chewed the last toast point, relishing the delicate flavor of the salmon, the pungent bite of the capers.

The back doorbell was chiming now. Surrounded, he thought. Ah, well. He had known it would happen someday. If he had only obeyed his instincts last week and left the country. Jason sipped the last of the wine, decided another glass would be welcome and went back to the kitchen. There were faces at all the windows now, faces with the aggressive, self-satisfied look of men who have the right to exercise might.

Arnott nodded to them and held up the glass in a mocking toast. As he sipped, he walked to the back door, opened it, then stood aside as they rushed in. “FBI, Mr. Arnott,” they shouted. “We have a warrant to search your home.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I beg you to be careful. There are many beautiful, even priceless objects here. You may not be used to them, but please respect them. Are your feet muddy?”