by G. K. Parks
“Perhaps you could find out how the police investigation is going,” I suggested.
“Why don’t you just ask?”
“I promised Derek I’d keep my nose out of it.”
Mark snorted. “Oh yeah, that’s exactly the vibe I’m getting.”
I turned and pointed at the opposite wall. “Whoever jumped me did so because of one of my investigations. CryptSpec was the only Cross Security case I worked on before the attack, so I can’t just leave it alone.”
“Or you got knifed because of Noah Ryder,” Mark pointed out.
That was a possibility, but I’d barely gotten started on that case. It would have been unlikely Ryder would have found out I was investigating him, especially since I hadn’t even made contact or determined if he was still in the city. “I rented the office he used to meet Klassi and spoke to several of his neighbors and the building manager. So it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility one of them tipped him off, but it’s less likely.”
“What about good ol’ Don? Klassi didn’t want to go to the police and has an unnamed associate who told him about Ryder. Maybe he ran his mouth and got you in trouble.”
I pointed to a note asking the same question. “Can’t rule it out.”
“Could it be someone from your past? Maybe a case we worked?”
“Possibly, but the bastard knew to wait outside this building. Obviously, he knows I work here.” I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure how anyone from my past would know that. Hell, I still haven’t figured out how he knew I’d be returning to the office.”
“What about the guy you went to dinner with? Did you check into him? Maybe he tipped off your attacker.”
My eyes drifted to the window that looked into the hallway. If I squinted, I could see Kellan working at his desk. “I don’t think he set me up.”
“What about Cross? He likes to play games. You said he tests people. Could this have been a test?”
I brushed my hair out of my face and tilted my neck to the side to reveal the stitches. “The guy would have killed me if he’d gotten the chance. I don’t think Cross hired a killer.”
Jablonsky let out an unsettling grunt but didn’t offer a protest. “So what’s your priority now? Case one, two, or three?”
“Heathcliff’s got CryptSpec, so unless I hear something, I’ll keep moving forward on Klassi’s case. The plan is to bait Noah Ryder. Once we determine if he’s still around, the next thing to do is take him down. I have a client’s money to recover. I’ll put this to bed while Heathcliff handles CryptSpec, and hopefully, the asshole with the knife gets caught by one of us.” I tossed my alias’s profile to Mark. “Quiz me.”
He dropped into a chair and perused the paperwork. Pulling out his phone, he entered a few things and continued to search and verify. “It looks good. Stands up to a fair amount of scrutiny. That might be important.” He flipped back to the first page. “Okay, tell me about yourself, Mrs. Alexandra Scott.”
I ran through the background details, name, age, address, occupation. As usual, Jablonsky tried to trip me up on the minor details, but I’d done enough undercover work not to get confused. I knew my cover identity’s alma mater, her major, minor, and the sorority she joined. I even knew the names of her sorority sisters, the annual parties they held, the frats they invited, and how much they made on fundraisers. The devil was always in the details.
“And your husband?” he asked, an amused grin on his face.
“Rich, stuffy, and old.”
“Does he remind you of anyone?”
I gave Mark my death stare. “Conrad’s a rich art collector. He’s from old money. He was close with one of my art professors and introduced us at a gallery showing. At first, things were great. He paid attention, made me feel special, treated me the way no man ever had. The typical older man, younger woman routine. With age came wisdom, elegant taste, and expensive jewelry, but once we were married, his interest dwindled. I was just a trophy he showed off on special occasions but otherwise left on a shelf to get dusty.”
“Plus, he’s too old to get it up,” Jablonsky commented. “Obviously, he can’t keep you pleased. So you want out.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Mark was in his mid-fifties and divorced three times. “That wasn’t my problem, but I never dated anyone young enough to be my daughter. Keeping up is a younger man’s game.” He flipped to another page. “So what’s the play? You plan to divorce the geezer, but you want to stash away as much as you can before you file the paperwork?”
“The prenup requires a minimum of ten years of marriage before I get a dime, and we’ve only been married six. He already has wifey number five lined up. He’s been boffing her for the last year. He’s left me with no choice. I can’t possibly wait another four years before filing.”
“Particularly when you’re going to be too old to hook another wealthy sugar daddy in four years. Dare I say, you’re probably too old now.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.
“According to this, Conrad bought you a studio and a gallery. He saved you from the life of a starving artist. Your gallery hosts other artists, and you paint on the side. If push came to shove, can you back this up?”
I nodded. “Cross rented a gallery, backdated the paperwork, and set up the peripherals.”
“I’d love to see you with a canvas and paintbrush. What’s your specialty? Dogs playing poker?”
“Abstract art.”
“Good call.”
“Anyway, the techs upstairs have tracked Noah’s online activity. He has a few financial and consulting sites and groups set up, so I’ve asked for help, suggestions, and advice on ways to move around Conrad’s money.”
“Have you gotten any bites yet?”
“A few, but we can’t be sure it’s Noah. I’m waiting to see if he responds to my follow-up questions. Klassi had Noah’s e-mail address, so we ran that, but it’s been shut down. I’m guessing he created it once he decided to target Klassi and got rid of it after he took Don’s money.”
“Have you called the provider?”
“We traced the owner and administrator, but it was registered outside the country to a foreign corporation that doesn’t exist. Honestly, I don’t know if we’re going to get this guy.”
“In other words, you’re just hoping to get lucky.”
“No,” Cross said, stepping into the room. I didn’t hear him open the door. “We’re making Alex’s cover as titillating as possible. If Ryder’s around, he’ll bite. Conrad Scott has hundreds of millions of dollars at his disposal. Just imagine how much Alex might be able to steal before Conrad realizes what’s going on. Noah Ryder wouldn’t miss another lucrative payday like that.”
“You sound certain,” Jablonsky said, standing and sizing up Cross. “You always were a cocky son of a bitch.”
Cross didn’t stoop to trading barbs. “I’m not cocky. I’m confident. And I have every reason to be.” He turned his attention to me. “Alex Scott just received an answer to her e-mail. Noah is offering to help and wants to stop by the gallery tomorrow night.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Cross’s focus bounced from wall to wall. “Make sure you’re prepared. Should you require more space, I’ll have someone roll in a free-standing corkboard.”
“Enabler,” Jablonsky muttered.
Cross turned to him. “I see your investigative tactics haven’t changed since that seminar we attended years ago.” Cross plucked at the intel Mark had brought for me. “I guess it’s true what they say about old dogs. Remind me again what your rate of closed cases is.”
“There’s a right way and wrong way to do things,” Mark growled.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what Lucien was about to say. But whatever it was, he decided against it. Instead, he gave a curt nod and walked out of the room.
“I should go.” Mark gave me a hug. “Be careful.” He sneered at the door
way. “I don’t trust him.”
“Most of the time, neither do I, but he comes through when it matters.”
“Sure, because it makes him look good. Maybe he creates these situations just to manipulate you.”
“Now who’s paranoid?” I retorted.
“You taught me it’s not paranoia if it’s true.” Mark grinned. “Guess I’m not such an old dog, after all.”
Eleven
I was seated in the white leather chair behind the desk in the foyer. Alexandra Scott’s art studio connected to the gallery via the rear hallway. The studio was a tiny workshop perfect for one. Despite being small, the rest of the gallery was exquisite, just like the diamond ring on my finger. It was obvious to even casual observers that the Scotts had money; Cross made sure of that.
The gallery was basically a loft. The upstairs had dark, hardwood floors. One of the walls was exposed brick, giving it a Bohemian, urban vibe. Currently, the walls and support pillars were covered in some trendy upcomer’s latest creations. According to the brochure, the last showing had completely sold out with no piece going for less than five grand. The combined estimated worth of the pieces upstairs came out to a cool million.
The bottom floor was much more elegant. It had a museum feel with white and silver tile floors, glass doors, and a state-of-the-art security and fire prevention system. This was where valuable masterpieces were displayed. The security system was no joke with a laser-grid and pressure sensors. Currently, three masterpieces were inside, allegedly from Conrad Scott’s private collection. However, Conrad Scott didn’t exist, and neither did Alexandra. I wasn’t sure where Cross had gotten priceless paintings on such short notice, but I suspected they might be forgeries, albeit good ones. Since I couldn’t be certain of their legitimacy, I hoped Ryder wasn’t an art expert.
When I asked Cross about the gallery, he told me one of the museums wanted it as an annex to host private dinners and events for their exclusive patrons. However, it became too expensive to have a secondary site when the museum already had plenty of rooms that could be used, so the gallery went up for auction. After several failed attempts by aspiring artists to turn it into something profitable, it remained empty until now.
I clicked a few keys on the computer, continuing the ruse of searching for some way of hiding my husband’s money where no attorney could find it. Movement on one of the monitors caught my eye, and I turned to look at the security feed. Four cameras covered the gallery. The one outside had a great view of the front of the building where a dark, luxury sedan had just parked. The man who stepped out looked perfectly coifed with his nice suit and fancy haircut.
He held his head high as he entered, not making any attempt to hide from the security cameras, which made me question the likelihood that he was the infamous Noah Ryder. Offering a polite smile, he strode toward me.
“Mrs. Scott?” he asked.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
He extended his hand. “Noah Ripley,” he said. “I received your inquiry and thought it best to meet with you in a neutral location.” He took a seat, glancing up at the security camera above my head. “Is your husband here?”
“No.”
“Is it safe to speak freely?”
“Yes, of course.”
He squinted with one eye, tilting his head to the side. “You expressed an interest in diversifying your assets.”
“That’s the polite way of putting it.” I reached for a pen. “I’m sorry. I’ve reached out to so many firms and posted my contact information in a lot of different online groups. Where did you say you were from?”
“R&P Asset Management. You requested additional information on alternative investments.” He placed his briefcase on his lap and popped the top, removing several forms and pamphlets. He held out a page that was a printed version of the form I filled out. “You did contact us, right?”
It was a basic form. I might have filled it out, or he could have scraped my data from somewhere else and created the intake form himself. There was no way to tell, but it didn’t matter. He was here. That was all I cared about.
“I guess so. I’ve been so scattered lately.”
“Well, you have a lot going on.” He opened one of the pamphlets and turned it around to face me. “As you can see, we offer advice on everything from precious metals to foreign investments. It just depends what your long-term goals are.”
My expression soured. “My long-term goals were to marry the man of my dreams and live happily ever after, but things change.”
“Is this an alimony situation? Obviously, you have ample means. Are you the primary breadwinner?”
“Hardly. This is Conrad’s,” I met his eyes, knowing that a certain amount of eye contact was key to selling lies, “my husband’s, gallery. He purchased it for my use, but I imagine once I serve him with papers, it’ll be gone. Just like everything else.”
Noah frowned, digging deeper into his briefcase. “Look, R&P isn’t in the business of hiding assets or subverting tax law. We don’t do anything illegal, nor would we ever advise our clients to violate any laws. That being said, there are legal avenues worth exploring.” He placed a business card on the desk. “I think I can help, but I’ll need more detailed information on your financial situation and a breakdown of your assets and your husband’s. I assume you’re hoping to get a clear view of things before you dissolve your marriage.” He licked his lips. “Have you consulted a divorce attorney? What did he say?”
“I haven’t yet. I was afraid Conrad would find out, and I’m not ready for that. Our prenup is rock solid. The conditions haven’t been met, so I will most likely get nothing. Only the assets I brought to the table will go with me. He gets everything else.”
“Like this gallery.” Noah looked around. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It isn’t. I just want to make sure what’s mine, stays mine, and he can’t touch it. Is that so wrong?”
Noah shook his head and pulled out a checklist. He spun it around, marking a few items with a pen. “Get as much of this information as you can, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to help.” He circled the phone number on his business card. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’ve decided to pursue other avenues. Either way, I wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Scott. Divorce is hard.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Unfortunately.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Thank you for agreeing to this introduction.” He glanced at the glass doors off to the side. “Do you mind if I take a peek inside?”
“That’s what we’re here for.” I led him through the glass entryway. “This is Conrad’s private collection. Upstairs we host new artists.”
“I see he has a taste for the French masters.”
“Actually, I chose these. I always loved impressionism. I’ll miss seeing them every day. It’s not like I could just stuff them in a suitcase and walk away with them.” Noah laughed politely, but I couldn’t get a read on him. “Would you like to see upstairs? We’re planning a show, but you can have a sneak peek if you like,” I said.
“Actually, I have another meeting to get to. Just think about what I said, and if you want me to come up with some options for you, let me know. I’m here to help.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ripley.” I shook his hand. “Perhaps you’ll have time to tour upstairs next time.”
“I intend to take you up on that.”
I watched him walk out the door, get into his car, and drive away. The security camera had gotten a great view of his face, and the exterior camera caught his license plate. I rewound the footage, pausing and zooming in. Then I printed a hardcopy of his face and the plate, copied the footage to an external drive, and phoned Don Klassi.
“Meet me at Cross Security. I have something to show you.” After hanging up, I phoned the office and requested someone run the plate, Noah Ripley, and R&P Asset Management. I didn’t believe in coincidences or that Noah Ripley and Noah Ryder were two different
people. “I found you. Now to find what you’ve done with the money.”
I locked up and went outside. The hair at the back of my neck prickled, and an uneasiness settled over me. My eyes darted back and forth, and I unzipped my purse and reached inside for my gun. Was someone watching me?
I didn’t spot anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. I missed the assailant lurking in the shadows the night of the attack. Perhaps I was losing my touch. More than likely, I was paranoid. This was the first time I was walking alone at night since the attack. The bastard was out there, somewhere. Still, it was unlikely he would have located me a second time, particularly at a gallery that I’d never been to before today. Regardless, I kept my gun in my hand. If he tried again, he’d learn not to bring a knife to a gunfight.
I made it to my car without incident and drove to Cross Security. I parked in the garage and rode the elevator to my office. The information I requested was waiting on my desk, and Cross was seated on the sofa.
“How’d it go?” he asked. “From what I was told, it seems we’ve located Noah Ryder.”
“Ripley,” I corrected. “He changed his last name. I called Don. He’s on his way. I want him to verify it’s the same man.”
“You think there could be more than one?”
“It’s possible.” But I didn’t believe it. However, I knew Cross didn’t have the same opinion on coincidences that I did. “Is there anything else I should know about the gallery, the paintings, or Conrad Scott?”
“You have everything you need. Why?” A sly suspicion played across his face. “Did something happen?”
“No, but this is my case. Autonomy, remember?”
“Fair enough. Once Mr. Klassi verifies it’s the same man, it’s your play. Do whatever you see fit. If you need additional resources or back-up, I will avail myself to you.” He stood. “Otherwise, I won’t interfere. Let me know how things turn out.”
