Amanda’s heart chilled. Her dear friend had had a harder heart than she could have imagined. Now, more than ever, she wanted to get the bad guy. She and Marc came up with a plan.
Cissy had been less than enthusiastic this time in recreating Amanda’s European wealthy art buyer persona. She chose cheaper hose and an Adrienne Vittadini sheath that she had grown tired of, but kept the Garbo hat, with a mind of its own like its namesake, and the giant sunglasses.
“They can be your
Marc had showed up in a Hugo Bass suit that took her breath away and warmed the cockles of her… pelvis.
“Gotchur gat?” She’d asked, as she yanked the slouch over her eye.
He’d patted his chest and looked her up and down with a heavy-lidded look and reaction that all but steamed his contacts.
And now her breath steamed the window of the Plaza Hotel overlooking the Park.
“Now, if we’re right in our assumptions…”
“That the big guy, Trask, for whatever reason, put the fear of death into Dracula when Mr. Wilde and I were down there,” Amanda said.
“Probably he wanted to shut off the supply, check to see if there were any more fakes in the pipeline. Who knows?”
“And if the Pink Bloodsucker wants to get Big Guy Trask off his back, then he will have alerted him about what we have, and said Trask will presently be charging through the door of one of the Plaza’s finest.
“And if we are wrong…”
“Then Dracula himself might come swirling through that door, eyes blazing- and let’s hope that’s all- wrap us in his black cape and grab the pitchur for hiz own evil purposes.”
There was a hard knock on the door.
Chapter 20
AMANDA and Marc stared at the door.
What if Trask had seen them on TV? Surely he must have with the coverage they’d gotten on every local station. Amanda thought Marc had looked particularly fetching on the amateur video with the blurry pixels scurrying to keep his naked body acceptable for family viewing.
Christine had been smart enough to keep moving. Every shot of her was fuzzy or her face obscured by her swinging arms trying to punch the cameraman.
Amanda looked incredibly shrewish. Cissy had put the picture from the front page of
“Antonio” had been unceremoniously un-wigged in the middle of 72nd Street, though today he hardly resembled the blue-eyed, horn-rimmed private investigator. However, Trask might have made the connection.
Hopefully, the stock manipulator had continued to think Amanda and the European art buyer were two separate people. The television coverage of the shootings had been totally confusing and the New York papers’ account of the incident just as obscure, even for
If he believed the couple were Marc and Amanda he might come in with a much deadlier purpose.
It had only made sense to Amanda that she be the one to serve as the bait.
Marc had raged and refused, but she had calmly convinced him that nothing so far had indicated the big bruiser was a killer. He had roughed up Marc but had left him more or less in one piece when he had gotten what information he could. He had not pulled the trigger himself that downed Nathan and had probably “only” spewed terrifying threats into Professor Angeli’s ear that had shoved the unhinged artist over the edge and prompted his self-destruction.
Amanda swallowed and took a breath to calm her thundering heart. There was another, more urgent knock on the door. She assumed her pose and glanced over at Marc who, looking grim and determined, nodded he was ready.
Amanda tossed her head- the damn slouch hat shifted and she grabbed it and resettled it- and assumed her accent. “Come in.”
Trask cautiously opened the door. Across the room he saw an attractive woman in a very short skirt and a slouch hat lounging seductively by a large window overlooking the early evening spring haze of Central Park.
Amanda spread her hands effusively. “Ah. It is he. Welcome, Mr… Trask.” She pronounced the name with loving viciousness as the large man stepped inside.
Marc released the heavy metal weight he had borrowed from the gym and had rigged above the door. It hit Trask squarely on the head. The large man dropped satisfyingly, like a stone.
As the professor had done.
WHEN THEY left the police station, Marc reminded Amanda the room at the Plaza was still theirs for another twelve hours.
“You really are loathsome.” Amanda was in no mood to play footsie.
“Okay, no problem about the room. What about a carriage ride?”
“Now that’s just perfect. Why not wreck that memory, too? You betcha, big buddy, let’s go. And you can regale me with tales of how great it is being a hot-shot private eye in Raymond Chandler territory and I’ll do my Ayn Rand impersonation about how effectively I’m clawing my way to the top.”
“The white one wasn’t even available,” Amanda grumbled, snuggling under his arm and pulling the blanket tight under her chin.
“Yeah, I hope the horse knows what the hell he’s doing, because I think the old guy holding the reins is already asleep.”
“He’s probably just resting his eyes. You always think the worst.”
“And you always think the best. You’re gonna make some kid…”
“Marc.” She stopped him and became all business. “There’s a lot going to be going on in the next few days with the arraignment, the funeral and…” She took a very deep breath and pressed herself even closer to him. Maybe she could melt into him. Become one. He would have to take her with him. Career be damned.
“Yeah?”
“And I’d like to say…” She paused, unable to go on for a moment. “Knowing you has been…”
