Cat Got Your Tongue?

by Rae Rivers

  “If the buyer’s serious about wanting his Renoir, then he’s bound to send the cat in again.”

  Alex frowned at her partner. “I suggested to Cole that we relocate the Renoir, but he won’t hear of it. His hotel is crawling with security so he should be safe there. It’s the night times that I’m worried about as well as when we go to public events.”

  “You’ll need back up.”

  “I can handle it for now.”

  “We should place a guard at his front door,” Bradley Donovan suggested, appearing in the doorway, three mugs of coffee clasped in his hands.

  He was tall and well built, his bicep muscles bulging beneath his black T-shirt. He’d once been a police officer himself and had quit the force to go private. Enjoying the adrenaline fix like the rest of them, being a bodyguard was what he thrived on—what they all thrived on.

  Alex gave him a nod. “For the nighttime shift. Cole’s out most of the day and then his staff are all over the house.” She saw their concern and smiled. “Guys, I can handle this, okay? I need your schedules, so I know who I can call on if necessary.” They all knew she would phone them before she called the police. “Just keep a tight rein on your shields at night. Most of them are art collectors themselves and I don’t want any of our shields getting canned on one of our shifts.”

  The news of Mike Willis’s death had rattled them all.

  “You reckon the Renoir and the Monet jobs are related?” Dan asked. He’d worked with Alex for several years and would know that her mind was racing with different scenarios from the week’s events.

  Alex shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  “Yes. Both Cole and Mike had the same story about feeling as though someone was watching them. Two robberies, two wealthy art collectors, two eighteen million dollar paintings, two possible murders—does it sound like I’m chasing rainbows with this idea?”

  Bradley shook his head and handed out the mugs of coffee. “When you put it like that, it kind of spells it out for us, doesn’t it?”

  Dan took his coffee with an appreciative nod, the mug ridiculously small in his huge hands. “Both Cole and Mike only have suspicions of being followed and watched. Neither of them can provide any concrete proof.”

  “Nothing adds up,” Alex groaned, rummaging in her desk drawer for painkillers. She popped two in her mouth, chased them down with coffee, and fell silent, her mind running over the events of the last few days.

  Two of her clients had been marked in the last three days and someone was after their paintings. She’d always kept her mother’s cronies away from her clients, but they’d crossed a fine line and moved into her turf.

  A feeling of unease swept through her and she set her mug on the desk, exhaling softly. “I hope I’m wrong and that none of this is linked, otherwise we’re going to be dealing with a lot more than we’d bargained for.”

  Dan checked his watch and got to his feet. “I’ve got to go.” He glanced at Alex. “Be careful and call me if you need anything. No more running into bullets or fists or doing something stupid.”

  “Where’s the excitement then?”

  “Yeah, I know how it is. Just call if you need anything.”

  Bradley edged to the doorway and grinned at Alex. “We’ve got your ass covered on this one.”

  Alex flashed them both a smile. “Only because you know I’d kick yours if you didn’t.”

  “That too.”

  They disappeared into their own offices and Alex leaned back in her chair, her mind wondering to Cole.

  Damn, she was in way over her head—and it had nothing to do with being responsible for Cole’s safety. That came as naturally as breathing to her.

  The sex changed everything.

  Alex avoided complications as much as she could, and she found it odd that her body seemed to be ignoring her head—and her heart—in this matter.

  As for the other agents finding out about her sleeping arrangements with Cole, a client, she knew they’d lecture her on their code of work conduct—a code she had instilled when they’d started the company.

  They’d never let her live this one down.

  “Alex?” Myra, their secretary, popped her head into her office. “You wanted to see me?”

  She was a thin, older woman of fifty and like a mother to all seven agents. She made them cakes, brought donuts, watered the plants, bought office supplies, and remembered birthdays. They were the muscle and the attitude of the company—Myra was the heart and the warmth, and they all adored her.

  Alex nodded, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks. “Please organize a nightshift security guard for Cole Anderson’s front door and have him linked to me.”

  “Sure,” Myra replied. “There’s a Detective Sullivan here to see you.”

  Alex felt her chest tighten. “Does he know I’m here?” Her mind was already forming an escape route.

  Myra nodded. “Sorry.”

  Alex dragged in a deep breath and reminded herself that she was also, in fact, one of the good guys. Then why did she feel so skittish?

  “Okay, send in the bloodhound.”

  Myra nodded and went back to the reception area.

  A short and heavy man who’d seen far too many donuts during his police career appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey, Sullivan. You bring me some donuts?”

  Sullivan sank into the seat opposite her desk. “Yeah, but I got stuck in traffic so I ate them all.”

  “Right. Next time you come here, bring me something to butter me up before you drill me.”

  “So you know I’m here to drill you?” he asked in a cheerful tone, her brusque attitude not disturbing him in the least. They were far from strangers to each other.

  “You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?”

  “I’ve come from Cole Anderson’s office.”

  He had? Her mind raced as she wondered how much Cole had told him.

  “And you came scurrying straight here.”

  Sullivan folded his arms across his chest. “You bet I did.”

  When Sullivan smiled, Alex started getting nervous but she maintained her composure. He hadn’t brought out handcuffs so their meeting hadn’t gone entirely pear shaped. Yet. “So are we going to sit here all day or are you going to spill? I’d like to get home and wash my hair.”

  “Tell me about your whereabouts last night.”

  Last night? She’d expected Sullivan to question her about her involvement in the robbery at Cole’s house. “I’m sure Cole’s already filled you in on that.”

  “You can tell me again. In your own words.”

  Alex sighed, deciding to play nice. It wouldn’t help her if she made a complete enemy of him. “I attended Mike Willis’s dinner party with Cole.”

  “As his date?”

  She shot him an annoyed look. “You already know the answer to that.”

  By now, he would’ve seen her comments on the news and asked Cole the same question. He was toying with her and she didn’t like it one bit.

  “Were you with Cole the whole evening?”

  “No. I had to pee.”

  “Did you go anywhere else?” He was scrutinizing her, studying her facial expressions and her body language.

  And Alex made damn sure that he wouldn’t find anything. She leaned forward in her chair, put her elbows on her desk, and clasped her hands together. He’d only been in her office for five minutes and it was five minutes too long. “If I tell you what I know, will you get out of here and leave me alone?”

  He gave her a smug smile. “Or I could take you with me to the station, and we can talk there.”

  “You have no grounds to arrest me so jump down off that stallion of yours.”

  His expression softened. “I know. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

  “Shall we stop this ballerina dance then and get to the point?”

  “That could work,” he agreed, relaxing in his seat.

/>   Alex took a deep breath. “Mike was a previous client of ours, but we haven’t heard from him for a couple of months. Last night, he approached me again and asked if we could arrange a consult for this morning as he wanted to employ a bodyguard again.”

  “Did he say why?” Sullivan asked and Alex told him about the conversation she’d had with Mike the previous evening.

  “He seemed anxious, as if he knew something was wrong,” she said.

  “And a few hours later he ends up dead and his painting stolen.”

  “Were there any other paintings missing?”

  “No. We think it was a random snatch and that Mike got caught in the middle.”

  A coincidence? “Was the Monet the most valuable painting he owned?” Same question she’d asked Cole.

  “He has a few with higher value, the most expensive one worth about forty million.”

  “So the perp took the Monet despite the more valuable paintings on offer?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “Perhaps the Monet was an easier target.”

  “No,” Alex said, shaking her head. “If they wanted the more valuable one they would’ve taken it, regardless of its access. No, they were after the Monet.”

  “But why take an eighteen million dollar painting if there’s another in the next room worth forty million?”

  “Because their buyer was after the Monet.”

  Sullivan leaned forward in his chair. “You happen to hear anything about this I should know about?”

  She knew what he was referring to. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

  But she planned to.

  She took a deep breath and decided to question him about Cole’s attempted robbery. If Cole had told him about her involvement—well, she’d soon find out. “What about Cole’s Renoir?”

  “What about it?”

  She should have known they hadn’t made the link yet. “It’s the same thing. Cole’s also got a Monet painting from his Water Lily series.”

  “Monet made several of them?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Hey, I investigate how the art is stolen, not the art itself.”

  “Maybe that’s why you have difficulty solving these crimes, detective,” she goaded, but didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Monet painted a series of Water Lily paintings—approximately two hundred and fifty oil paintings in total. In 1927, a few months after his death, his paintings went on display in various exhibits and museums and several went up for auction. About a year ago, Cole bought one of the Water Lily series for thirty million. It’s currently hanging against the wall in his library.”

  Sullivan shot her an impatient look and slid to the edge of his seat. “And your point is?”

  “That when Cole got home after the auction at Christie’s, the Renoir was placed against the wall beneath the Monet.” She leaned back in her chair, eyeing the detective. “Now you tell me. You’re an art thief in a billionaire’s house and you’re facing two paintings. One painting is worth eighteen million and the other worth thirty million. You’d kind of think the choice would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

  Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe the Renoir was easier to carry because it was still wrapped.”

  “No, Sullivan. Access won’t deter an art thief. They go in and take what they want, regardless.”

  “So you’re going to tell me your take on it then?”

  Alex smiled, realizing she did have a take on it. “As long as you promise me you’ll get out of here when I’m done.”

  “Deal.” Sullivan was already standing.

  “The thief goes into each house and selects a painting of far lesser value than what was available. The cat nabs the Renoir and the Monet, ignores the more expensive paintings, and makes a run for it.”

  “But the Renoir wasn’t taken.”

  “Only because he got caught. The plan was to take the Renoir.”

  “And?”

  “The cat ignored the other paintings because the buyer wasn’t after them. The buyer specifically wanted the Renoir and the Monet, regardless of their value. If these burglaries are related, then you’ve got one man, the buyer, related to both crimes.” She got to her feet and straightened her jacket. “My gut tells me it was the same buyer using the same cat behind both burglaries and he’s very specific as to what he wants. I reckon you have a private collector and he’s collecting something, perhaps a series of art works or something. It’s not about the money or the value of the paintings. What I want to know is what he’s collecting and why?”

  The fact that they were zoning in on her clients made her feel as jittery as hell, but she pushed the thought aside, promising to deal with it later when she wasn’t under such scrutiny.

  “Damn, Alex, you’re sure you’re not an art thief yourself?”

  “As if I’d tell you.” The detective narrowed his eyes and Alex smiled. “No, Sullivan, I only think like one.”

  He ran a hand across his unshaven face and released a noisy sigh. “So now my theory just went from being a random snatch to a double larceny.”

  “Yeah, it did. Good luck with that one.”

  “Thanks for the tip and the art lesson on the Lily Water series.”

  “Water Lily series.”

  “Right.” Sullivan moved his heavy frame to the door and then turned to look at her. “Stay out of trouble and let me know if you hear of anything else.”

  “Right,” she replied in a deadpan tone. They both knew she wouldn’t call him.

  He fixed her with a pensive stare and with a final nod, he opened the door and left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday afternoon

  Eddie Jones closed the door to his rundown house, locked it, and glanced through the window. It was a ritual he always did when coming home to ensure that no one had followed him.

  Turning around, he walked toward the old rickety fridge and pulled out a beer, capped the lid, and went into the living room. He flipped through a torn pizza menu and took a large gulp of his beer.

  “Hey, Eddie.”

  He whirled around, gagging on his beer. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he saw Alex sitting on the tattered couch in the corner. He lifted his sleeve to his mouth and wiped away the remains of his beer. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Alex gave him a smug smile. “You should be more careful, you know. I could have bumped you off without you even knowing I was here.”

  Eddie glared at her. “How the hell did you get in here again?”

  “Thanks to the tricks I learnt from you and my mother, alarms and locks mean very little to me.”

  He eyed her with a suspicious frown. “I thought you don’t break into people’s pads.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what the hell do you call this?” Eddie slugged at his beer. “That makes you guilty of a B and E. Seems like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Alex got to her feet and met his eyes. “I might utilize the skills she taught me to my own benefit, Eddie, but I’m nothing like my mother.”

  “Yeah, so I heard.” He gave an unattractive snort. “Word on the street is that Jennifer’s daughter thinks she shits candy.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  Eddie shot her a sly grin. “This is the second time in a week you’ve broken in here. What’s up with that?”

  Ignoring him, Alex went to the fridge and opened the door, surprised it didn’t fall off its hinges. “You need a new fridge.”

  “I’ll add it to my Christmas list.”

  “Seriously, Eddie. You’ve made enough from all the paintings you’ve fenced. Why do you live like this?”

  She pulled out a bottle of water and grimaced at the dilapidated room. Although neat, the walls were several years away from a lick of paint and the worn furniture looked like something one would find in a dump yard. “The stuff you have in here is older than Noah’s Ark.”

  “You want fancy, check in at The Coleson. So you’re going to s
tand there all day or you’re going to ask me your shit?” He sank into the corner couch and drained the last of his beer.

  Alex retrieved another one from the fridge, popped it open, and walked to where he was sitting. “There’s been some action in New York this week.”

  “And?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  He fell silent and Alex could see the suspicion in his eyes. “You know you’re consorting with one of the bad guys, right? You’ve made it very clear you’re not one of us, so you’re way out of your league here by thinking I’m going to give you any damn information.”

  She shoved the beer in his hands. “Shut up, Eddie. You know there’s some bad shit happening and I know you don’t approve. Fencing stolen artwork has always been your thing but murder hasn’t.”

  He averted his gaze, and Alex knew she’d touched a nerve. Eddie had always despised anyone getting hurt during a heist. That’s why he and Jennifer had got on so well—they had the same principles and played by the same rules when it came to planning a heist. Go in, nab the art, and get out. No guns, no one gets hurt.

  “I don’t know much, Alex.”

  Alex felt her patience thinning. She sat on the coffee table in front of him and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I’m not here to make trouble, but I need you to tell me what the word on the street is.”

  “So you can rat us out to the boys in blue?”

  “Eddie, they’ve marked my shields. Steven Bryson shot Cole during the heist and last night, he murdered my latest shield for a Monet. Two wealthy men, two paintings, and two of my shields.” She scowled at him, not taking her eyes off his. “You guys know my stand on this. I stay out of your way and you stay out of mine.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Eddie grumbled. “It’s only business.”

  The anger she’d been ignoring all day stirred, but she forced herself to keep it in check. “Someone’s messing with my shields and that makes it personal. There’s no chance in hell I’m giving any of you free rein on my clients.”

  He sighed and Alex knew he understood the anger behind her words. Although she’d never asked, and they’d never admit it, she suspected that Eddie and her mother kept a keen eye on the clients her company covered and casually leaked the information to their corrupt friends of the art underworld.