Moving Target Read Online Free PDF Page B

dryly. “You’re the original tall, dark, and handsome. Hell, I’ve never even been married.”
    Niall gave a crack of laughter. “That’s just it. He figures you’ve got it wired. Women chasing you and none catching.”
    “The boy has a great fantasy life,” Erik said. “Tell him to keep on dreaming. It beats the hell out of my reality. Anything else on your tiny little mind?”
    “Gently, boyo. This is your boss you’re insulting.”
    “I work for Dana.”
    “The Fuzzy side,” Niall said in disgust, referring to the Fine Arts side of Rarities, as opposed to the Security side, which he ran. “When are you going to come back to the real side? I could use you.”
    “I’m a born-again Fuzzy.”
    “Balls.”
    “You’ve assured me that Fuzzies don’t have any.”
    Niall snickered and gave up for the moment. “McCoy wants a birthday present for Gretchen. I told him to get a vat of oil and a—”
    “Way too much information!” Erik cut in swiftly.
    “Then what’s your suggestion?”
    Erik opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Factoid’s seething ambition to get his boss Gretchen into bed was the running joke of Rarities Unlimited. Gretchen was ten years older than her would-be lover and built like a Wagnerian diva. McCoy had a turbocharged metabolism; no matter how much junk food he ate, he had to stand beside himself to cast a shadow.
    “Prayer,” Erik said finally. “If that fails, virtual reality has my vote. There are websites out there that are guaranteed to rot your dick right off. Anything else?”
    “One of our sources at Sotheby’s heard rumors of some unknown, very high-quality manuscript pages surfacing.”
    “Twelfth-century Celtic?” Erik asked instantly, knowing that this was the real reason Niall was on the phone.
    “I called you, didn’t I?”
    “Insular script?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Latin or vulgate?”
    “Hell, boyo. I’m no Fuzzy.”
    “Did the pages come to Sotheby’s?” Erik asked.
    “No. House of Warrick. New York office.”
    “Shit. If the pages are really good, the old man will buy them for his auction house, or even himself. Just because he prefers fifteenth-century manuscripts doesn’t mean he doesn’t buy others. Did Warrick contact you?”
    “No. Our mole did. The stuff is in for preliminary appraisal only. Color copies, not the real thing. Nothing was said about selling.”
    “Any kind of appraisal is the first step to selling,” Erik said impatiently. “I want to see those pages. If that fails, at least get me the copies. Find out the owner’s name.”
    “Factoid’s working on it, but nothing has been entered into Warrick’s computer yet, or if it has, it’s on a secure computer. Or maybe the boy’s holding out for a really spiffy gift suggestion from you.”
    “Chocolate syrup.”
    “What?”
    “Tell him to pour it into her—”
    “Talk about too much information!” Niall cut in hastily. “I’m too young to hear this stuff.”
    “Bull.” Before Niall could argue, Erik said, “Get me the information about those pages.”
    “Since when did you start giving orders to your bosses?”
    “I’m an independent consultant, remember?”
    “On retainer.”
    “Want it back?”
    “Not today, boyo. I’ll wait until you piss me off.”
    The sound changed, telling Erik that his employer/friend had hung up with his usual lack of ceremony.
    “Good-bye to you, too,” Erik said.
    He punched the end button and put the unit back in its cradle.
His left hand picked up the quill. His right hand reached for the penknife.
    The front-gate buzzer went off.
    Erik cursed. He turned, looked through the south window, and saw the white, purple, and orange van of FedEx delivery service. For a moment he was tempted to ignore the interruption. He wasn’t expecting any shipments. On the other hand, the unexpected was often the most interesting thing that happened on any given day.
    He went to the intercom on the other side of the room, punched a button,