The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  “I remember. That is my gift to you, for being my, um… knight in white armor.”

  “White knight, or knight in shining armor. I’m not either, but thanks.” I give her a thank-you kiss. “I’ll text you an address. What you did for Belaiev’s canvas? Do with this one. No duties or inspections.”

  She laughs. Angels playing scales on clouds. “You think of these things, you could be Italiano.”

  A car horn screams off the courtyard walls. We both jump.

  Carson’s voice cuts through the dawn’s quiet. “Either get a room, or he has to leave for the airport.”

  “In a minute,” I tell her in my best boss’s voice.

  Gianna’s face scrunches in a mom’s-scolding-us grimace. “Now you have the trouble.”

  “She still works for me. There are limits.”

  We snuggle for a few moments. I notice Carson watching and point inside the car. She gives me the finger, but disappears.

  Gianna sighs. “Do you come back to Milano?”

  God, I wish. “I’ll do everything I can to get back here. When I do, my first stop’ll be to see you. And you’re going to give me a full tour of your gallery. That’s not optional.”

  She smiles up at me. “Maybe I have more than one gallery then.”

  She’ll do fine.

  This time it’s a seven-stars-out-of-five kiss that’s over way too soon. We break apart just far enough to hold onto each other’s hands and take one long, last look.

  “Let me know how you’re doing,” I say.

  She nods. “Arrivederci, Rick.”

  I swallow hard and let her go. “Arrivederci, bella.”

  Chapter 58

  The long drive to Malpensa is very quiet except for the loud thinking we’re both doing. The end’s rushing at us way faster than I’m ready for. In a few hours, I’ll be back to being nobody, invisible. Disposable. Just when I’m getting used to being a person again, even if I’m a fake person.

  It’s not until we’re chopping through the early-morning traffic on the ramp to Terminal 1’s check-in level that Carson says anything. “Like what you did for her.”

  Not the reaction I expected. “Yeah?”

  She nods. “Kept your promise. Too many guys don’t do that.”

  I know. I never used to.

  The entrance to Delta’s check-in counters is at nearly the far end of the low-slung, tan-concrete-and-black-glass terminal. Carson muscles the Alfa into a space not much bigger than three cocktail napkins between a taxi and a delivery van. She pops the trunk, sighs, then braces her palms against the wheel. “Here you go. I’ll dump the car.”

  That’s it? I watch her stare out her side window for a few moments. I thought we’d made more progress than this, that we’d at least say goodbye. “What’re you going to tell Allyson about me?”

  She shrugs after a moment. “You’re a pain in the ass. Useless in a fight. You liked that dress way too much.”

  “I’ll see that dress in my sleep.”

  “Hope it gives you nightmares.”

  The words sound like the Carson I met three weeks ago, but the tone’s different. She’d have been drawing blood back in Brussels, but now it’s like she’s throwing packing peanuts at me. What I can’t tell is whether she thinks this is banter, or she just doesn’t care.

  “Is that all you’re going to tell her?”

  She abuses the steering wheel a little. “You did okay. You did shit—” she throws up her hands “—I wouldn’t have a clue. You’re smart. Learn fast.” She examines the backs of her hands, now resting on the wheel. “But Jesus, you were way too nice to me. Stand up for yourself.”

  The slouch, looking everywhere but at me… is this Carson feeling guilty? Not knowing what to say? Not knowing where she stands? That’s my life since the arrest. “Carson… I get it now. Why you did what you did back there. Why you try to put people off. I just… I was surprised. But I understand.”

  Carson watches a Volvo station wagon replace the delivery van. She swallows. “Take off. Gonna miss your flight.”

  “It’s in three hours.”

  “It’s Italy. Might take that long to check in.”

  I’d told Carson I’d started to like her. It’s true, and it’s not just about that dress. Nearly all the women I’ve had relationships with have been a type—pretty, high-strung, high-maintenance, not especially reliable. Carson’s like a Crown Victoria next to a bunch of Ferraris. She’s done everything she’s said she would and she’s backed me up even when she’s had the chance to screw me over. That’s gold in my world.

  Imagine that… I’m going to miss her.

  “Are we ever going to see each other again?”

  Carson twists in her seat to frown at me. She shrugs and turns away. “Allyson’s decision.”

  “Is it?”

  She turns to look at me again. This time, she looks puzzled.

  “We make a pretty good team, you know.”

  Her face softens at the speed of ice cream in a cool room. Finally, the corners of her mouth turn up just a tick. “Yeah.”

  That little hint of a smile is like a big grin on anybody else. “Next time I need a thug or a burglar on a project, I’ll call for you.”

  Carson snorts. “Next time I need an egghead artsy-type on a job, maybe I’ll ask for you. Work on my wardrobe some more.” Her voice is almost playful.

  “God knows it needs it.”

  Her smile gets bigger and more lopsided. This is where I hoped we’d end up—we can give each other shit without leaving scars.

  I climb out, drag my suitcase out of the trunk, then return to the open door and lean in. “Hey… I know what it’s like when you can’t talk about what you do. If you ever need somebody to talk to, somebody who understands… give me a shout. I’m a good listener.”

  Carson peers at me for a few moments, maybe trying to figure out what I’m up to. I think she finally decides I’m serious, which I am. “Not real good at talking.”

  “You do fine once you get going.” I hold out my right hand to her. After some thought, she shakes it. “Take care.”

  “Yeah. Keep running.”

  “If I do, next time I’ll keep up with you.”

  “You wish.” There’s that funny, lopsided smile, like a smirk without the malice.

  I watch the Alfa disappear into the traffic. It goes too fast.

  Chapter 59

  SEVEN WEEKS LATER

  It’s funny how quickly the routine comes back. One day I’m playing millionaire spy and sneaking around gangsters’ warehouses; the next—literally the next day, because of my boss’ ultimatum—I’m opening the store at five and mopping up spills like I never left. At least the jet lag works for me those first few days.

  I’ve told Chloe about all my supposed adventures in New York. It kills me to have to lie to her so much, but she keeps secrets about as well as Wikileaks.

  My ten-grand pay for the Milan job dropped in my Singaporean account a couple weeks after I came home. Then it flowed right out into my lawyer’s Vanuatu bank, leaving only the grand that keeps my account open. My new clothes are clean and folded in my fifteenth box. I haven’t worn them since I left LAX.

  But a few things are different.

  I’d changed those five thousand euros Carson took off Burim for dollars at a couple Milanese banks. Now I can dribble out a few extra twenties a week to help pay for food and rent.

  The Camoin showed up three weeks ago. Gianna marked the shipping bill “riproduzione” and valued it at €99; the note inside said, “€1 discount for the good customer. Baci!” The canvas hangs over Chloe’s rickety old bookcase in the front room. I smile whenever I see it, and not just because it’s like having a $22,000 savings account on the wall.

  And another thing. The store’s still full of beautiful Westside women, but a lot fewer of them make me want to chew through my knuckles. After spending a lot of time with a couple healthy, 100
% organic, no-preservatives-no-additives women, it’s hard to take the plastic and glitter seriously anymore.

  I haven’t been by the library to check out this month’s fashion magazines, either. I’m not in the mood for anorectic Slovakian teenaged models. Progress?

  I’m sitting at one of the store’s outside tables on Hill, watching the traffic and walkers pass by on Santa Monica’s version of Main Street. It’s the pre-lunch lull, just the usual people piling on the free wifi and treating the store like an office. I’m about halfway through my milk and a marked-out bagel from yesterday, thinking about the email I got—well, Hoskins got—from Gianna.

  The Miro’s owners anted up with the €30,000 reward pretty quickly. She’s been coasting on that since Diciannove closed for the last time. She said she’d be getting the €100K check for the Sisley today or tomorrow. The text practically bounced with excitement. I couldn’t be happier for her. The picture of her smile is stamped on my brain. Maybe someday.

  I watch a couple babes in shorts cross the street. One is Carson’s size and has her legs. A couple weeks ago, Carson sent me a not-quite-focused picture of what looked like a gallery with a Polish sign over the door. I guess that’s her way of saying “hi.” I can still see her in her party dress just as clearly as when she first walked into that damn suite.

  A guy in black bike-racing leathers rounds the corner and marches toward me. His visor’s up, but all I can see is eyes and a nose. The leathers creak as he walks. A black messenger bag’s slung across his chest.

  He stops in front of my table. “Matthew Friedrich?” No accent this time.

  I hesitate a moment. “Um… yeah?”

  The guy zips open the messenger bag and reaches in. I wonder too late if this is Rodievsky cleaning up a loose end, but there’s no time to even flinch. Instead of a gun, the guy pulls out a 6x9 manila envelope and drops it on the table, then turns and leaves.

  I watch the thing for a few moments, waiting to see if Rodievsky or Burim went the package-bomb route. It just sits there, my name and nothing else on the front. I finally pick it up and rip open the tape sealing the flap. Three things fall out.

  A blue flash drive, about the size of my thumb. Too bad I had to give back the Acer.

  A strap of used 200-peso notes. Twenty thousand Mexican pesos, or almost $1,300. A yellow sticky says, “Advance on expenses.”

  Finally, a folded itinerary for a flight on American two days from now.

  For a return trip to my new life.

  About the Author

  Lance Charnes has been an Air Force intelligence officer, information technology manager, computer-game artist, set designer, Jeopardy! contestant, and is now an emergency management specialist. He’s had training in architectural rendering, terrorist incident response and maritime archaeology, but not all at the same time. Lance’s Facebook author page features spies, archaeology and art crime.

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  Allyson DeWitt is the president of The DeWitt Agency. Its headquarters is a brass plate outside a discreet Luxembourgeois lawyer’s office door. Its corporate treasury is in Vanuatu. Its directors are strangely untraceable. Its only other full-time employee is Olivia, who’s able to arrange for the damnedest things when an Agency associate needs help.

  Matt Friedrich is the Agency’s newest employee. He has a certain useful set of skills that he learned while working in a crooked L.A. art gallery, and other knowledge that he gained while hanging out in federal prison with Wall Street types who had bad lawyers. He’s out on supervised release and working for $10 an hour at Starbucks to pay off over half a million in debts and restitution.

  When one of Allyson’s clients has a need to fill that involves art in whatever form, Matt gets the project. He can knock down a chunk of his debt with each payoff… so long as he stays alive and out of jail. Sometimes he’s paired with Carson, a disgraced Toronto cop who has her own debts, problems, and useful skills. Together they make a pretty good team – if they don’t kill each other first.

  Follow Matt as Allyson’s projects drag him around the world, where he sees new places, meets new friends, avoids new enemies, and discovers (or pulls off) new scams. If he plays his cards right, he can make a lot of money, pay off his debts, and build a new life. All he has to do is not screw up… which is much harder than it sounds.

  The DeWitt Agency Files series

  #1 The Collection

  #2 Stealing Ghosts

  #3 Chasing Clay

  Dorotea DeVillardi is ninety-one years old, gorgeous, and worth a fortune. Matt Friedrich’s going to steal her.

  The Nazis seized Dorotea’s portrait from her Viennese family, then the Soviets stole it from the Nazis. Now it’s in the hands of a Russian oligarch. Dorotea’s corporate-CEO grandson played by the legal rules to get her portrait back, but he struck out. He’s hired the DeWitt Agency to get it for him – and he doesn’t care how they do it.

  Now Matt and his ex-cop partner Carson have to steal Dorotea’s portrait from a museum in a way that nobody knows it’s gone, and somehow launder its history so the client doesn’t have to hide it forever. The client’s saddled them with a babysitter: Dorotea’s granddaughter Julie, who may have designs on Matt as well as the painting. As if this wasn’t hard enough, it looks like someone else is gunning for the same museum – and he may know more about Matt and Carson’s plans than he should.

  Matt went to prison for the bad things he did at his L.A. art gallery. Now he has a chance to right an old wrong by doing a bad thing for the best of reasons. All he has to do is stay out of jail long enough to pull it off.

  Available now in ePub and trade paperback editions worldwide.

  “Interlacing storylines give this series its charm… It’s nice to have some modern It Takes a Thief escapism to slip away to in this world gone awry. Suffice it to say, I can’t wait for The DeWitt Agency Files #3.” – Criminal Element

  “A brilliant heist story filled with fascinating art history reminiscent of Dan Brown or Steve Berry. Only better.” – Seeley James, author of the Sabel Security thriller series

  It’s pure white, deep blue… and dirty all over.

  Nam Ton ware – centuries-old ceramics from Southeast Asia’s Golden Triangle – captivated the DeWitt Agency’s tech-tycoon client. Now Immigration and Customs Enforcement is on his case for buying smuggled antiquities. To get immunity, he’s hired the agency to run an off-books investigation into Nam Ton’s source.

  Disgraced ex-L.A. gallerist and ex-con Matt Friedrich is in charge. If he finishes within sixty days, he’ll earn an early end to his probation. If he doesn’t, he may go back to prison for bending the federal criminal code into a pretzel.

  Soon enough, Matt’s in San Francisco, getting tight with Savannah, the client’s beautiful art advisor, to scam his way into the smuggling operation. As the burglary, blackmail, tax evasion and customs fraud piles up and Matt finds himself sandwiched in a federal turf war, he realizes he’s in way over his head with no good way out. And that’s before he ends up in a real live jungle.

  Matt’s dealing with a type of art he k
nows nothing about from an area he’s seen only in war movies. Now the fate of some trafficked pottery may decide whether Matt gets his freedom… or spends a long stretch in a concrete cell.

  Available in trade paperback worldwide.

  Jake Eldar’s and Miriam Schaffer’s names may kill them.

  Jake manages a bookstore in Brooklyn. Miriam is a secretary at a Philadelphia law firm. Both grew up in Israel and emigrated to build new lives in America. Neither knows the other exists… until the Israeli intelligence agency Mossad uses their identities in an operation to assassinate a high-ranking Hezbollah commander in Doha, Qatar.

  Now Hezbollah plans to kill them both.

  Jake, Miriam and ten other innocents in five countries – the Doha 12 – awake to find their identities stolen and their lives caught between Mossad and Hezbollah in an international game of murder and reprisal. Jake stumbles upon Hezbollah’s plot but can’t convince the police it exists. When his wife is murdered in a botched hit meant for him, Jake and Miriam try desperately to outrun and outfight their pursuers while shielding Jake’s young daughter from the killers on their trail.

  Hezbollah, however, has a fallback plan: hundreds of people will die if Jake and Miriam survive.

  Available now in ePub and trade paperback editions worldwide.