Hidden Riches Read Online Free PDF Page A

open market. But it was mass-produced. Thousands of teapots exactly like this one were on sale across the world. So to him it was completely worthless. He smashed it against the edge of the crate and sent shards flying.
    â€œWhat else?”
    Quaking, Winesap plunged his hand deep into the crate and drew out a swirling glass vase.
    Italian, Finley deduced as he inspected it. Handmade. A value of $100, perhaps $150. He hurled it, barely missing Winesap’s head, and sent it crashing against the wall.
    â€œThere’s—there’s teacups.” Winesap’s eyes darted to the crate and back to his employer’s stony face. “And some silver—two platters, a candy dish. A p-pair of crystal goblets etched with wedding bells.”
    â€œWhere is my merchandise?” Finley demanded, biting off each word.
    â€œSir, I can’t—that is, I believe there’s been . . .” His voice drained out to a whisper. “An error.”
    â€œAn error.” Finley’s eyes were like jade as he clenched his fists at his sides. DiCarlo, he thought, conjuring up an image of his man in New York. Young, bright, ambitious. But not stupid, Finley reminded himself. Not stupid enough to attempt a double cross. Still, he would have to pay, and pay dearly for this error.
    â€œGet DiCarlo on the phone.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Relieved that Finley’s wrath was about to find a new target, Winesap darted to the desk to place the call.
    As Winesap dialed, Finley crunched shards of china into the carpet. Reaching into the crate, he systematically destroyed the rest of the contents.

CHAPTER
TWO
    J ed Skimmerhorn wanted a drink. He wasn’t particular about the type. Whiskey that would burn a line down his throat, the seductive warmth of brandy, the familiar tang of a beer. But he wasn’t going to get one until he’d finished carting boxes up these damn rickety back steps and into his new apartment.
    Not that he had a hell of a lot of possessions. His old partner, Brent, had given him a hand with the sofa, the mattress and the heavier pieces of furniture. All that remained were a few cardboard boxes filled with books and cooking utensils and other assorted junk. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept even that much when it would have been easier to put it all in storage.
    Then again, he wasn’t sure of a lot of things these days. He couldn’t explain to Brent, or to himself, why he’d found it so necessary to move across town, out of the huge oldColonial and into an apartment. It was something about fresh starts. But you couldn’t start fresh until you’d ended.
    Jed had been doing a lot of ending lately.
    Turning in his resignation had been the first step—perhaps the hardest. The police commissioner had argued, refusing to accept the resignation and putting Jed on extended leave. It didn’t matter what it was called, Jed mused. He wasn’t a cop anymore. Couldn’t be a cop anymore. Whatever part of him had wanted to serve and protect was hollowed out.
    He wasn’t depressed, as he’d explained to the department shrink. He was finished. He didn’t need to find himself. He just needed to be left alone. He’d given fourteen years of his life to the force. It had to be enough.
    Jed elbowed open the door to the apartment and braced it with one of the boxes he carried. He slid the second box across the wooden floor before heading back down the narrow hallway toward the outside steps that served as his entrance.
    He hadn’t heard a peep from his neighbor across the hall. The eccentric old man who had rented him the place had said that the second apartment was occupied but the tenant was as quiet as a mouse.
    It certainly seemed that way.
    Jed started down the steps, noting with annoyance that the banister wouldn’t hold the weight of a malnourished three-year-old. The steps themselves were slick with the sleet that continued to