Hidden Riches

wound on her shoulder had slowed to a sluggish ooze. “About the painting.”
    Her teeth were chattering. She’d never been so cold, so cold that even her bones felt like frigid sticks. While her arm and shoulder spurted fire, the rest of her seemed cased in ice. She tried to speak, but the words hitched one moment and slurred drunkenly the next. “The police . . . The police took it.”
    “I know that.” The first sizzle of anger crept into his words. “I’m not a fool, Isadora, as you obviously believe. The police have the painting, and I intend to get it back. I paid for it.”
    “They took it away.” Her head lolled on her shoulder, then rolled weakly against the wall. The room was losing its color, going gray. “To grandmother’s house,” she said,edging toward delirium. “Then away. I don’t know.”
    “I can see you need incentive.” He set the gun aside and loosened his tie. Dully, Dora watched him slip out of his jacket. When he reached for the gold buckle of his belt, slippery fingers of horror crept through the shock.
    “Don’t touch me.” She tried to crawl away but the room revolved sickeningly so that she could only curl in a ball in a congealing puddle of her own blood. “Please, don’t.”
    “No, no. Unlike DiCarlo, I have no plans to force myself on you. But a good whipping with this belt may loosen your tongue. It may be hard for you to believe, but I actually enjoy inflicting pain.” He wrapped the end of the belt around his hand, the buckle loose to add bite to the beating. “Now, Isadora, where is the painting?”
    She saw him pick up the gun and raise the belt at the same time. All she could do to try to block both weapons was close her eyes.
     
    “You can drop me out front,” Jed told Brent.
    “Nope. Door-to-door service.” He whipped into the parking lot, spitting gravel. “If you had any heart, you’d ask me up for a beer.”
    “I haven’t got any heart.” Jed pushed the door open and glanced back at Brent’s engaging grin. “Sure, come ahead.” If nothing else, it would put off the time he’d have to spend alone, waiting for morning.
    “You got any of that imported stuff?” Brent slung a friendly arm over Jed’s shoulders as they trooped toward the steps. “Mexican, maybe? I really feel like—”
    When they heard the thin cry, they each slapped a weapon into their hands. They charged through the door in a dead run. Years of partnership clicked seamlessly into place. When Jed kicked open Dora’s door, he went in high, Brent low.
    The faintest flicker of irritation crossed Finley’s face as he whirled. Two police issues fired simultaneously. Two 9mm bullets caught Finley high in the chest.
    “God. Oh God.” With terror singing in his head, Jedrushed to Dora. He said her name over and over like a prayer as he ripped off her blouse and used it to staunch the oozing blood. “Hang on, baby. You hang on.”
    There was so much blood, he thought frantically. Too much. And because it had begun to clot, he knew too much time had passed. When he looked at her still, white face he had one moment of unspeakable horror when he thought she was dead. But she was shaking. He could feel the racking trembles of shock even as he peeled off his jacket to cover her.
    “You’re going to be okay. Dora, baby, can you hear me?”
    Her eyes were wide and dilated and remained unfocused. The second bullet had gone through the fleshy part of her upper arm. She hadn’t even felt it.
    “Use this.” Brent pushed a towel into Jed’s shaking hands and folded another to place under Dora’s head. “Ambulance is on the way.” He spared a glance at the body sprawled on the rug. “He’s dead.”
    “Dora, listen to me. You listen to me, damn it.” Jed worked quickly as he spoke to her, using the towel to pad the upper wound and what was left of her blouse to fashion a pressure bandage. “I want you to hold on. Just hold on.” Then he could think of nothing else but to gather her close and rock her. “Please. Stay with me. I need you to stay with me.”
    He felt the light brush of her hand on his cheek. When he looked down at her face, her lips trembled open. “Don’t—don’t tell my parents,” she whispered. “I don’t want them to worry.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY
    H e would have wept if it would have helped. He’d tried everything else. Swearing, pacing, praying. Now he could only sit, his head in his hands, and wait.
    The Conroys were there. Jed wondered if Dora