Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 03 - Alive! by Loren D. Estleman

Hills and Paris, and to wear them only once before turning them over to some less fortunate wealthy woman. At the moment she was using Valentino’s desk as a vanity table, touching up her jet-trail eyebrows with the aid of a black pencil and a compact mirror with a mother-of-pearl case.
    “Your inferiority complex is showing, Teddie. You can go back and finish your education any time you want. Even your so-called great-great-grandmother got her diploma before she went into pictures.”
    “I never said she was my great-great-grandmother. An aunt, maybe, or a cousin. That was the family talk. I never took the trouble to look it up.”
    “Of course not. If you did and the Turk found out you’re a fraud, he might not like you anymore.”
    “I’m just not interested in the past. I’m no moldy fig like you and that old crotch across the hall. Gary Cooper or Tom Arnold, they’re all the same to me, as long as I can make a buck.” She snapped shut the case and returned it and the pencil to a red alligator clutch bag. He could picture her catching the gator with her bare hands and dyeing the hide with its blood.
    He took the seat he’d cleared off for Sergeant Gill and crossed his ankles on a pile of press clippings on the desk. “To what do I owe this invasion of my privacy?”
    “The Maltese Falcon chair showed up on Sotheby’s online catalogue this morning. What’s up your sleeve?”
    “Not a thing. Did you think I’d try to ring in anything but the real McCoy on the appraisers?”
    “Oh, I’m satisfied it’s genuine. Boy Scouts don’t run scams. Movie nerd that you are, you’d never part with that chair unless you needed to finance something better. What is it, foreign or American? Silent or talkie? We can strike a deal if you come clean, split the theatrical and distribution rights. I’ll find out what it is anyway, but if I have to go to that trouble I’ll cut you off at the ankles.”
    He laughed in relief. Teddie Goodman always operated on the principle that she knew more than you did, whoever you were. He’d been afraid she’d come to gloat over having sniped him out of some acquisition he’d been working on for months or years. To reveal ignorance was a desperate sign. Maybe his shot in the dark had hit something after all, and her honeymoon with Turkus was over.
    “Go ahead and bray, you hyena. I don’t make threats just to hear myself talk.”
    He stopped laughing, but not because she’d ceased to amuse him. “Someday, Teddie, you’ll snarl yourself in your own web. Not everyone’s as devious as you. I’ve got bills to pay. I’m sure your spies have kept you posted on what’s going on in West Hollywood.”
    “That white elephant? Why don’t you just sell your blood?”
    “I only had five quarts to spare.”
    “On the level?” She fixed him with eyes the color of teak, only without the warmth.
    “I swear it on your great-great-grandmother’s grave. Or your cousin’s. Whatever. It’s the truth. Not that it’s your business.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    He was exhausted suddenly. The exchange had made him forget for a moment his friend’s murder, but it all came rushing back into the void that existed between him and the creature seated behind his desk.
    They really were polar opposites: He saw money only as a means to the end of preserving film culture, while she rescued lost films only to finance her extravagant lifestyle. If he started condemning people for that, he wouldn’t have forged the professional relationships he needed to continue his crusade. She suspected such altruism and held it in contempt. But she was very good at what she did, maybe the best in the business. Theodosia Burr Goodman was the bizarro Valentino.
    “Believe what you want, Teddie. Can I call you a cab, or did you park your broom in the garage?”
    “That’s sexist, and lame besides.” She stood, holding her bag. She wasn’t as tall as she looked. He’d heard she’d come to town looking for