by Elise Noble
Emmy nodded approvingly. Some girls liked diamonds and pearls. She preferred caffeine and carbs.
They left a table between themselves and Hegler, keeping his back to them. He was a small man, dapper, dressed in a suit and tie even on Sunday in a town where the uniform seemed to be denim and plaid. Nobody gave him a second glance, which suggested he was a regular patron.
Emmy’s camera hooked up wirelessly to her phone, and Alaric kept up a mostly one-sided conversation about local attractions while she sent the photo of Hegler to Richmond. Five minutes later, they had their answer.
“Sky says it’s the same guy she saw collect the painting in London.”
A finger of tension uncurled in Alaric’s gut. They’d been almost certain this particular Stéphane Hegler was their man, but until that moment, there’d been a modicum of doubt. With Sky’s confirmation, they could move on to phase two—interrogation.
“Good. That’s good. How do we want to play this?” he asked, almost to himself.
“Hegler’s most likely just a pawn. We need to scare him a little, but I’d vote against steaming in there with all guns blazing.”
“Agreed. Go in too soft, and we risk them moving the painting again, but you catch more flies with honey.”
As an FBI agent, Alaric had been expected to cultivate his own sources. In every interview he did, he’d wanted the subject to feel comfortable but just the tiniest bit intimidated at the start, and if he played his cards right, by the end of the chat, they’d want to help him. He employed the same philosophy with Sirius. Today’s witness or even a suspect could become tomorrow’s informant.
“If they’ve got the painting, then ten to one it’s at Carnes’s place,” Emmy said. “He’s coveted it for years, right? So he’ll want to look at it, not hide it away in a vault somewhere, especially if he’s on his last legs.”
She was right. And back in the old days, it would’ve been easy to get answers. People tended to respect the FBI. Show a shiny gold badge, and… Hmm…
“Did Bradley pack you a pantsuit?”
“Knowing Bradley, he packed me everything from a bikini to a ballgown. Why? What are you thinking?”
“I still have my FBI shield.”
In between defending his name and fleeing the country, Alaric had omitted to hand it back. They also had guns and a Ford Explorer. Of course, most agents didn’t actually drive black SUVs, but thanks to the movies, the public thought they did.
“Oh, cool. I have a shield too.”
“A fake one?”
“No, it’s real.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“I found it.”
“Found it where?”
Emmy grinned behind her chocolate muffin. “In an FBI agent’s pocket.”
Alaric took a steadying breath. This was the Emmy who’d driven him crazy in both good ways and bad ways.
“You realise how wrong that is?”
“Stop being so pious, dude. You were the one who just suggested impersonating FBI agents. Oh, target’s on the move.” Emmy spread a tourist brochure out on the table and raised her voice slightly. “Hey, look, there’s a candy factory we can visit. They make bourbon balls—chocolate mixed with whisky. Someone should try that with gin.”
Hegler swallowed the last dregs of his coffee and stood, still engrossed in his phone as he headed for the door. What was so important? Was he running all of Irvine’s communications? As he reached for the door handle, the screen tilted up and Alaric saw a telltale collection of coloured dots. Candy Crush. Rune had tried playing it last summer when a bunch of her school friends set up a league, but after a day or so, she’d gone back to reading science journals instead.
Emmy and Alaric didn’t need to follow. They had Hegler’s address—he both lived and worked at the Carnes property—and when he’d stopped at the gas station earlier, Emmy had stuck a tracker on his car. A good thing too. No way would Emmy have abandoned half a chocolate muffin in favour of a surveillance op.
Mid-morning on Monday, and Emmy slipped on a pair of aviators despite the cloudy sky. If the need arose, she’d play bad cop to Alaric’s Agent Nice-Guy.
Fifty yards along the street, Stéphane Hegler strolled out of the pharmacy carrying the mother of all carrier bags. Prescription drugs? What state was Irvine Carnes in? Little information had leaked out about his condition in recent weeks. Somebody—Hegler?—was still posting to his Twitter account, but apart from a link to Friday’s bombshell video, he’d been sticking to retweets of local news and the occasional arty photo of the Kentucky countryside. Seemed Carnes bred Arabian horses in his spare time. He certainly had plenty of space on the family ranch.
The origin of the video itself was hazy—several journalists had broken the story simultaneously, but all refused to reveal their sources. Rumour said they’d received flash drives in the mail. Who had sent them?
Alaric had stationed himself between Hegler and his car, and as the smaller man approached, he fell into step beside him.
“Mr. Hegler? Do you have a moment?”
Hegler didn’t break stride.
“Who are you?” Did the supercilious attitude come with the job, or had he been born with it? His accent didn’t help. There was a hint of French under the American, the remnant of a childhood spent in Switzerland.
Alaric pushed his suit jacket back just far enough to reveal the gold badge clipped to his belt. “FBI. I’m Special Agent Alec Lane with the Louisville field office, and this is—”
The guy stopped dead in his tracks. Dead. Emmy nearly walked into the back of Alaric, and her hand landed on his ass as she steadied herself. Perk of the job.
“It’s about the painting, isn’t it? I swear I didn’t know what it was when I picked it up. I mean, yes, I knew it was a painting, but not that painting. I thought it was a portrait of Azira.”
Well, this was unexpected. Alaric had never had a suspect confess to the crime in his opening sentence.
“How about we get a coffee? The street isn’t really the place for this conversation.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“At the moment, I’m more interested in hearing your side of the story.” Alaric motioned Stéphane towards a café. Not the one they’d been in yesterday, but a smaller joint farther up the street. “Who’s Azira?”
Hegler’s knuckles were white where he clutched the pharmacy bag, and the moment they sat at a table in the back corner, he dropped it and started picking at his cuticles. Charming.
“Ellen, would you mind getting the drinks?” Alaric asked Emmy. She nodded once and headed for the counter, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head.
This place was as delightful as the other one. The table was stained, dust had settled on the faded prints that adorned the walls, and the faint smell of shit drifted from the nearby bathroom. Still, Hegler seemed cooperative. That was the most important thing.
“So, Azira?”
“She’s Irvine’s—Senator Carnes’s—favourite mare. He’s owned her for almost two decades, so of course she’s getting on in years herself, but even last week, he still insisted on going out to groom her every morning. He told me he’d commissioned a painting of her, oil on canvas, and all I needed to do was pick it up from the artist.”
“But you didn’t pick it up from the artist. You collected it from an empty hotel room. Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
The last hint of colour faded from Hegler’s already pale cheeks as he ran a hand through short brown hair, leaving it ruffled.
“Y-y-you know about that?”
“Perhaps you could tell me what happened?”
“I don’t… I can’t…”
“Just start at the beginning.”
“Will we go to jail?”
“Honestly? That’s above my pay grade. But it’ll depend on the exact circumstances, who knew what and when, and whether there are any mitigating factors.”
“Cross my heart, I didn’t have any idea
what was in that package, not at first.”
“From the top?”
Hegler took a couple of steadying breaths. He was either the world’s worst criminal or the world’s best liar. The jury was still out, but Alaric was leaning towards the former.
“I really don’t know much. Just that Irvine asked me to fly to England to collect a package. Like I said, I thought I’d be meeting the artist, but when I got to the hotel, the concierge told me he’d had to depart early to deal with a family matter.”
“So how did you get the painting?”
“He’d left the package in his room. The concierge gave me the key. It was all a bit chaotic. A lady guest was upset because there was a rather large spider in her bathroom, and the concierge had to dash off in a hurry.”
Which was probably why Alaric hadn’t seen the man when he arrived soon afterwards. “Did you pass anyone on your way upstairs?”
“Not a soul. At least, I don’t think so. I wasn’t really paying attention. I guess there might have been a maid.”
Bad criminal, terrible eyewitness.
“Was there anything in the room apart from the painting?”
“Not that I saw. I mean, I didn’t even see the painting. It was in a suitcase. The note said to take the case with the compliments of Massimo Slade.”
Alaric didn’t need to ask who Massimo Slade was. Slade’s oil paintings sold for thousands, and a commission would have set Carnes back six figures if he’d genuinely wanted a picture of his horse.
“So you took the case and then you left?”
“Yes, for the airport.”
“Did you open the case first?”
“Why would I? I assumed it was a simple errand.”
Surely anyone with half a brain would have questioned that scenario? Or maybe Alaric had just spent so long swimming with the bottom feeders that anything out of the ordinary made him suspicious.
“Why did you take the back stairs?”
Hegler visibly started. “How do you know that?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal sources.”
Emmy came back with three black coffees plus sachets of sugar and powdered creamer. She never touched either. It had always puzzled Alaric how someone with such a sweet tooth drank her coffee straight.
“Here you go. Where are we?” She’d gone with a local accent today.
“Mr. Hegler was just filling us in on his stay in London. The back stairs?”
“Right, yes. I needed a cigarette, and it was the fastest way out. I’ve been trying to give up for months. The gum stopped working, so I tried the patches, but I missed holding something, you know? And now I think I’m addicted to the patches too.”
“Just go cold turkey,” Emmy said. “It’s the only way.”
“You’ve given up?”
“Seventeen years ago.”
“Wow, congrats.” Hegler seemed to realise who he was talking to. “Sorry.”
“What happened after you got your nicotine fix?” Alaric asked.
“I drove to the airport and handed my rental car back, then the limo service picked me up and took me to Irvine’s friend’s plane. That was when Irvine had me look at the painting. And I freaked! It wasn’t a horse at all; it was a woman. And I thought Irvine would want me to go right back to the hotel, but he just told me to send him a photograph, and once he’d seen it, he instructed me to come straight home.”
“Did you realise at that point the painting was stolen property?”
“No! I mean, I thought it was kind of odd, him paying for a horse and getting a girl, but he wasn’t mad, so…”
“So you simply did as you were told?”
“Exactly.”
“And when did you recognise the painting?”
“I didn’t. Harry did.”
“And who’s Harry?”
“Harriet Carnes. Irvine’s daughter. I helped Irvine to hang the painting on his bedroom wall, and then Harry walked in and hit the roof when she saw it. Started yelling at him, and Harry never yells. And then Irvine…his face went all weird. Sort of droopy on one side, and he couldn’t speak properly.”
Ah, shit. Alaric glanced at Emmy, and her long exhale said she understood what had happened too.
“The senator had a stroke?” he asked.
Hegler bobbed his head. “His nurse called the ambulance right away, but…” Hegler shook his head. “He was sick already, and now…”
“Cancer?”
“How did you know? Oh, right. You can’t tell me.”
“Sorry.”
Hegler took out a navy-blue handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “Before that afternoon, Irvine had occasional periods of confusion, but now he’s disoriented most of the time. And he talks to the woman in the painting. Dominique, he calls her. They kept him in the hospital for four days, but every time he had a lucid moment, he insisted he wanted to come home. Harry arranged for nurses to visit, but even so…” Hegler gave a loud sniffle. “Irvine can be a grump sometimes, but he’s become like family to me.”
“I’m sorry for…” Alaric almost said “your loss,” but the old coot was still alive. “I’m sorry for intruding at this time, but that painting has to go back to its rightful owners. And we’ll need to speak with Harriet.”
“I understand.” Hegler took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “The coffee’s awful here. You should try the place along the street. Or I can make you a fresh cup back at the ranch. Harry has a wonderful coffee machine. She says that if she’s got to get up at five a.m. to see to the horses, she needs caffeine pumping through her veins.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Emmy said. She’d taken one sip from her mug and left the rest, so it must have been truly terrible. “Ready to go?”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
As Emmy led the way out of the café, a bud of hope swelled in Alaric’s chest. They were so close to Red, he could practically smell the paint. This time, they wouldn’t let her go.
CHAPTER 6 - ALARIC
“HARRY? THESE FOLKS are from the FBI.”
Harriet Carnes was younger than Alaric had expected. The senator had turned seventy-one last November, but his daughter didn’t look more than twenty-five. The family resemblance was clear, though. They shared the same sharp jaw, the same assessing blue eyes, and although the senator’s hair was more salt than pepper now, it had been the same glossy mahogany as Harriet’s when he was younger. And while Harriet might have been small in stature, it appeared she’d inherited her father’s imperious attitude. Chin high, arms folded, that haughty expression… Yes, Harriet was definitely a Carnes.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We were hoping to have an informal chat. Do we need a warrant?”
She raised an eyebrow at Stéphane, just the faintest quirk. He nodded.
“Yes, the painting. I couldn’t lie.”
Harriet sighed and dismounted her high horse with a little more grace than Hegler. “I thought you’d come, but I didn’t realise it would be so soon.” The tremble in her voice betrayed her polished act. “Daddy’s going to be… He’ll be…”
“Be what?” Alaric prompted.
“Devastated. He’ll be devastated. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but that’s the only reason the painting’s still here.”
“It’s true,” Hegler put in. “Harry was going to send it back to the museum when…when…” The colour drained from his cheeks as he realised what he was about to say. “Oh, darn it.”
He leapt forward with a handkerchief as a single tear rolled down Harriet’s cheek, but she waved him away and used a sleeve instead, tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her ears before she straightened and faced up to Alaric.
“My father’s dying, Mr.… I didn’t get your name.”
“Call me Alec.”
“Alec. My father’s sick. He might last a week, he might last a month, but he doesn’t have long.”
“I’m sorry to hear
that.”
Words were inadequate.
“Daddy…he’s never been the easiest man to live with, but in recent months, he’s become even more difficult. Unpredictable, but in his lucid moments, still sharp. He waited until I was out of town before he sent Stéphane to pick up Dominique.”
The same name Hegler had mentioned. “Why do you call her Dominique?”
“Because that’s her name. The woman in the painting.”
“I didn’t realise anybody knew who she was.”
Though many people asked, the artist had never revealed his muse’s identity. The enigmatic redhead walking through the forest, half-turned as she invited all who saw her to follow, had remained a mystery to the art world.
“Few people did. My mother forbade anyone from talking about her. The affair happened when I was very young, but our old housekeeper filled me in on the details, God rest her soul.”
“So who was Dominique?”
“Daddy’s mistress. The only woman he ever truly loved, I suspect.” Harriet suddenly turned away. “This is wrong. All wrong. None of this should have happened.”
Hegler steered her towards the table at the far end of the kitchen. The thing was huge, at least twelve feet long, made from what looked like rough-hewn oak worn smooth with age. The kitchen didn’t really fit with the rest of the house—it was homey, lived-in, while the other rooms Alaric had glimpsed as they followed Hegler through a maze of hallways could have come from a magazine spread.
Country homes of the rich and famous.
The paddocks out front fit with the model-home theme too. Lush grass manicured to within an inch of its life, white post-and-rail fencing, a couple of horses grazing for show. But from the kitchen window, Alaric spotted a beat-up old jeep with a dent in the side, and the pastures in the distance didn’t look quite so green. A life of two halves?
He’d compare notes with Dan later. She was around. Somewhere. Emmy had tasked her with watching the comings and goings from Lone Oak Farm in case a misstep alerted the Carnes family to Alaric and Emmy’s intentions and they tried to move the painting. It didn’t seem as if that would happen, though, judging by Harriet’s demeanour. She looked more defeated than anything else as she took a seat.
