Marked Masters

by Ritter Ames

  Jack nodded.

  I reached between the seats to run a gentle finger along the artist's confident brushstrokes. "How did you know I was going to take this?"

  "I didn't."

  "Then why—"

  "The senator's aide was a Rhodes Scholar, and we met when we were at university together."

  "So the senator already knows?"

  "Has for years. He's been waiting for his wife to bring it up but was afraid of saying anything until she spoke first. Whenever her bank account ran low, he knew she'd had to make another payment, and he would find some excuse to give her more. But he'd recognized the signs lately that things were getting out of hand, so he hired a private detective to learn the man's schedule. Tonight seemed the best opportunity to make a move, especially since we're leaving in just a few hours."

  I nodded. "That was our thinking too. Kat's and mine. The Gleesons' daughter and I were college friends as well."

  I pulled the book from my neckline. "But I didn't exactly leave empty handed. Found this in his study when trying to discover where the missing portrait was. I think it may be more blackmail victims. We were concerned that taking the portrait would point too much toward Mrs. Gleeson, so I'm hoping this information defrays the risk."

  Jack turned on the dome light and grabbed the book.

  "Hey, give it back."

  "No, this is evidence—" He whistled.

  "What?"

  Jack held up a hand to silence me, then turned a couple more pages. I tried to snatch the book back, but he jumped across the seat, and my fingernails only scratched the cover.

  "You're going to tell me what that is, Hawkes."

  "A minute, please."

  Finally, he stopped shifting pages and looked up, his face a mask of disbelief. "A detailed report on human trafficking activity coming through Florida, then going out across the U.S. He's documented everything: who his clients are, what they've paid, which countries the women came from. Everything."

  "Wow." This was nothing like I'd expected when I took the journal. "So does it go to the FBI or Interpol?"

  "Probably both. You drive. I'll send someone to pick up my car later." Jack pulled out his cell.

  I should have called Kat to give her the high sign, but I needed to process a lot of this first. To figure out how to tell her the blackmailer had more to worry about than the loss of his moneymaking portrait, and do so without giving away state secrets. I also had to find a sensitive way to reveal that her father knew but had kept the knowledge secret from her mother. There could be many reasons why, both sincere—and creepy.

  Kat and I were scheduled to meet in the airport short-term parking in a few hours. The plan was to hand over the portrait, letting it go practically unnoticed from my car trunk to hers before we split up—me for my southbound flight and Kat to turn the painting over to her mother.

  "I'd like to give the portrait to Kat instead of the senator's aide," I said when Jack hung up from his hushed-voice call to Interpol. "I'll tell her that her dad knows, but I think this needs to be a family conversation instead of one originating with an employee."

  "Agreed. Is she meeting you at the airport?"

  "Yes."

  "We'll have a greeting party for the journal once we get to Miami. The suits are definitely interested."

  I smiled into oncoming headlights and merged onto the freeway. "Our low-tech blackmailer has just become an even lower lowlife."

  "And you, my love, have gained the prize that will give hundreds of innocent women their lives back."

  "One nasty bad guy down, one art criminal mastermind still to go."

  * * *

  A few hours later—both of us changed out of our burgling black—Jack and I were sitting in the Miami airport waiting for our flight. His left forearm appropriated our shared armrest, and every time he moved a little, I smelled a new cologne he was wearing, some kind of pleasing sandalwood scent that lingered. Dressed in his standard suit, this time brown with white shirt, he livened everything up by adding a bright-teal silk tie. The color perfectly matched his eyes, and I wondered what woman had given it to him. Of course, Jack tended to appear naturally comfortable in any setting, which was one of the reasons I had difficulty trusting him.

  I saved the article I'd hurried to finish writing, then pulled up my e-mail to Flavia, attached the file, and hit Send. The subject was one near and dear to my heart—women and art. Several months ago I'd promised a piece to the Association for Women's Advancement in Art. An old friend, Flavia Bello, ran the organization. If I'd had the money, I would be a benefactor. Instead, I happily completed the occasional article for its newsletter.

  Working on it with Jack around was proving to be a bit of a pain. Interminable waiting at the airport for a flight only made him more fidgety. Finally he'd left my side long enough to acquire drinks and snacks, and I'd taken advantage of the blessed silence to finish up the article.

  Writing short pieces about artists and their work was a sideline I did to keep myself focused on art, instead of staying totally immersed in foundation business and the challenge of constantly trying to return masterpieces to the public view. Sometimes the writing work paid. Sometimes it didn't. Despite my current financial state, it was never about the money for me. Through generations of my family's love of creative expression and my own art history degree at Cornell, my niche in life had been determined from the moment of my birth. And I kept up my side of the façade.

  Unfortunately, in the past weeks' craziness I'd totally forgotten about the article until Flavia forwarded a reminder e-mail along with information about the upcoming fundraising event featuring women artists and subjects. Grandfather's name and the Beacham Foundation still held sway in the social community, hence my ready access to most events. I reread the invitations and sighed. Florence, Italy, this Saturday night.

  I slid my computer back into my bag, stood, and stretched. I couldn't help thinking about Kat and the conjectures and decisions she would make in the coming weeks after the realization sank in that her father knew all this time and did nothing earlier to stop her mother's nightmare. Losing trust in a life you thought you knew is something I understood from personal humiliation, and I would call to check on Kat from time to time, see how she handled things. But it was a journey she needed to walk on her own. It wouldn't make it easier, but having made that solitary journey myself, I knew it to be true.

  The silent tears she shed as I told her were only the beginning. Like her, I had a father who had deeply disappointed me. Unlike Kat's, mine did so in a wholly spectacular manner that not only deprived me of my last possibility of familial support but snatched away forever the environment I'd known from birth until age seventeen. I survived by acknowledging I could no longer count on anyone but myself, built a personal armor around my heart, and developed a trust-radar and lie-detector system the CIA would envy. Hopefully, Kat would not have to do the same.

  Relax. Close your eyes. We had new things to worry about.

  Tinny music emanated from the iPod of the kid sitting next to me, and I drowsily wondered at the volume the device was cranked up to—his head nodding and earbuds blasting—since I had no difficulty determining the music as Nirvana. I dozed a bit before jerking myself awake to glance at my watch.

  Jack had been gone twenty minutes too long. His errands should have taken only "seven" minutes, a direct quote, but he'd been gone twenty-seven—now eight—as I watched my minute hand move to that number. If my watch was correct and the airline hadn't rescheduled the flight, we were due to board in little more than fifteen minutes. Anyone else and I would have shrugged the tardiness off and waited for his return. Since it was Jack, however, waiting wasn't an option. If he discovered a new lead and was reconning solo—without telling me, to keep me in the dark—I wanted to find out. Now. If that wasn't the case… Well, I needed to make sure he didn't need backup.

  I grabbed my bag and walked from the gate to the hallway. I was not going to panic. Instead, I focu
sed on my surroundings. I smelled food, coffee, and that particular odor airports have as people move exhaustedly from one geographical space to another, a culmination of a variety of cultures and varying degrees of unwashed bodies. Jack had indicated he wanted coffee, so I headed that direction, dodging a couple of bored kids playing with a tiny rubber ball. No Hawkes. With the clock ticking down the minutes, I race-walked in and out of various outlets housing magazines, newspapers, books, souvenirs, and food, eventually finding a lone wall of canteen snacks for picky customers who didn't want fresh, only processed.

  Bathrooms offered the next option, both men's and women's, and I ran through each, checking stalls. The men were naturally shocked, but the women offered more vocal outrage. In the last men's stall, I found Jack's bag, contents scattered everywhere and what looked like drops of blood on the floor. I thrust his stuff back into the bag, carefully avoiding the blood, and headed back to the main hallway. Frantically looking in every direction, I did not want to return to the security area, and I didn't think anyone else would have gone that way either.

  I turned to look back toward the waiting area, hoping to see Jack waving frantically. No luck. For a second, my gaze was drawn to a matronly woman with a huge flowered hat. An entourage of some kind followed her, and all headed my way.

  There! As they passed the water fountain, I spotted a door marked No Entry. I hadn't noticed it earlier due to a group of kids fighting over the water fountain and the fact the door completely matched the surrounding walls.

  My large Fendi purse and the wheeled bags helped hide my actions from the casual observer, and, I hoped, from the standard security cameras. The locked door presented no problem. Within a minute or so, I had it open with the set of tools I carried in a hidden pocket of my purse.

  I replaced the tool and grabbed out of the pack a deceptively innocent-looking instrument with a sharp edge. Just for a little extra protection.

  The wide storage room held a variety of supplies on seemingly endless high shelves and no clear view. Nothing to do but run for it. I slipped off my heels and ran, holding the bags tightly to my sides as I looked up and down each aisle. I stopped suddenly as I thought I heard something, and I started to call out but worried I might be alerting the wrong person about my presence.

  Only a few minutes left before the flight boarded. I headed back toward the other end of the room, on guard the whole way, and hoped the noise was Jack.

  I stepped around the last shelf and gaped. Trussed up like a holiday turkey, Hawkes was hanging by ropes from the shelf, his silk tie thrust in his mouth. Under his angry black eyebrows, his teal eyes shot murderous looks my way. He mumbled something—I could only guess—and jerked at the ropes. He succeeded in shaking the shelf a bit. But since the unit was bolted to the floor, the only thing he disturbed were the group of plastic tumblers stacked in thin see-through bags all around him. Two packages closest to him tottered violently, fell off, and burst open. The freed tumblers rolled everywhere to join compatriots, which had apparently been knocked down during the er…uh…hanging.

  Though relieved to see him, I also wanted to laugh a bit since I had imagined him strung up many times since I'd known him. I thought seriously about pulling out my phone and taking a picture, but I didn't want to risk the death my poor smartphone would likely suffer after Jack was free. Instead of wasting time, I quickly looked him over—to try to determine the source of the blood I'd seen in the stall. The only visible wound other than the rope chafing was a small cut at the edge of his left eyebrow—the brows still pulled together in a thunderous V.

  The handle of my weapon went into my mouth, to leave my hands free for climbing, and I let the bags slide from my arms. My Manolo Blahniks were discarded next, and then I climbed several of the shelves and used my tool to saw at one of the ropes holding him in place. His muttering got louder, and I knew I should pull the tie out of his mouth, but I didn't want the complaints to start.

  The tool was sharp. Before I cut the second one holding him, I knew I needed to cut the rope binding his hands so he could protect himself as he fell. With a bit of difficulty, I sliced through the professional knots, and he jerked the tie from his mouth.

  "Bloody hell, Laurel, what took you so long to find me? Have we missed the flight?"

  "Get ready. The rope's about to give way." I ignored his questions as I took a final swipe.

  "What do you mean…" Jack said, his words becoming incoherent as he dropped to the floor amidst the plasticware.

  His next words weren't meant for polite company as he struggled to undo the knots around his ankles. I climbed down and handed him my tool, which he ungraciously took and sliced through the rope with more expertise than I had demonstrated. He rubbed his ankles and his wrists, and I could tell from the way he was moving his whole body hurt. It looked like a small bruise was forming at his brow and the shadow of another a bit under his chin.

  "I guess the blood in the bathroom was from the cut near your eye?"

  He looked at his Silberstein before he shakily stood. So it hadn't been a robbery. "What makes you think it wasn't from the other guy?" he asked irritably as he held a shelf to steady himself. "Come on. We have to go. Thank God we're already checked in and the gate is close."

  "Because nobody hurt could have attached you to those shelves like a string of holiday lights." I countered the earlier question he used to avoid answering what I'd asked.

  He ignored me, stuffed his tie in his suit pocket, straightened his clothing, picked up his case and mine, and we took off for the gate, arriving with very little time to spare.

  Our plane boasted the standard East Coast, in-state shuttle accommodations, crammed to the wing flaps with coach seating. Seventy or so passengers filled the small commuter jet, with a column of two seats on the left side of the aisle and a width of three seats on the right. The flight spent little actual time in the air compared to the eternity waiting on the tarmac. Still, I figured I could grab a quick nap and intended to do so without delay.

  It was open seating, but Jack managed to score us two seats together on the small side of the plane. He wanted the aisle, and I gave no argument to sitting and scootching into the window seat. I rose up a bit to straighten the skirt of the gray knit dress I got the last time I was in Peru. It was scrunchable and one of my favorites for traveling. It also went great with my favorite heels.

  Jack had charmed the flight attendant out of a Glenfiddich before takeoff and was visibly relaxed when he glanced over at me and said, "They were airport workers. Or at least they were dressed like airport maintenance with a utility cart."

  A utility cart with a lot of rope. I bit my lip. "What do you think they wanted?"

  "I'm inclined to think they wanted to stop us from taking the flight. They were only interested in subduing me." He flexed the hand not holding the drink. "But how did you have that sharp tool?"

  "A special storage case designed for me by a German craftsman," I explained. It wouldn't hold a large weapon, yet it could escape the detection of metal detectors and appeared innocuous under X-ray. "Just a little favor I received recently from an old friend." Then I pointed up at the overhead compartment. "You probably should check your bag. I found the contents scattered in the stall."

  Jack shrugged. "I'm not worried. Nothing in the bag for them to find."

  I took a sip from my water bottle. "What would their—whoever they are—interest be in stopping you from taking the flight?"

  "Or you." He took a long swig and put the glass on the tray, the cubes rattling against the plastic glass.

  "Why would it have necessarily stopped me?"

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Your loyalty is well known. And you did locate me, after all."

  "But I may have gotten on the plane alone if I hadn't discovered where they'd trapped you. Just notified the desk agent you were missing."

  He shot me a look that made me laugh.

  "I really am glad you are all right. My only regret is not getting a picture whe
n I had the chance. I seriously thought about it but figured that was leverage you'd never let me use anyway."

  "Right on that count. Would you really have left me?"

  "Maybe…" I let the word hang for a moment before I added, "If I thought you'd taken off to follow a lead solo again. It wouldn't have been the first time."

  Jack handed his glass to the passing attendant. "You do know I would never do anything without reason. Right? However, when going for a cup of coffee requires rescue, it proves there are no innocent errands for either of us. I'm just glad this time I'm not dead."

  I shuddered through a deep breath and looked at him with astonishment. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me—I'll not repeat it. I equally cannot believe anyone could get the drop on me like that."

  "I'm glad you aren't dead as well," I repeated solemnly, then winked to lighten the mood. I would never tell him how true that was. It would give him too much power. "Do you think we'll ever know who's responsible?"

  Jack stared into the distance. "Oh, I'm certain I'll find out." From the tone of his voice, I could tell that his words were a vow.

  Even before we'd taken off, I had my napping plan rolled out, and I pulled on my sleep mask to firmly cover my eyes. I figured the two-seat side was best as I didn't have to worry about anyone crossing over me for the next half hour or so. The flight met capacity levels in both human and hearing volume, and as with all the short hoppers I'd traveled on through the years, the noise levels in the plane were tremendous. No matter. The steady rumble was pure white noise to me. No frills had its benefits.

  Alas, my rest was not to be. We had barely lifted the landing gear when Jack's shoulder leaned into mine. He asked, "Laurel, are you asleep?"

  Ignoring him would have been easy. I could have simply used the plane noise as excuse if he persisted. But I knew Jack, and not only would the plan not likely work, but when he persevered I risked blowing my top due to no sleep and less patience. I lifted one side of the sleep mask, not willing to give up yet on my dream. "I'm trying, Jack. I was a little too busy last night to get my full eight hours."