Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  "So you sent her the email. But she didn't open it. It was unread in her inbox."

  Layana stared back at her. "She must have opened it. Because Arthur is dead. And he was really upset on Wednesday night, hours after I sent the email. He was supposed to see me when he got back from Palm Springs, but he called off our date. I think Juliette showed him my message. He said we had to talk, but it would have to wait until the weekend. Only the weekend never came." Layana's lips trembled as she struggled for composure. "Juliette pushed him over the railing. She punished him."

  "She didn't do that, Layana."

  "Are you sure? Were you with her when he died?"

  "No, but I know her. She's not a killer."

  "People I've talked to don't seem as sure."

  "Who would those people be?"

  "Art people. Rumors are flying. Don't you know that?"

  "Those rumors aren't true."

  "I don't think you're as sure as you're pretending to be," Layana said. "Where is your mother now? Why didn't she come here to confront me?"

  "Because she's grief-stricken; she just lost her husband," Callie reminded her. "She loved him, Layana. Maybe he fell out of love with her, but her feelings didn't change." Pausing, she added, "My mother hired you to paint Arthur's portrait. Did you not ever have one moment of guilt, one second where you thought you were wrong to go after someone else's husband?"

  "I loved him so much. I couldn't think. I couldn't see her. All I could see was him. We were soul mates. We would talk for hours. It wasn't just sex. We were like two parts of the same person. It was a great love story, the kind people paint."

  She almost felt sorry for Layana, because she doubted Arthur had loved her the way she'd loved him. But then her compassion faded when she remembered the threatening message Layana had sent to her mother. "If you think trying to pin Arthur's murder on my mother is a good idea, you should keep thinking. Because she didn't do it. Which means someone else did. If you want that person to pay, then you need to start considering who else might have wanted him dead."

  "No one wanted that. Everyone loved him."

  "Was Arthur buying stolen art?"

  Layana's gaze sharpened. "Why would you ask me that?"

  "Because apparently you knew him really well, so tell me—was he purchasing art that had been stolen?"

  "No. Arthur loved art. He spoke of how a certain brushstroke could sweep him away. I can't imagine that he would buy something that had been stolen. He had too much respect for art. We had that in common." Layana dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. "He was such a good man."

  She frowned, wondering if Layana was right. It was difficult to believe that Arthur had been comfortable dealing in stolen art. But what about the pictures, the second phone, the calls to Gretchen Vale?

  "Do you know Gretchen Vale?" she asked Layana. "She runs a gallery in Laguna Beach. She and Arthur exchanged quite a few calls before his death."

  Layana frowned. "He was unhappy with her. They had an intense conversation last week. But I don't think she would have killed him, because I heard him say he wasn't going to pay her until she delivered. Why would she murder someone who owed her money?"

  "What was she supposed to deliver?"

  "I don’t know. And that's all I have to say. No one in the art world would have killed Arthur. He was a benefactor, a patron of many struggling artists. No one had a reason to kill him, except your mother."

  She frowned as Layana once again brought the conversation back to her mom. "Or you," she said impulsively. "Maybe he wasn't going to leave my mom. Maybe you finally figured that out."

  Layana's jaw dropped, anger filling her eyes. "Get out."

  "I'll go. But don't threaten my mother again."

  Layana heaved the cup of coffee in her hand straight at her. Callie managed to jump to the side before it hit her and then she ran out of the gallery.

  When she got into her car, she automatically flipped the locks, her heart pounding against her chest. Maybe she shouldn't have taunted Layana, but the words had come out before she could stop them.

  And what if she was right? Who better than to throw Arthur over the railing than a lover who'd suddenly realized he was never going to leave his wife?

  She needed to talk to Flynn. She pulled out of her spot and drove quickly back to her apartment.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You did what?" Flynn asked, pulling the car over to the side of the road, as Callie's shocking words echoed through his head. He'd picked her up five minutes earlier and was only two blocks from her apartment, when she'd told him she'd gone to Layana's studio.

  "Why are we stopping?" she asked nervously.

  "Because I need to hear exactly what you did."

  "I found Layana and I went to talk to her," she repeated.

  "Why the hell would you do that?" He shifted in his seat so he was facing her.

  She frowned at his words. "Why are you angry? This is a good thing. I know who she is."

  "It's not a good thing. This is an investigation, and you might have just screwed it up."

  "You didn't even know who she was or where she was. I figured it out, and you weren't available, so I acted on my own. Do you want to hear what I found out or not?"

  He drew in a quick breath, knowing his anger wasn't so much about the fact that she'd acted on her own but that she could have put herself in a dangerous situation. The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt. "All right, start at the beginning."

  "I was going through my mom's email. We looked at her texts last night, but I was curious what was going on in her emails, and there was one with a photo of a woman painting Arthur's portrait, only Arthur was nude in the portrait and the back of the woman was bare. All I could see was her black hair. I actually printed it out, so you can see it." She reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  He glanced at the photo. It was exactly as she'd described.

  "In the email, the woman said that this was the way she saw Arthur, and I started thinking about the portrait. My mom paid for it to be done. It was her birthday gift to Arthur. He'd always said he wanted an oil portrait of himself. So, a few months into their marriage, she found who she considered to be the right artist, a woman named Layana."

  "But you didn't recognize the name yesterday."

  "No, because I never knew the name. But I went into my mother's bank account to see who she paid for the portrait and that's when I realized it was Layana Vazquez. Her studio is in Century City. I went by there, thinking it was probably closed, but while I was out front, Layana came out of the bagel shop next door and I recognized her hair from the photo. She's also the one who sent the text, by the way. We went into her studio to talk."

  "You just went in, with no thought to your own safety?"

  "I did have a thought," Callie admitted. "But she'd been crying, Flynn. She looked like hell. She felt like a very sad person, not a dangerous one."

  "Even though she threatened your mother?"

  "She was in love with Arthur. He allegedly told her he would leave my mother for her, but he had to pick the right time, because my mother had mental problems and she'd go crazy when she found out. Apparently, as time dragged on, Layana got impatient. She decided to spur things along last week when she sent my mom the photo. She assumed that my mother flipped out after she saw it and killed Arthur. That's why she sent the text yesterday. But here's the thing—my mother never opened that email. I don't think she saw it."

  "You were looking at her mail from your computer. She might have looked at it through an app on her phone and it didn't show as read."

  "Well, we can check it from her phone, too. But I don't think she saw it. She didn't check her email every day."

  "Okay." He thought about what she'd told him. "So Layana thinks your mother killed Arthur, but if she didn't, we still don't know who did."

  "I asked her a few more questions, thinking the same thing, that we need more information about Arthu
r's life. Layana said that Arthur got very nervous on Wednesday night. He was supposed to meet up with her after he got back from Palm Springs, but then he bailed at the last minute. She thought it was because he'd found out about the photo she'd sent that morning."

  "Interesting. Savannah got Arthur's work schedule, and he called in sick that day. But he didn't take Layana with him to the desert."

  "Not that day anyway. I asked her who else Arthur might have been upset with. I even suggested that he was buying stolen art. She said she couldn't believe that, that he had too much respect for artists to do that. She did say that he was upset with Gretchen Vale, that he'd purchased some art from her, and it hadn't arrived."

  "Gretchen's name comes back up," he murmured, feeling another tug on that old string. "Anything else?"

  "No. That's it. I did good, right?"

  Seeing the expectant smile on her face, he couldn't help but smile back. "You did good. But you shouldn't have done anything without me. I'm glad you're all right. This could have ended up differently. You don't confront people who are threatening you without at least some backup."

  "I've always fought to protect my mom, and I never had any backup. I guess this felt like that."

  "But it's not, because Arthur is dead. You can't forget that, Callie."

  "I take your point, but it felt good to do something proactive. Yesterday, I felt like I was moving around in a daze, and this morning I felt so much more like myself. I'm not a victim. I'm a fixer. If something is broken, I try to fix it."

  He nodded, understanding where that desire came from. She'd had to grow up on her own, with no one to fix her problems. He'd felt like that after his dad's crimes had come to light. He'd taken everything on himself. He'd known he had to be the man in the family, take care of his mom, take care of himself. He'd never let anyone else shoulder that burden. Callie hadn't, either. They'd each turned themselves into fortresses on their own private islands. He wondered if she ever felt as lonely as he did.

  "Flynn?" she questioned.

  "After the way you grew up, I understand why you need to fix what's broken. How is your mom?"

  She let out a sigh. "She was asleep when I went there. The nurse claimed she's not as emotional as she was, that she actually ate a little something for breakfast, and that she was sleeping without sedation. I guess that's good. But why is she still so tired?"

  "Because her brain and body are processing a horrific event."

  "I suppose. I just wish we could have spoken. I hope she knows I've been checking on her. Dr. Clarke will see her this afternoon. He's supposed to call me with an update."

  "So, after you left your mom's, you needed to do something. That's why you went to Layana's studio."

  "I had already decided to go there before that, but I did have some energy to burn off after I left the hospital." She paused. "There is a little more."

  He didn't like the guilty look in her eyes. "What else did you do?"

  "Well, Layana kept saying how my mom killed Arthur, and I said I could think of someone else who might have been just as motivated."

  "You didn't," he breathed, both impressed and alarmed by her audacity. "You accused her of killing Arthur. What did she do?"

  "She threw her coffee at me and I ran."

  "Oh, my God, Callie."

  "That might not have been the best decision," she admitted. "The words just came out."

  "Which is why you're not supposed to be doing these things on your own."

  "Well, it's done. She didn't follow me or try to hurt me. Anyway, that's the whole story. I think we need to get down to Palm Springs."

  "I'm tempted to turn around and take you home."

  "You don't have the address for the Palm Springs house. You have to take me with you. We already discussed this. Time is of the essence. And you'll be with me, so I won't do anything stupid."

  "No, you won't, and if you're coming, you need to follow my orders."

  She raised an eyebrow. "I don't like orders, Flynn."

  He wasn't quite sure what to make of this version of Callie. She was different today, and maybe even more beautiful with her fierce, stubborn, independent streak. And as their gazes clashed, all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss her again.

  Her gaze shifted as if she'd read his mind. Her lips parted ever so slightly.

  "Damn," he murmured.

  "Are you swearing at me now?"

  "I'm swearing at how much I want to kiss you." He paused, looking deep into her eyes. "Do you want to stop me?"

  She answered him by leaning over, putting her hands on both sides of his face, and pressing her mouth against his.

  He slid one hand around the back of her neck, holding her close, taking the kiss she'd started to where he wanted it to go. He took his time exploring her mouth, savoring her taste, loving the way she met him kiss for kiss. She was in a reckless mood, and he was right there with her. They were nearing the edge of something, and he needed to make sure they didn't go off the cliff, but it was not easy to call a halt when everything inside him wanted to get even closer.

  He didn't just want to take her home and leave her there anymore. He wanted to go there with her. He wanted to toss her into the middle of her soft, unmade bed and make love to her until their desire was completely sated. That could take hours or days, maybe even longer.

  He was still thinking about that when Callie pulled away, her eyes sparkling, streaks of pink warming her cheeks.

  He reluctantly let her go, amazed at how completely he'd just lost his mind right in the middle of a case. And not just any case—an investigation that was important and personal.

  "So, that happened," she said.

  "Yeah," he murmured. "You pack quite a punch."

  "So do you. We should go." She sat back in her seat. "That's enough of that for today. We have work to do."

  "I don't think it was nearly enough. But we can always come back to it."

  She ran her tongue along the edge of her lips. "We'll have to see how the day goes."

  He drew in a breath and let it out, taking a minute to settle his body and his emotions. And then he put the SUV into drive and headed for the freeway.

  It took a good ten minutes for Callie's pulse to return to normal, and that only happened because she deliberately kept her gaze away from the man behind the wheel. Every time she looked at Flynn, she had all kinds of reckless thoughts, some of which she'd just acted out in a fairly spectacular fashion.

  She didn't know what to make of the crazy attraction between them. It wasn't like they were dating. It wasn't like they were friends. She didn't know what they were, except that they were together, and when they kissed there were literally fireworks going off in her head. Maybe it was the shadow of danger surrounding them that heightened the emotions. Or perhaps the danger was just coming from the sparks that went off every time they got close.

  It wasn't smart for her to fool around with Flynn, no matter how much she liked him. And she did like him. It wasn't just a physical attraction. They'd opened up to each other. She'd shared things with him she hadn't told anyone else, and he'd been forthcoming, too. Their childhoods were vastly different and yet they both understood what it was like to lose a parent, to feel like they had to be the strong one.

  But Flynn was still an FBI agent, and her mother was still a suspect. She couldn't forget where their loyalties were—Flynn's was to Arthur, hers was to her mother. Hopefully, neither one of them would have to make a choice at the expense of the other.

  She finally glanced over at him, and he met her gaze, giving her a faint smile. "Heart rate back to normal?"

  "Getting there," she admitted. "How about you?"

  "Same. We definitely seem to light each other up."

  "We better put the matches away."

  "For now." He paused. "I want to make a stop in Laguna Beach on the way to Palm Springs. Gretchen's name keeps coming up. I tried her earlier today and got her voicemail, but she'll probably have the g
allery open for the Sunday Art Walk."

  "That's a good idea. I'd like to meet this woman who posed a threat to my mother's marriage."

  "It sounds like Layana was the real threat—to the marriage, anyway."

  "Tell me more about Gretchen. I know she worked for your father, but what's she like? Is she pretty? Is she ambitious? Is she artsy?"

  "She's attractive and ambitious. She's never been an artist; she has always been about the business of art. I liked Gretchen well enough when I was a kid. She was friendly and enjoyed gossiping, which was fairly entertaining. She didn't treat me like an idiot, which Stephen always did. I also thought Stephen was shady. I caught him in my father's office one day, and he gave me some lame excuse about why he was in there. I told my dad about it, and he just laughed and said, 'Trust me, Flynn, I know exactly who Stephen is.' I have no idea now if that meant he knew Stephen was as big a thief as he was. But he certainly wasn't worried about him."

  "It sounds like he should have been worried about both Gretchen and Stephen. They probably sold him out to save themselves."

  "That's what I thought, but like I said, I couldn't prove it."

  "How did Gretchen and her husband come to own the gallery? I thought you said your dad's assets were frozen."

  "They were. The government sold the gallery at auction. Gretchen and Stephen found a way to buy it. They own the building now, which also includes an upstairs apartment where they live."

  "Where did they get the money for that?"

  "I don't know. I haven't dug into it. Something else I need to do."

  "Or you could have someone on your team do it."

  "Maybe."

  As Flynn drew in a breath and let it out, she could feel his tension, and that tension increased as they neared the exit for Laguna Beach. She didn't think talking to Gretchen was the reason for his stress; it was the gallery.