by Nupur Tustin
Was it Annabelle she’d seen in her dream, Celine wondered, smoothly steering left onto Main Street. Annabelle who would soon have to learn from Celine that Simon Underwood had been killed—just like her younger brother?
Because there was no way of averting that tragedy.
Tears pricked Celine’s eyes; she blinked them back, swallowing hard. They’d warned Simon about the mob. It was all they could do. The white-haired painter had refused Celine’s offer that he move into one of the guest cottages on the Mechelen. “I’ll take my chances,” he’d said.
“No,” Julia said as they traveled down Main Street.
No, what? Celine’s head pivoted sharply toward her; her foot tapped the brake. The car slowed.
“You asked whether I still think Simon Underwood is Simon Duarte,” Julia explained as Celine continued to stare blankly; it had completely slipped her mind that she’d posed the question. “I don’t.”
“Good to know.” Celine eased off the brake, allowing the car to resume speed just as the vehicle behind them honked impatiently.
“I still think there’s some connection, though,” Julia went on, looking out the car window. “I just can’t put my finger on what it is.”
The former federal agent sniffed hungrily at the delicious smells of fried seafood that wafted toward them from the cafés and restaurants that lined Main Street. “I could do with some of that. I’m famished.” She turned toward Celine. “Want to stop for a bite?”
“Sure. How about here?” Celine pointed at a brick building on the right; a green awning projected over the glass door, overhanging an outdoor café teeming with diners. Potted geraniums were artfully lined against the wall on either side of the door.
Julia leaned her head out the window and peered at the name written in bold white letters on the face of the awning: Oyster Bay Café. “I think it’s perfect!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
After a smiling young woman in a white shirt and black apron had taken their order—breaded Calamari strips served with garlic-seasoned fries and a can of coke for Julia; sole with lightly sautéed, crisp-tender broccoli and sparkling water for Celine—Julia gazed out at the traffic on Main Street.
“I didn’t know John,” she said a few minutes later, “but from the little I knew of Dirck, I would have pegged him as a Rembrandt fan, wouldn’t you?”
Celine nodded, although the gesture was lost on Julia, still staring out the window.
They had opted for a table by one of the two large windows inside the Oyster Bay Café instead of sitting amidst the bustling lunch crowd on the sidewalk. It was quiet inside, with only one other table occupied by a burly man who’d walked in minutes after Celine and Julia.
Celine had been just as surprised as Julia to hear Simon say that John and Dirck had been fascinated by Vermeer—his subjects, his techniques. The portraits they’d painted of each other suggested instead an admiration for Rembrandt.
For one thing, Vermeer’s known oeuvre, unlike Rembrandt’s, hadn’t included a single self-portrait. Rembrandt, on the other hand, not always able to afford a model, had painted himself close to ninety times.
But then again, was it such a stretch that someone who’d started out by liking Vermeer would go on to appreciate his older contemporary from Leiden? After all, both artists had concerned themselves with contemporary life. Vermeer had merely narrowed his focus to domestic life, while Rembrandt had turned his gaze out to the world.
She was about to share something of this when their server returned. She placed a bottle of sparkling water in front of Celine and handed Julia a chilled can of coke; the burly diner peered over his menu at their server. But just as Celine started to direct the young woman’s attention to him, he dropped his gaze.
The server smiled. “He’s probably not ready to order, Miss. But thank you for letting me know. Enjoy your beverages. Your entrées will be ready in just a moment.”
Julia opened her can as the server left their table and took a long gulp. “Strange isn’t it,” she mused, “that two such avid fans of Vermeer should have names that have such significance for the artist himself.”
The comment startled Celine. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” But tidbits from her art history courses were returning to her.
Julia took another long swig. “I suppose it’s only fitting that the bar is called the Delft. That was Vermeer’s hometown.”
“Yes, it was.” Celine fingered her bottle of sparkling water. Her throat felt parched, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to quench it.
“Isn’t it strange that a man called Thins would be so intrigued by an artist who lived all his married life with his mother-in-law, also named Thins?”
“Yes, I know. Maria Thins. It’s just a coincidence. What else could it be?”
“And what are the odds that a man named Thins would meet and befriend a man called Mechelen—the name of the inn that Vermeer’s father owned?”
Celine felt her green eyes widen; she brushed the red-gold strands of her waist-length hair back. Where was the former federal agent going with this?
“Maybe it was the coincidence of their names that made them feel especially connected to Vermeer. Clearly, it wasn’t a fascination that lasted. In all the years I’ve known them, I can’t remember either Dirck or John ever mentioning Vermeer. And who can blame them, after what happened with van Mieris.”
Her temper rose as Julia, instead of responding, continued to stare coolly at her.
“What exactly are you trying to say, Julia? That . . . that . . .” She found herself unable to voice the thought.
“I’m not sure what I’m trying to say, Celine,” Julia said mildly. She reached over and enfolded Celine’s cold fingers in her own warm, rough palm. “It just occurred to me how odd it was that two men with the names Mechelen and Thins should be such close friends and should both be so captivated by Vermeer. That’s all.”
Julia squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Celine looked away. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t so easy to forget the tenuous notions—insinuations, almost—that Julia had thrown out. They’d taken root in her consciousness, and her mind struggled to encompass them.
“Here you go!” Their server had returned with steaming platters and a wide smile. She slid the food onto the table, placed a stainless caddy stashed with packets of salad dressing, salt, and pepper between them, and, with another cheery smile, left.
“What happens to the wine bar and the winery now?” Julia asked, tearing into a packet of salt and dusting her fries with it.
“Nothing,” Celine said as she speared a floret of broccoli. “I’m not planning to sell. Not just yet, at any rate.” She raised her eyes. “It turns out I’ve inherited the business. But I’m sure you knew that already.”
Julia is only trying to help, Celine.
Sister Mary Catherine’s voice was at her ear again. It had nagged her all through lunch as she toyed with her food.
Celine wiggled her key in the Pilot’s door lock. They were in the parking lot of the Oyster Bay Café. Lunch had been a tense, silent affair—except for Sister Mary Catherine’s voice.
Celine knew the nun wouldn’t let go until she made things right.
You can’t get to the truth without asking uncomfortable questions. You know that.
Celine raised her head and looked across at Julia, waiting on the other side of the vehicle. “Sorry, I got snippy back there,” she said. “I . . .” But there was nothing she could think of to explain her reaction.
“Don’t be.” Julia’s smile was warm. “You were upset. I get it. You’ve lost a close friend, and a woman you barely know is nosing around, asking questions.”
Questions that should be asked, Sister Mary Catherine said. But Celine wasn’t going to repeat that. It wasn’t a sentiment she shared.
Celine pulled the car door open. “I’m just not ready yet to go where you’re going with this, Julia. But I need to know what h
appened and . . .” She gazed out at the long line of cars proceeding slowly down Main Street. “And we need to keep Simon safe.”
They needed to do it, she thought, even if the effort was going to be futile.
Julia climbed into the car. “Are you sensing that he might not be?”
When Celine nodded, she continued, “I don’t think the damaged painting will be enough to convince Detective Mailand to provide Simon with police protection. But if you can give me something more concrete, I might be able to talk him into it.”
“I’ll try.” Celine eased herself behind the wheel. As she buckled herself in, her leather tote bag, sitting on the seat beside her, slipped to the floor. A wallet, a vanity kit, a couple of pens and notepads tumbled out along with other odds and ends.
“Let me help with that,” Julia offered as Celine swore under her breath. She wasn’t usually such a klutz.
“Where did you get this?” The former federal agent picked up the last item on the floor—a bulky, silver wristwatch—and held it out on her palm.
Celine’s eyes widened as she stared at the watch. Damn, she’d forgotten all about that! “It needs to go in Lost and Found,” she explained. “I found it”—was it just this morning?—“on the side of the building. One of our customers must have dropped it as he made his way back to the parking lot.”
“Can you remember who it belongs to?” Julia’s voice had a quiet urgency that startled Celine.
“No . . . why?” she faltered. She scanned her memory, but the only name that popped into her head was B-aw-ston Greg.
“I don’t know why I keep thinking of Greg,” she said. It was probably because they were headed to the Paso Robles Police Station to give a police sketch artist a description of his features. “I don’t even remember if he was wearing a wristwatch.”
“This isn’t a watch, Celine.” Julia’s expression was grave. “This is a state-of-the-art tracker—made just for the FBI.” She turned the watch over and Celine saw the rectangle with LSS3i inscribed into the back.
A surge of excitement powered through Celine—She was right, then; Dirck was innocent—as Julia continued.
“We wanted Light Security Solutions, the manufacturer, to come up with something light and innocuous that undercover agents and CIs could wear while on a sting. It was a way of keeping tabs on the operation without putting the person on the ground at risk.”
“Dirck must have called the FBI with his information.” Celine’s eyes were glued to the watch. And this was proof, wasn’t it? Dirck was just an innocent citizen doing his civic duty.
“And there must have an FBI operative—agent or civilian—at the bar last evening,” Julia agreed. “What I don’t understand is why this thing got left behind. If it was being used in an operation”—she clicked a button on the side—“there’ll be phone numbers programmed into the memory.”
“You can make calls with that thing?”
“Make and receive,” Julia said, calling up and scrolling through what looked like a series of menus on the small black screen. “And it looks like someone’s been trying to call it.”
She tapped the screen. “Time to find out who.”
If he’d been looking at his laptop when the phone rang, Blake might have had second thoughts about answering it.
But by the time he’d briskly uttered the words: “Special Agent Blake Markham, FBI,” it was already too late.
His eyes drifted to his computer screen as he spoke, realization thudding into him like an unwelcome bonk from a baseball bat. The hit was just as unpleasant, and accompanied by the same stinging sensation of dismay.
The call had been made from Grayson’s tracker.
Determined to go on the offensive, Blake sat up straighter.
“Ms. Celine Skye?” He didn’t wait for her response. “Ms. Skye, you’re in possession of an FBI tracking monitor. May I ask how you came by it?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Special Agent Blake Markham. So you are aware that your man jettisoned his tracker.”
The voice—sardonic, husky, deep enough to be almost masculine—was familiar. It took Blake a moment to place it—Julia Hood—and he was instantly on his guard.
Retired agent Julia Hood was a loose cannon. No doubt about it. In the Boston office’s rogue days, she’d been tight with the likes of John Morris and John Connolly—Whitey Bulger’s handlers and enablers.
Hood had survived the scandal that had ensued when the story came out in the 1990s—one of the few agents in the Organized Crime Unit to do so. Even Edward Quinn, the man responsible for taking down mob underboss, Gennaro Angiulo, had been tainted.
Not Julia. She’d emerged from the business unscathed.
But as far as Blake was concerned Hood’s credentials had always been shaky.
He played it cool, however.
“Julia Hood! Long time no hear.”
Although, frankly, it hadn’t been nearly long enough. She’d retired barely a month-and-a-half back in January.
“What’s a retired federal agent doing with an FBI-issue tracker?”
And what was she doing in Paso Robles, Blake wondered. Checking out the same rumors Grayson had been? Was that the reason Dirck Thins was dead?
Julia’s presence in Paso Robles at the time of the Delft owner’s murder was a coincidence too strong for Blake to stomach.
“What’s a current FBI agent doing losing his CI?” Julia countered. “Any ideas where he might be? I assume you know he’s wanted for murder.”
“Wanted for murder because he misplaced his tracker at a bar?” Blake allowed his feigned skepticism to ring out loud and clear.
“At a bar where a man was murdered, Blake?”
“And yet the tracker remains in your possession instead of in police custody. Why is that, Julia?”
She’d withheld it for some reason, Blake was certain. To threaten him? Into doing what? Revealing Grayson’s location to her? Well, Blake wasn’t about to do that. He wanted to find Grayson. But he wanted Grayson alive. Not dead.
“I had no idea of its existence until just a moment ago,” Julia replied. “Celine, who picked it up”—she was on first name terms with the lady, Blake noted—“thought it was just a watch.”
Her tone hardened. “Now what exactly is going on? Your man was sniffing around the Delft last evening, then hours later Dirck Thins, the owner, was killed.”
“He was following up on a tip we received,” Blake said. “About the Gardner heist.”
“Called in from the Delft?”
“We believe so. At any event, the tipster asked to meet with our guy at the bar.”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. Time to ask a few questions of his own. “I’m curious to know how you’re involved in all of this, Julia. What took you to Paso Robles? How do you know Dirck Thins and Celine Skye?”
“I’m just a bystander caught up in this affair, Blake, nothing more than that. I came here for a much-needed vacation. It so happens that the guest cottage I’m renting is on the winery Thins owned.”
It was mere chance that had brought her to the Mechelen? Blake wasn’t buying that.
“And Ms. Skye just happened to ask for your help with the investigation?”
“A mutual friend asked me to look in on Celine when he realized I’d be here. Celine was aware of my background right from the start. And she knew she could call on me anytime she needed help. When she found Thins’ body that’s exactly what she did. There’s no mystery here, Blake.”
She paused, then went on: “The only mystery is the location of your man, Greg. That’s his name, isn’t it?”
“I’d leave the investigating to Detective Mailand, Julia,” Blake replied, referring to the Sheriff’s Office detective on the case.
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “You know him?”
“Well enough to know that he’s more than capable of handling the case.” Blake didn’t know the man. But it was a reasonable assumption to make, and he would
find out one way or another soon enough. He intended to call the detective the minute he got off the phone.
With the element of surprise on his side, Blake pressed on:
“Have you informed Detective Mailand that you’ve tracked down Simon Duarte?”
“Simon Duarte?” Julia still sounded stunned. “You’ve heard about—“
“It was the lead Greg was looking into.” He deliberately used Grayson’s code name. Once Julia got something into her head, she was like a dog with a bone. Feeding her bits of inconsequential information might help to head her off. “The last time we spoke, he reported seeing Duarte. At the Delft.”
“So he’s alive!”
“Isn’t that why you drove all the way to Morro Bay to Simon Underwood’s studio?”
“Yes, we met, but I don’t think Simon Underwood is Simon Duarte. He—”
Blake wasn’t willing to listen. He’d determine for himself whether or not Underwood was Duarte. “Does he have the Vermeer?”
He’d risked tipping her off with that bald question, but it had to be done.
There was a moment’s silence. The penny had dropped, obviously. This was what the FBI was searching for in Paso Robles—Vermeer’s Concert.
“No, Underwood doesn’t have any Vermeers.”
Another pause.
“But he does have a flawless method to produce one that could fool any expert.”
The police sketch artist wasn’t an artist at all. He was a police officer trained in the use of SketchCop, a computer software program.
“Budget doesn’t run to the expense of hiring forensic artists, unfortunately,” he said with a rueful grin as he ushered Celine and Julia into a pair of narrow, hard chairs in the tiny interview room.
“Afraid you’ll have to make to do with me.” He lowered himself into a chair at an adjacent corner of the table.
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Officer,” Julia replied with a smile. “It’s the interview that’s the most important aspect of this process, isn’t it?”
