In the painting storeroom, the first of the sharpshooters from up in the ducts dropped down through the open vent.
"First thing I want in here's EMS," Charley snapped into his walkie- talkie. "We got us a newborn preemie and its mother. Front of the gallery, storeroom behind the dais. This kid has priority. Got that?"
"Roger."
"Over and out."
Zandra, head still nestled on Karl-Heinz's lap, smiled up at Charley with misty-eyed pleasure. "Oh, Charley. That's frightfully sweet of you."
"You're talkin' about Kenzie's godchild," Charley said. "Anybody tries to mess with the little guy, they gotta answer to me."
Suddenly he cocked his head and frowned.
"The fuck—?" he whispered, reaching for his weapon.
"What's the matter?" Karl-Heinz asked.
"Can't you hear it?"
Karl-Heinz listened and shook his head. "I can't hear anything."
"That's what I mean. All of a sudden it's too damn quiet out there."
Charley gestured at the sharpshooter to stay back, then moved, seemingly like a liquid shadow, to the edge of the doorway. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he inched his head around the doorjamb—
—then just as quickly whipped it back out of sight.
He slumped against the wall, feeling nausea and a dry, aching scream well up inside him.
Aw, shit! he thought. That palsied, crazed old coot Kenzie used to work for's holding a gun to her head! And that bitch she hired's jamming a revolver up Dina Goldsmith's chin!
Now what?
"Now," Charley told himself soundlessly, "you do what you gotta do."
He signaled at the sharpshooter to gauge the situation from his side of the doorway, then watched the man flatten himself next to it, inch his head around, and just as swiftly duck back.
A look of understanding passed between them.
Charley raised the Wilkinson Linda, and with his left hand, mimed masturbation. Then he pointed at himself.
Man. Mine.
The sharpshooter nodded.
Next Charley mimed voluptuous, imaginary breasts. He pointed at the sharpshooter.
Woman. Yours.
The sharpshooter nodded again.
Then they took up position, each a mirror image of the other, each prepared to whirl around, aim, and fire.
But they had to wait for the right moment, for all they would get was one shot each.
Neither of us can afford to miss, Charley thought grimly. Dina's life is in his hands. And Kenzie's is in mine.
On the dais, Dina stood stock-still, not daring to move anything except her eyes. The muzzle of the revolver dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath her chin, forcing her to keep her head raised at an unnatural angle.
Then a thought flashed through her mind and she suddenly remembered what it was that she had forgotten, but had wanted to warn the SWAT team about.
The ninth man—the one in the audience with the gadget which activated "Mr. Jones's" beeper.
Only I was wrong, Dina thought. Dead wrong.
There wasn't just a ninth man.
There had also been a tenth person. This woman.
Standing beside Dina, Kenzie remained equally still, but her eyes snapped around in desperation, beseeching someone—anyone!—to please try to help them. She had already used her eyes and words to plead with Mr. Spotts, but he wasn't buying. Nor was he in the least concerned for her. He kept glancing at Velazquez's infanta, his eyes aflame with a maniacal kind of greed.
"Can you imagine what it was like, my dear," he was saying, "devoting my entire life to providing rich collectors with the paintings I loved, which I cherished, and which I needed to possess? No, of course you can't. You are far too young and still an idealist. But wait a few decades, and maybe then you'll understand. Oh, yes! You'll come to loathe those nouveau-riche culture vultures who can't tell a Rembrandt from a Rubens!"
Kenzie shut her ears to the warbly diatribe. She kept thinking, This can't be happening. If I pinch myself, I'll wake up and discover it's only a nightmare.
For this was not the kindly A. Dietrich Spotts she'd once worked with, that gallant, polite gentleman of the old school.
This A. Dietrich Spotts was clearly unbalanced, and had to have been one of the masterminds behind this terror-ridden night.
"You played your part well, Kenzie," he told her. "If you hadn't hired Annalisa, we would never have managed to smuggle the weapons in."
Kenzie said sharply, "No! You are not going to hang any of this on me."
And the SWAT commander called out, "Drop your weapons and let the ladies go. It's over. You're surrounded."
Mr. Spotts cackled. "Oh, no. It isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Charley and the sharpshooter peered around the corner, then swiftly slammed back out of sight.
Goddammit! Charley growled to himself. Why can't they move? We need to get clear shots!
Mr. Spotts raised his quavery, thin voice. "We want our choice of ten paintings. Also, twenty million dollars in cash, transportation to the airport, and a waiting jet. You have one hour to arrange it, or ..." His voice trailed off.
Kenzie stared at him. "You're crazy! You'll never get away with this!"
"But we are getting away with it, my dear, we are!" he crowed, leaning his face right into hers and spraying spittle.
Kenzie's reflex was automatic—she winced and jerked her head aside.
Charley and the sharpshooter, sneaking another quick glance, mouthed, "Now!" And raising their weapons, they simultaneously pulled the triggers.
The bullets hit Mr. Spotts and Annalisa squarely in the forehead, killing them instantly. They both let their weapons drop and then fell, their heads striking the wooden dais with sickening thuds.
"Charley!" Kenzie screamed. "Charley!"
But he was already rushing forward, sweeping her up in his arms and twirling her around in midair.
"It's over, babe," he murmured softly when he set her back down. "God, but I love you!" He cupped her face in his hands. "I didn't even realize how much until I thought I might lose you!" He kissed her passionately, then enveloped her in his strong arms and held her close.
The three doors of the gallery were suddenly thrown open and EMS personnel trotted in with collapsible gurneys. The ones in the lead headed straight for the painting storeroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the SWAT commander announced, "you can leave now. If you'll take it slowly—"
He could have saved his breath. There was a mad rush for the doors.
Only Charley, Kenzie, and Dina remained where they were.
Dina, weak-kneed and wobbly, sat down on the edge of the dais.
Robert lumbered forward. "You aw right?" he asked, showing uncharacteristic concern.
"I-I think so, sweetie. But I could use some Xanax. It's in my purse."
He lumbered back to their seats to fetch it.
"Well?" Charley was asking Kenzie. "Does the hero still get the girl?"
She sighed with exasperation. "Charley, how many times do I have to tell you? The hero always gets the girl. Hasn't tonight taught you anything?"
"Like what?"
"Like, the only thing that matters are happily ever afters?"
She took off Hannes's jacket, and a thin, square plastic object with push buttons fell out of a pocket. The moment it hit the dais, the beeper in "Jones's" belt emitted a bleat.
Dina jumped to her feet. "What the—?" She stared around in terror.
Kenzie slowly bent down to retrieve the object. She pressed one of the buttons.
"Jones's" beeper sounded again.
"My God," she exclaimed softly. "This is Hannes's jacket! He lent it to me. Charley?"
"I have to go find him." He turned to go.
She took hold of his arm. "I don't think you need to hurry."
"Why?"
"Because something tells me you'll never catch him. I bet you anything he slipped the gadget into this pocket on purpose."
"But why would he—"
"To tell us. Not to thumb his nose, just to let us know. Like leaving a calling card."
"I'm still gonna have to put out an APB on him."
"If that's what you have to do, fine." She wrapped her arms around him. "But not before you give me one more nice big kiss."
They were too wrapped up in each other to notice the EMS gurney with Zandra and the baby rolling past. Karl-Heinz was hurrying alongside it, and Sofia and Erwein were trying to keep up.
"But ... but that's impossible!" Sofia was screaming. "You're lying!" She was tugging on the tail of Karl-Heinz's jacket. "It's a plot! You're all conspiring against me!"
Robert, bringing Dina her purse, stared at Sofia. "What in all hell—?"
"Oh, that," Dina said dismissively. "It's proof, sweetie. That's all."
"Proof?" His bushy eyebrows drew together. "Proof a what?"
And Dina, deciding against her tranquilizers and getting out her compact instead, said: "That all's well that ends even better!"