Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell Read Free Book Online Page B

owners—all that were required to be listed—was Christie’s (brokered on behalf of a very private client); it was later sold to a private collector by the name of Sarah Wiggant, who died last year, and was then owned by Reggie himself, the ultimate death chaser. He had purchased it from her estate less than a year ago.
    Erik didn’t have to look at his hand-size portable computer/cell phone to key up the Research department at Rarities Unlimited. He could find the code in the dark—and often had, when he got up in the middle of the night with an inspiration.
    Since his own code automatically registered as he “dialed,” his call was routed directly to the person who was handling his previous research request.
    “Shelby here. Whadya think I am, God? I haven’t had your stuff long enough to—”
    Erik cut in quickly. “Just wanted to add to the search list. I copied my screen to your computer, so all you have to do is—”
    “Yeah yeah, got it. Anything else?”
    “No.”
    The cell phone went dead.
    “Say hello to the wife and kids for me, Shel,” Erik said into the useless phone. “And good-bye to me, too.”
    But Erik was smiling as he dumped the handset back into its charging cradle. Shelby Knudsen was a black former pro football player who had broken his back during scrimmage and discovered while in traction for a long, scary recuperation that he had a gift for tickling facts out of computer files.
    Researchers could be trained. Born researchers had to be found. Next to Factoid, Shel was the most brilliant researcher Rarities had. Erik knew it was a sign of Dana Gaynor’s high regard that he had been given Shel on such short notice.
    Or else she knew something about those pages she wasn’t telling Erik. It wouldn’t be the first time.
    It wouldn’t be the last.

Chapter 7
PALM DESERT
WEDNESDAY EVENING
    B y the time Serena followed the directions to Warrick’s Palm Desert estate, it was dark. Even at night, the place was impressive. The Mediterranean-style house was set dramatically against the stark black rise of the mountains, pinned by static swords of security lights, and surrounded by stucco walls, wrought-iron gates, palm trees, ocotillo, and barrel cactus. Exterior security lights set off vast colorful plantings of snapdragons and petunias. Sprawling bougainvillea vines shed bright petals that piled up in windrows at the base of the high walls.
    The twelve-foot-high front gate had cameras as well as the usual number pad. Because she hadn’t been told the gate code, she punched the button marked visitor and spoke her name into the microphone grille.
    “Welcome, Ms. Charters. The Warricks are expecting you.” The voice was clear, pleasant, and male. “Please follow the main drive to the house.”
    The gate retracted just enough to allow her through. The instant her van cleared a hidden detector, the gate closed so quickly that it all but banged into her bumper. Soon she was surrounded by tightly mowed lawns, fountains, and trees that owed more to Italy than to the New World. The drive was at least a quarter mile long. The house itself was big enough to be called baronial: pale stone facade, three stories, with vertical windows set at regular intervals on all levels. Olive trees and cypress pruned into unlikely shapes lined the long walkway to the entrance.
    Though Serena knew this tract of land had been nothing but rocky desert when she was a girl, the house and grounds looked as if they had been in place for five hundred years.
    Wonder if they need any hangings for their castle walls? Serena thought wryly.
    The Warricks certainly could afford her weaving. One of her continuing sources of bittersweet amusement was that she didn’t have enough money to buy her own work. She could barely afford to keep a favorite piece off the market and in her own home.
    As soon as Serena turned off the engine, the massive front door opened. She half expected to see a leggy young thing in a French maid’s