among men. See you soon. Bye.” He hung up.
She rose to her feet, stowed her phone, and left the spade where it was. Unbelievable. The handsome stranger from the bar was riding to her rescue like some kind of knight from a fairy tale. Stuff like that didn’t happen anymore—it just didn’t.
But her parents were hundreds of miles away in Vermont, she knew few people in the city, and she wasn’t going to look a gift knight in the mouth.
Nine
McDougal hung up the phone and let out a string of curses. Granny was MIA. Judging by the beaten-up boss, wolves other than himself were closing in, and Little Red Riding Hood was in tears . . . not to mention quite possibly in danger. What if her boss, in order to save his own skin, told his violent visitors who had the necklace?
McDougal reminded himself that the St. George piece was his priority, but in order to track the necklace, he had to get hot on the trail of Natalie’s kooky Nonnie, and what better place to start than her own home?
He headed down to the street and got a cab to take him to a well-known rental-car agency, where he picked up an SUV and was headed out of the city on FDR Drive, taking exit 17 for the Triboro Bridge within twenty minutes. En route, he placed a call to ARTemis in Miami to give an update on his activities.
“Ahtemis, may I help you?” sang Sheila Kofsky in her nasal Brooklyn accent. “Oh, it’s you, 007. Callin’ to tell me your thingy finally turned black and fell off?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Moneypenny,” he said dryly, “but my thingy is hale and hearty.”
Sheila was the company’s receptionist/office manager and mistress of disguise. She ruled over the wardrobe room with an iron fist, not to mention her inch-long acrylic talons. She had a cloud of improbably blond hair that crowned a face like a white raisin, and she always wore somewhat astonishing outfits. Her signature was her vast collection of reading glasses, which she customized to match her ensembles.
McDougal dropped his voice an octave and assumed a British accent. “So, tell Bond what you’re wearing today, my lovely.”
“Eat your heart out. You’re missing out on my violet spandex dress, olive platform peep-toes and the olive readers with the tiny bunches of grapes attached.”
Ye gods. “I’m deeply shaken, if not stirred.”
“What d’ya want, you rodent?”
“Moneypenny never called 007 a rodent,” he protested.
“Moneypenny was a ditz. I got another line ringing, so what d’ya want?”
“I’m chasing the St. George piece into Connecticut now. The target says it’s with her grandmother, but Granny’s taken a hike. I’ll check in with you later on further developments.”
“Fine. Now, get lost.”
“Love you, too, you old bag.” He hung up and shook his head. Without Sheila, life at ARTemis would run way too smoothly. He wasn’t sure why she’d been hired, but clearly Kelso, the silent majority owner of the company, liked having her around. It suited his warped sense of humor, McDougal figured.
Nobody had ever seen Kelso, but he pulled all of their strings from the ether as it suited him. He played practical jokes, fed information, and occasionally interfered in cases. McDougal had tried like hell to uncover his identity but had failed, just like the other agents. Kelso found their attempts endlessly amusing.
But McDougal found little to smile about in his current situation. He had a hunch that Natalie’s boss, Luc Ricard, had been working with black-market smugglers—nasty ones.
The fact that he’d told her not to call the police about his beating only confirmed that instinct. Nothing about the black market surprised McDougal, but it was a vast network with many sets and subsets and spinoffs of subsets.
Who were these particular people who’d had the necklace? Where had they gotten it? Were they Italians? Russians? Japanese? Arabs? Did they have a motive besides money? How far were they willing to go in order to get
She rose to her feet, stowed her phone, and left the spade where it was. Unbelievable. The handsome stranger from the bar was riding to her rescue like some kind of knight from a fairy tale. Stuff like that didn’t happen anymore—it just didn’t.
But her parents were hundreds of miles away in Vermont, she knew few people in the city, and she wasn’t going to look a gift knight in the mouth.
Nine
McDougal hung up the phone and let out a string of curses. Granny was MIA. Judging by the beaten-up boss, wolves other than himself were closing in, and Little Red Riding Hood was in tears . . . not to mention quite possibly in danger. What if her boss, in order to save his own skin, told his violent visitors who had the necklace?
McDougal reminded himself that the St. George piece was his priority, but in order to track the necklace, he had to get hot on the trail of Natalie’s kooky Nonnie, and what better place to start than her own home?
He headed down to the street and got a cab to take him to a well-known rental-car agency, where he picked up an SUV and was headed out of the city on FDR Drive, taking exit 17 for the Triboro Bridge within twenty minutes. En route, he placed a call to ARTemis in Miami to give an update on his activities.
“Ahtemis, may I help you?” sang Sheila Kofsky in her nasal Brooklyn accent. “Oh, it’s you, 007. Callin’ to tell me your thingy finally turned black and fell off?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Moneypenny,” he said dryly, “but my thingy is hale and hearty.”
Sheila was the company’s receptionist/office manager and mistress of disguise. She ruled over the wardrobe room with an iron fist, not to mention her inch-long acrylic talons. She had a cloud of improbably blond hair that crowned a face like a white raisin, and she always wore somewhat astonishing outfits. Her signature was her vast collection of reading glasses, which she customized to match her ensembles.
McDougal dropped his voice an octave and assumed a British accent. “So, tell Bond what you’re wearing today, my lovely.”
“Eat your heart out. You’re missing out on my violet spandex dress, olive platform peep-toes and the olive readers with the tiny bunches of grapes attached.”
Ye gods. “I’m deeply shaken, if not stirred.”
“What d’ya want, you rodent?”
“Moneypenny never called 007 a rodent,” he protested.
“Moneypenny was a ditz. I got another line ringing, so what d’ya want?”
“I’m chasing the St. George piece into Connecticut now. The target says it’s with her grandmother, but Granny’s taken a hike. I’ll check in with you later on further developments.”
“Fine. Now, get lost.”
“Love you, too, you old bag.” He hung up and shook his head. Without Sheila, life at ARTemis would run way too smoothly. He wasn’t sure why she’d been hired, but clearly Kelso, the silent majority owner of the company, liked having her around. It suited his warped sense of humor, McDougal figured.
Nobody had ever seen Kelso, but he pulled all of their strings from the ether as it suited him. He played practical jokes, fed information, and occasionally interfered in cases. McDougal had tried like hell to uncover his identity but had failed, just like the other agents. Kelso found their attempts endlessly amusing.
But McDougal found little to smile about in his current situation. He had a hunch that Natalie’s boss, Luc Ricard, had been working with black-market smugglers—nasty ones.
The fact that he’d told her not to call the police about his beating only confirmed that instinct. Nothing about the black market surprised McDougal, but it was a vast network with many sets and subsets and spinoffs of subsets.
Who were these particular people who’d had the necklace? Where had they gotten it? Were they Italians? Russians? Japanese? Arabs? Did they have a motive besides money? How far were they willing to go in order to get
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