Golden Buddha Part 13

Truitt was pleased and he smiled.

Then he reached into another bag and removed a dental appliance and slid it over his top row of teeth. Now he had a slightly bucktoothed look. Removing a pair of tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses from the bag, he placed them over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. If it was geek he was seeking, he'd hit the mother lode. All that remained was to grease down his hair and sprinkle a little false dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. Perfect.

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Walking into the living room of the suite, he removed a doc.u.ment from the out tray in his printer and gave it an examination. It was ornate and pompous in true British fashion. By royal appointment to the queen, said one line. Since 1834, said another. Truitt folded the doc.u.ment and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he turned off the computer and printer and packed it into its case. His bags were already packed and sitting by the door. He returned to the bathroom to gather up his things there, then walked back into the living room and slid them into a side pocket of one of the bags. Then he walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.

"On my way," he said quietly.

"Good luck," Cabrillo replied.

Now he just needed to make his way out of the room without being seen.

1 7 OR THE MOST part, Linda Ross was a good-natured and positive JL person.

That's what made playing Iselda so much fun. Most people have a b.i.t.c.hy side--they just keep it suppressed. Since the report on Iselda claimed she suppressed the best and not the worst, Ross was playing the opportunity to the hilt. Riding down the elevator to the parking garage, she stepped over to the attendant's window and frowned. The man raced from the enclosure to bring her car. As Ross waited, she tried to decide what Iselda would tip and decided it was probably nothing.

The attendant pullod up in a dirty Peugeot and opened the door.

Ross slid into the driver's seat and muttered "I'll get you next time" to the attendant and slammed the door. The inside of the car smelled like a Wisconsin roadhouse at closing time. The carpet was littered with ashes and the ashtray was overflowing. The inside of the windows were covered with a film of nicotine.

"Here we go," she whispered as she reached into the glove box and removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Then she placed the Peugeot I into drive and rolled out to the street. Ten minutes later she pulled in front of the mansion and pa.s.sed her first test.

"Open the gate," she shouted at the guard, who stared inside and, seeing it was her, pushed a b.u.t.ton, "I'm late."

Parking over to one side of the driveway, she climbed from the car and lit another cigarette.

"Dump my ashtray when you get a chance," she said to a gardener who walked past.

The man ignored her and continued on. Walking to the front door, she rang the bell, then waited until the butler opened the door.

"Out of my way," she said as she swept past and headed for where she remembered the kitchen to be from the blueprints she'd memorized.

Bursting into the kitchen, she stared at the stove, then turned to one of the chefs Iselda had hired.

"Is that the bisque?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," the Chinese chef answered.

Strutting over to the stove, she removed the lid and smelled. "Spoon, please."

The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup.

"Seems light on the lobster," she said.

"I'll add more," the chef said.

"Good, good," Ross said. "If Mr. Ho needs me, I'll be out back.

Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffs--I want to sample them."

"Very good," the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door leading to the grounds.

As soon as she was spotted leaving the house, the caterer in charge of the libations walked toward her. He paused and stared.

"You look particularly lovely today, Miss Iselda," he said.

"Flattery will get you zilch," Ross said. "Do you have everything ready?"

"Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday," the caterer said.

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d.a.m.n, Ross thought.

"What thing?" Ross said. "I can't be expected to remember everything."

"The glacier ice," the caterer said. "It will be here in another hour or so."

"Good, good," Ross said. "Now make sure all the gla.s.sware is polished."

She hurried away to where a chef with an electric chain saw was cutting an ice sculpture.

The caterer shook his head at the exchange. Her demeanor was the same, but the caterer could swear that the mole on Iselda's cheek was a few inches lower. He banished the thought and went to check the gla.s.ses.

Ross crushed her cigarette out under her high heel. Her head was spinning from all the smoking, and she paused and took a few deep breaths. "More detail on the wings," she said to the chef, who nodded and continued working. A tall man walked past carrying several stacked chairs. He smiled and winked.

High in a hickory tree on the property, a Corporation employee dressed in a ghillie suit that blended into the leaves keyed a microphone and spoke.

"Linda's in and working," he said quietly.

STANLEY HO WAS standing in his top-floor office staring down at the party preparations. He had seen Iselda walk onto the yard, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her. The butch Portuguese woman annoyed Ho--she was good at what she did, but she took herself much too seriously. This was a party, after all, not a Broadway musical. From past experience, Ho realized that a few hours from now most of the guests he had invited would be so inebriated that if he served rat as an entree, most wouldn't even notice.

I.

Ho was more concerned by the insurance adjuster who was due to arrive.

That and the fact that on the history of the Golden Buddha he had commissioned, the historian had noted that the icon supposedly had a secret storage compartment Ho had yet to find. It was a minor detail, but it bugged him nonetheless. The insurance adjuster was apparently an expert in ancient Asian art. Ho figured he'd question him when he arrived and see if he could supply the answer.

If not, Spenser would be here soon and Ho could ask him about it.

T) ICHARD TRUITT DROVE the rental car carefully up Praia Grande JL Vjo the gate of the mansion, then stopped. Rolling down the window, he handed the guard his invitation.

"Let me call the house," the guard said.

Dialing Ho's extension, the guard waited.

"Mr. Ho," the guard said, "there's a Mr. Samuelson from the insurance company here."

That wasn't who he'd been dealing with, Ho thought.

"Go ahead and let him in," Ho said, "and have him wait downstairs."

Then he hung up and dialed another number.

"Go on in," the guard said. "Park by the garage and wait downstairs."

Ho tapped his finger on the desk while the telephone rang.

"La.s.siter residence," a voice with a Cantonese accent answered.

"This is Stanley Ho. Is Mr. La.s.siter available?"

"Mr. La.s.siter sick," the voice said. "Doctor coming soon."

"Did he leave any message if I called?" Ho asked.

"Hold on," the voice said.

Ho waited a few minutes, then a croaking voice came on the line.

"Sorry, old bean," the voice sputtered, "I've taken ill. A Mr.130 .

Samuelson from our main office was in town. He'll keep the appointment as scheduled."

La.s.siter didn't sound anything like himself, Ho thought. Whatever he'd caught sounded serious. "He's here now," Ho said.

"Don't worry, Mr. Ho," the voice said, hacking, "he's very knowledgeable, an expert on ancient Asian art."

"I hope you feel better soon," Ho said.

The sound of a phlegmy coughing fit erupted that lasted for almost a minute.

"Me, too," the voice said, "and I hope I can view the Golden Buddha very soon."

Ho hung up the telephone and rose to walk downstairs.

On the Oregon, the operator disconnected the line and turned to the man who had portrayed La.s.siter.

"For a chef," he said quietly, "you make a h.e.l.l of a spy."

WINSTON SPENSER WAS not wired for a life of crime and deceit.

At this instant, he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room.

Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before, but in fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart. The tension that comes from living a lie, from being wrapped in deceit, from doing what one knows is wrong. By now there was nothing but bile rising--any food he had ingested was long gone, any liquor left was in his pores.

Spenser reached up, grabbed a hand towel, then wiped the corners of his mouth.

Rising from the floor, he stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray. The tension he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face. They twitched and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan. He reached up to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye, but his hand was shaking.

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He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.

T) ICHARD TRUITT STOOD in the living room, waiting. He stared JL.^around the room and tried to form a picture of his target. If Truitt was to guess, he figured the man who resided here was self-made and had only recently become affluent. He based this judgment on the furnishings and general decor. The pieces in the room were expensive enough, they just had no soul. And they were arranged in a fashion favoring flash over comfort. The possessions of old money always contained a story--the story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in bulk to fill a s.p.a.ce and give a picture of the occupant that was neither real nor imaginative.

There was a stuffed lion, but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked and shot the animal himself. A few paintings from contemporary artists like Pica.s.so, but the paintings were far from the artists' best works.

Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value. Guests without foundation or substance would be rightly impressed. An ancient coat of armor that to Truitt's eye appeared to be a reproduction ... a French Louis XVI-style couch that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of nails.

"Mr. Samuelson," a voice said from the staircase.

Truitt turned to see who was speaking.

The man was small. Five and a half feet tall and slight of build. His hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler. The mouth was small, with teeth that held a certain feral rage. Although Truitt imagined the man was smiling to be friendly, the effect from his grin made Truitt want to reach for his wallet to see if it was safe.

"I'm Stanley Ho," the man said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and extending his hand.

The stage was set and Truitt became the actor.

"Paul Samuelson," he said, extending a slightly limp wrist for a i 133.

handshake. "The home office asked me to take over for Mr. La.s.siter, who has unfortunately been stricken with a bug."

Truitt's version of Samuelson was coming across as a lightin-the-loafers Michael Caine.

"I trust you're familiar with this type of sculpture?"

"Oh, yes," Truitt gushed. "I did graduate studies in Asian art. It's one of my favorite forms."

Ho motioned to the stairs, then led the way up. "The object is known as the Golden Buddha. Are you in any way familiar with the piece?"

They rounded the first leg of the stairs and crossed the landing to the second flight.

"I'm afraid not," Truitt said breathlessly. "Has it ever been displayed?"

"No," Ho said quickly. "It has been part of a private collection for decades."

"Then I shall examine it with an eye for comparison to the other pieces I am familiar with."

They had exited the second flight and were winding their way around to the last set of stairs.

"You have a beautiful home," Truitt lied. "The staircases are mahogany, are they not?"