by Lisa Harris
Through windows in the vaulted ceiling he could see people gathered in a room, though he couldn’t make out its purpose. An auction like Nicole had suggested? Or something entirely different. He imagined the establishment could take up the entire building.
He and Nicole hesitated before going forward. “What now?” he asked.
“Let’s have a seat and enjoy the fine dining.”
A chic woman—tall and beautiful and much too thin—approached and smiled, then led them to a booth, leaving them with menus. Nicole slid in, and Reg sat across from her.
“Were you expecting this?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve never been inside an exclusive club. I’ve read about them. There could be any number of benefits to membership, depending on the club. I hope we run across the art community here. After all, that’s our purpose.”
Reg opened his menu but didn’t glance at it. He leaned in. “What did you say to get us inside the club.”
“I’ve brought a friend.”
“Wow. How in the world did that work?”
She lifted a shoulder then begin perusing the menu in earnest. “I’m Jillian’s twin, Reg.”
Oh. . . He eased back. “I hadn’t thought of that. Obviously, she’s a member here.”
“Or much more.”
“That was a big gamble.”
Nicole licked her lips. Nervous? “I had a Plan B, okay?”
“Do you mind sharing?”
“I was going on the hunch that Chameleon isn’t a name known by everyone, only the elite or special members. I would have used his name. Mentioned he’d invited us. But when that guy at the door looked at me with recognition, I realized he thought I was Jillian. I hadn’t considered that.”
Neither had he.
A short dark-haired waiter approached. “Can I get you something to drink while you browse the menu?”
They each ordered water. The waiter smiled and left.
Across the space, Reg noticed more doors. A few people entered and exited the restaurant from there—people who weren’t kitchen or wait staff. He would love to have a map of the place like they handed out at every amusement park. “See that door? A guy’s coming out,” Reg said. “That’s where we need to be, I bet.”
“Maybe. Let’s order something. We can observe what’s going on, then make our next move,” she said.
“Now that you’re playing Jillian, how are you supposed to ask about Chameleon, or pretend to be engaged to me.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m not pretending to be engaged to you anymore. See?” she held up her hand without the ring. “Didn’t I say we would shift as needed? So I switched things up.”
Reg stared unseeing at the menu. They’d planned to pretend to be engaged collectors and now Nicole might need to be Jillian? This was already going the wrong direction.
The waiter brought large bottles of specialty water, and Nicole quickly reached for a bottle, but her hand trembled. Getting nervous? Had she ever worked undercover before? Reg reached across, gently took her free hand and squeezed to reassure her.
“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll order for the two of us.” Grinning, he released her hand.
She closed her menu and smiled back. “Surprise me, then.”
“We’ll have the filet mignon,” he said. “Medium well.”
“Um. . . well done for me,” she said.
After the waiter finished taking their order—sides and the like—he snapped his small portfolio shut and turned to leave.
“Excuse me.” Reg caught the waiter’s attention and winked at Nicole. “I’m inquiring about art lessons. I’d like to speak to Chameleon.” The waiter didn’t treat Nicole as if he recognized her, thinking she was Jillian. But Nicole asking about Chameleon would be too risky, so Reg would do it.
“The chef will see you after you’ve enjoyed your meal. You may pay him your compliments.”
“The chef?” Reg was confused.
“Yes. Chef Chameleon.” The waiter made an adjustment to his pad, then walked away.
Nicole pursed her lips and stared at him. He got the sense she didn’t like him jumping into things so quickly.
“Look, it didn’t hurt to ask and we already know more than we did.” Reg sipped his water.
Nicole slid to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to visit the lady’s room. I’ll be right back. If the waiter comes back, I’d like to add lemon for my water.”
Reg caught her arm and lowered his voice. “We can scrub this operation right now if you want. I feel like we’ve walked into this blind.”
“No. We’ll see it through.” Pressing her hand over his, she gave him a smile. “I’ll be right back. We’ll eat, talk to Chameleon, and leave.”
“I don’t think you should go alone.”
“It’s not like you can join me in the ladies’ room.” She headed across the expansive floor and weaved between the sofas in the middle where a few people lounged, but didn’t notice her.
Reg wished he could ignore the way his skin crawled in this place.
His cell buzzed with a text. He looked to see that it was from the same number with the twenty-four-hour warning. Moisture bloomed on his palms as he read the text.
Time is running out.
He should probably respond this time.
You have the wrong number.
His reply had been risky, but he needed to find out how this person knew this number and who he was.
Reg Jacobson.
Reg could only play ignorant for so long and asked,
What do you want?
You stole from me. I want the money back.
No idea what you’re talking about.
Well, maybe he did have an idea, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he was right. If this had anything to do with the financials on the USB . . . if someone had used the information and taken the money, lifted it from those accounts, then Reg truly could not return the money.
Ramie Hartfield aka Reg Jacobson. I know all about you. Everything.
The hammer in his head returned. I was in an accident and lost my memory. Even if I remembered, I can’t return money I don’t have.
But you can get me the paintings.
He stared at the words long and hard. Why had Grandmother’s paintings suddenly become dangerous? He needed to extract the most possible information. Playing dumb would have to do.
What paintings?
Aston Darrow. Winter and Summer. After you stole from me, rather than kill you, I thought to extract the money from you somehow. It took a few months but I learned of your well-to-do family and the history of the paintings stolen by Nazis. I landed the perfect collector.
You stole the paintings?
I now have two. But there are four altogether. The paintings are worth exponentially more if all the pieces are together.
Reg rubbed his temples as he focused on responding. Last night’s chaos was related to not only the stolen paintings but to Reg’s past assignment? Not one or the other? If he was going to get a migraine from the stress load his traumatized brain couldn’t handle—he could probably expect one now.
I don’t have them. I don’t even know where they are. You can’t expect me to find them, much less get them, in twenty-four hours. You couldn’t have expected that I knew what you wanted.
Less than twenty-four hours. You wasted three hours by not responding to my first text so you could find out what I wanted.
Look, I don’t know how you got this number…
It was a lame response. . . but he simply couldn’t give this guy what he wanted. He hadn’t stolen the money, but it wasn’t like this person would believe him since he’d been the one to steal the information.
You have twenty-one hours before I kill your grandmother. Call the feds, the police, any agency with this new development then I’ll know, and she’s dead. Remember . . . I found your number.
The next text contained an image. Grandmot
her smiling with her friend, Carly. Standing behind them, arms draped over their shoulders, stood a smiling Keaton Rhodes, the criminal mastermind behind the transnational organized crime group in which Reg had been working undercover to gain intel when his world came crashing down on that motorcycle.
Nicole washed her hands and stared at the mirror. She seriously wanted to splash water on her face, but that would mess up her makeup and hair, and she might actually come face-to-face with Chameleon. She’d worked undercover a few times on the art crime team, but considering how nervous she was at the moment, she might be losing her touch.
As if any of her previous experience could make a difference in this situation.
None of her investigations had been this convoluted. Or this dangerous. Art traffickers weren’t typically murderers, even though, yes, her father had been murdered in such a situation. But that was the exception and not the rule.
In the reflection she spotted an abstract painting on the wall. Abstract modern drip. The seemingly random pattern of colors dripping and swirling on the page elicited a pleasant emotional response. She approached to examine the painting more closely. It reminded her of a particular artist.
She spotted the signature . . . Simply, J.K.
Jeremy Kindler.
This painting is a Jeremy Kindler?
“This can’t be an original,” she mumbled.
No one would be that audacious to hang this in a bathroom, even in a private members-only club.
An older woman entered the bathroom. Dressed in a light cashmere jacket and jeans with holes, she still looked elegant. She barely acknowledged Nicole as she went straight for the mirror. She pulled out a tube of lipstick then paused and smiled at herself. Her lips were already perfect. She put the tube back in the bag, and glanced at her perfect dark hair teased to poof just right on top. Nicole took all this in while she faced the painting on the wall.
“I see you’re admiring the Kindler.” The woman threw her bag over her shoulder and sidled up to Nicole.
An expensive perfume wafted around Nicole. The woman sighed as she too admired the painting.
“I can’t believe it would be displayed in the bathroom if it’s an original,” Nicole said.
“I agree it seems like a complete waste stuck in this dark room. The women’s restroom of all places.”
“Wait. You’re not saying it’s real, are you? Why do you suppose it would be in here?”
“To garner attention. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The woman adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder. Nicole noticed a few specks of blue paint on her fingers.
“Excuse me. Are you . . .? Is that paint on your fingers?”
The woman gasped and studied her hands. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t get it all off?”
“You’re an artist then. Do you take lessons? Teach them?” Maybe she could find out about the art lessons to which Jillian had referred when she’d sent them here.
“I need to go.” The woman rushed from the room.
Nicole looked at the painting again. She tugged out her cell and took a few pictures. Then she removed the painting to examine it and spotted something scribbled on the back.
It read, A chameleon is known for its ability to change colors.
Whether this was a forgery or the real thing, it unsettled Nicole. What did she expect? She’d come here hoping to connect with those involved in such endeavors.
Nicole headed for the exit. Harriet’s painting, both of them, could well be on their way to being used to create forgeries—and all of them sold for millions, exponentially increasing the funds, though she couldn’t be sure any of it was fact.
The door whipped open as Nicole was about to exit.
A blond woman rushed in.
“Jillian?”
Her sister gripped her arms. “Thank goodness I found you. You have to get out of here!”
Chapter Fourteen
Nicole was taking entirely too long. The waiter delivered their steaks. As soon as the waiter left, Reg slipped from the booth. He headed to the back for the ladies’ room.
A woman rushed in right before he reached the door. He couldn’t wait for Nicole to come out—she had been in there too long to begin with.
As for working undercover and figuring out this place—he was out of time. He would march into the kitchen and face off with this Chameleon guy himself.
Reg pushed through the restroom door. Two sets of big blue-gray eyes stared back at him.
“Reg!” Nicole pulled him all the way in, then pressed her back against the door so one else could enter.
He took in the woman with long colorful hair, a blend of blond, purple, and blue. Aside from the hair, she could be Nicole, and right now, she stared him down, her eyes wide and accusing as they flicked between him and Nicole.
“He’s with me,” Nicole said. “We’re in this together.”
“Whatever. We have to leave now.” Jillian narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t plan on leaving until I’ve spoken to this Chameleon person,” Reg said.
“You can’t!” Jillian fisted her hands. “I promise I’ll explain later, but right now, you’re in danger.”
“Tell us something we don’t know.” Nicole moved from the door and eyed the painting on the wall. “Is that real or a forgery?”
“I’ll tell you everything later.” She took Nicole’s hand and glared at Reg. “I’m not going to leave Nicole here to die, but you can stay if you want.” Fear surged in her eyes. “It might already be too late for us to get out.”
Reg peered out the door. Two big men strolled casually through the private club’s restaurant, their eyes taking in all the patrons.
“We can’t get out that way. Two guys, including the one we met at the entrance, are making their way through the room, searching.” Reg moved from the small bathroom foyer to stare at the other side of the room. “No windows?”
“No. Someone could break in and steal.”
“I can’t wait to hear how you know so much about this place,” Nicole said.
“How sure are you that we’re in danger?” Reg asked. “Because if we have to blast our way out of here, there’s no coming back. There’s no talking to our one and only lead, and my grandmother’s life depends on me getting the rest of the paintings.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure they’re here for you.”
“We got in to the club because the man at the door thought I was you.” Nicole arched a brow. “Just how involved are you?”
“I had no choice.” Pacing, Jillian chewed on her fingernail.
Not exactly an answer, but all they needed to know.
“Is there any chance we can talk our way out of this?” He shared a look with Nicole.
“None.” Jillian’s anxiety level was getting to him.
“What about you?” he asked. “Since you’re part of this, you could get us out of it.”
“Chameleon will think I betrayed him.” She stopped pacing and stared at Reg. “And he knows you’re FBI.”
Interesting. But more importantly, Reg sensed something behind the way Jillian had said the man’s name. “Just what are you to him?”
“I’m his fiancée.”
Nicole gasped.
Fiancée?
What was her sister saying? Nicole couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Jillian engaged?
“All right, ladies.” Reg’s stern voice pulled her back from her shock. “Is there a back door?”
Jillian frowned. “Yes, but if what you said is true, we won’t make it out of this room.”
He nodded and brandished his gun then aimed at the door. “Get behind me. We’ll shoot our way out of this if we have to.”
“You brought a gun?” Jillian eyed him.
“You weren’t expecting that? Get real.” Reg motioned for them to keep quiet and move back.
“No one brings guns here,” Jillian said. “These are forward-thinking people. Progressive
s. People don’t like them.”
“I don’t suppose the old hide-in-the-stalls trick will work,” Nicole whispered.
Jillian’s eyes brightened at the suggestion. “We’ll try that first. Come on, Reg. Better than getting into a shootout.”
Reg backed off from his protective stance and joined Nicole in hiding in two of six stalls—Nicole in one, Reg in another—while Jillian primped in front of the mirror.
A few seconds ticked by. The restroom door whooshed open. Through the space between the door and the supporting wall, Nicole saw the two big men.
“What do you think you’re doing, Frederick?” Jillian sounded genuinely shocked.
“Oh, sorry. Uh, I’m looking for a lady I let in on accident. She looked an awful lot like you.”
Nicole held her breath. Please just go away.
Jillian laughed and babbled about how ridiculous the man sounded, but also expressed her concern over the intruders. Nicole pictured her sister fiddling with her hair. Brushing on mascara. Perfecting her lips.
Hurry up already. Nicole struggled to hold her breath and slowly released it. Her legs cramped from the awkward position of crouching on the toilet and remaining perfectly still. She should have chosen a different position, but it wasn’t as if she’d had time to plan for how she would hide in a bathroom stall. Even in her various private investigation cases, she hadn’t found herself in such an awkward position.
Still, she would have thought these guys would have already left the bathroom, except Jillian just kept talking.
Please stop, Jillian. They’ll leave if you’ll just stop. . .
“Okay, well, I’m done here,” Jillian said. “You want to walk me downstairs? I don’t want to be alone if someone dangerous is in the club.”
Jillian yelped.
A stall door burst opened.
“Hey what are you doing?” Jillian asked. “There’s no one in here. I’m going to call—”
Another door was kicked open.
“Let go of me,” Jillian screeched. “You can’t do this. You’re going to be in big trouble!”
