Adult Content Warning
The following work of fiction may contain language, violence or themes considered unsuitable for young readers. Parental discretion is advised. (If this story was a film, it would likely pull a PG-13 rating.)

The Witch in Scarlet

A Trick Molloy Mystery

©2009 Michael A. Stackpole

Part Eleven

I let the local heat know I'd once been 'on the job.' I spoke their language and wasn't carrying, so that calmed them down. A detective pulled me aside, her partner did the same with Sahara, and our statements matched.

While they conferred, I studied the thieves. Three of the four said nothing, just glowered. They were a professional crew. The fourth, Darth Stupid, had a couple of prison tats and squirmed. One of the tats was a gothic "88" marking him as an Aryan. That made linking the crew with Freilich just too easy; but White Supremists had never struck me as being terribly bright.

Satisfied with our involvement, the cops let Sahara and me go. She met Wayne outside, so we didn't get a chance to talk. Turned out that was a good thing. I needed time to think. I got a little before sleep caught up with me.

Then I dreamed about Natalia, Sahara and the Witch in Scarlet.

Proving, once again, why there's a difference between the word sleep and the word rest.

***

Pounding on my door summoned me to a breakfast meeting. A linebacker gave me ten minutes to get ready. Hair still wet, I entered the penthouse. Freilich, Harry, Sahara and Wayne were waiting for me. The senior Patterson was nowhere in sight.

Didn't mean he wasn't watching.

Wayne smiled. "Very good, we can start now." He waved us to seats. I perched on the arm of a couch. Freilich took the chair that Patterson had used the night before. Harry sat near him on the couch and Sahara centered herself between us.

The younger man stood in the middle of the room. "Last night there was an attempted theft of The Witch in Scarlet. Save for the intervention of Mr. Molloy here, thieves would have made off with it. Because of him, the police captured the thieves. One of them is affiliated with your organization, Mr. Freilich."

"If you even think of suggesting that I had anything to do with…"

Wayne cut him off—a ballsier move than I'd have given him credit for. "Doesn't matter what I think, Mr. Freilich. My father has decided you are to be eliminated from the bidding. Your bill has been paid. Your things are being packed. Our people will escort you from the premesis."

Freilich's eyes narrowed. "So, this is how you choose to play things."

Harry smiled. "Given that Mr. Freilich is out of the running, then I suggest we conclude business right here. 3.5 million. I'll write the check right now."

Way to go, Harry. 1.3 under the estimate.

Wayne smiled, but looked down. "My father anticipated that offer, Mr. Anderson. He declines. The auction is still set for Friday. More bidders may come."

Freilich's face lit up for a nano-second, then he glared at me. "You know this isn't over between us, yes?"

"Take your best shot." I turned my back to him. "Come on, do it now. You know you want to."

Wayne waved a linebacker forward. "We'll have no violence here, thank you. Go in peace, Mr. Freilich."

The linebacker dwarfed Freilich. I wanted to see him tuck the smaller man under his arm, but things remained civil.

Once the door closed behind them, Wayne looked hopefully toward me. "My father suggested we keep Sahara out of all this. Based on your conversation last night, he didn't think you would mind."

"That's another one he owes me." I wondered if Wayne actually knew what his father was doing. He wasn't saving Sahara. He was focusing Freilich on me. The kid probably didn't. He'd existed so long in the rat-maze his father made of life, he probably couldn't see the manipulation. That had to be it. Wayne wasn't that conniving.

Harry stood. "Is there anything else?"

"My father wanted you to know he has doubled security. The rest of the Coven should be safe."

"Thank you." Harry smiled. "I've already taken the precaution of moving the paintings off-site, to a secure location."

"A wise idea." Wayne bowed and pointed us to the door. "I hope to see you both later."

Out in the hallway Harry grabbed my arm and steered me across the hall his suite. We entered in silence. He crossed immediately to the bar and poured himself three fingers of Scotch. He offered me nothing, then dropped himself into a brown leather chair. It matched Patterson's.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd met Patterson, Patrick?"

"That's the kind of detail I usually share over drinks."

He waved me to the bar.

"With people I like."

"Patrick, focus. This is not about liking or disliking, this is about the will."

No Irish at the bar. "What difference does it make?"

"You are kidding." Harry sat forward, cupping the snifter between both hands. "When Alfred Wayne Patterson pays off favors, things happen. Mountains get moved, literally. There are at least two Central American nations that have undergone regime change because of him."

I shrugged. "So you want me to burn a favor and get him to give you his suite?"

"No, I want him to cancel the auction."

I crossed to the corner with a small dining table, drew one of the side chairs around. I sat, then tipped it back against the wall, right above a packing case for a painting. "That's not going to happen."

"It will if you ask."

"No, Harry, it won't." I opened my arms. "Patterson doesn't care about the money. He's just interested in watching what folks will do for money. It's his only form of entertainment."

"I can't believe you won't help out the family."

He used his offended, little-brother voice to make that comment. Blindsided me. Part of me almost blurted out an agreement. Another part wanted to sooth him. In a flash I was back being the screw-up older brother, with Harry coming to ask me why Mommy was crying. The hurt in his voice used to get to me, back before I knew he just enjoyed manipulating me.

I tipped the chair forward and stood. "No, Harry, it's not helping the family. It's helping you. Maybe I'll help myself. Maybe I'll just head over there and burn a favor, getting him to give me the painting. I win."

The smile he couldn't cover betrayed him.

I shook my head. "Planned for that contingency, too, did you? Great."

"You can't out-smart me, Patrick."

"Then I'll stop trying." I opened the door. "But don't forget. You need me. And there will come a time when my help is going to cost more than you can afford."




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