by Ritter Ames
There were others? Sometimes the guy really surprised me.
But that was nothing compared to the surprise we both had when we turned the last corner before the palazzo, and not only saw the house—we saw Rollie heading our way. The well-lit street made it easy to identify him as he spoke angrily and gesticulated with abandon to a swarthy man with an ugly scar down the left side of his face. Scarface frowned as he listened and kept pace, but never answered back, and in that instant I realized Rollie was probably chewing him out for something. Luckily, instead of facing forward, Rollie stared at the other man and missed seeing us. Beyond the surprise at chancing upon him in that location, I was frozen by the sheer disbelief at how he acted. The charming young man was gone, and this was a Rollie unlike anything I could have ever imagined.
Jack reacted quicker than I. His arms wrapped hard around me as he pivoted to slam us into the hard stone of the closest building. His forearms took the worst brunt of the collision, but as my head tried to catch up with the movements of my body, Jack's lips covered mine and coherent thought became impossible.
Everything that happened earlier in the evening faded away as Jack's lips moved over mine, hard yet soft with a proficiency denoting a lifetime of experience with the opposite sex. Somehow my fingers buried themselves in his hair, the texture as silky as I'd imagined and the length just long enough to hold tight as the world disappeared and only the two of us remained. I could hear nothing except Jack's heartbeat thundering against mine, smell nothing but his woodsy, unique scent, and feel nothing but the hardness of his body in the fine material of his tux when he pressed against every part of me. Secure in the strength of his arms as they tightened around my own smaller body, offering refuge.
I'm not sure how long we stood fused together before he finally raised his head. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, not ready to focus. We stood that way for several long moments until I realized two things: he was as affected as I was by what had just happened, and two men walking by conversing in rapid French reminded me where we were and why. Jack moved his arms up to frame my face and shield my profile. From Rollie.
Jack had made the only move he could, hiding me to prevent detection. Making us appear as lovers. While I appreciated his quick reflexes, I had to be smart. I couldn't let anything happen between us.
I'm doing you a big favor.
I deliberately lowered my gaze, removed my hands from his hair, and pushed on his chest since I couldn't step away. "I appreciate your good reflexes, Jack." I hoped a compliment with a little bravado would put us back on partnering terms. The crazy feelings were just an extension of all the weirdness and adrenalin from the gala, the lovely dinner, and the sudden heightened risk of exposure mercifully averted. That was it. "I was shocked when I saw Rollie. Your ploy was perfect. Thank you."
He obligingly moved back, stood a bit straighter for a second, and blinked a couple of times. Then that slow smile spread across his face, and the Southern Charmer accent was back. The one he employed the first time we'd met. "Why, my pleasure, miss," he said in his familiar Clark Gable Gone with the Wind impersonation. "Anything to help a damsel in distress."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "My hero. Would you also like to help this damsel break into the little ole palazzo right down the street, kind sir?"
"If you have the means, I have the muscle."
I pulled a hand out of my clutch, holding my favorite set of picks and the mini-flashlight.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I waved the clutch at him. "Those of us representing the Beacham Foundation are always ready for whatever challenges come our way."
We walked a bit farther and ended up across the street from the palazzo, protected from direct view by a huge urn and a potted tree, and stared at the outside of the building. No one appeared to be inside, but we weren't taking any chances. It was too much of a coincidence to think Rollie and his companion weren't coming from there just before we saw them.
While we watched and waited, Jack filled me in on something else he'd observed.
"The guy who was with Rollie is connected to Tony B."
"Are you sure?"
He turned my way and cocked a dark eyebrow. "Remember what I told you earlier today?"
"Right." I sighed. "You know everyone. You've memorized everyone."
He chuckled. "You sound a little envious, Laurel."
"I sound a little tired of everything continually changing at a moment's notice. What do you think his being with Rollie means? I'd assumed Scarface was in trouble about something."
"Possibly." Jack trained his gaze back onto the palazzo. "Scarface, as you call him, is a Sicilian who actually got his facial disfigurement when a political kidnapping went awry."
"So what is his expertise?"
"Whatever anyone will pay him to do." Jack looked my way again. "But he's never been connected with Moran."
This left more questions and no answers. "What's your best guess? That Moran hired Tony B and now he's sent Rollie to get things working the way he wants? Or that Rollie is branching out on his own, hired these thugs without adequate due diligence, and is angry that things aren't done his way?"
"Both are possibilities, as is a third option. The possibility we talked about weeks ago in France. That they're a part of the new underground group we've heard warning chatter about, but we can't get intel on yet. The one we believe is actually spearheading the huge art heist."
I hugged my clutch, thinking. "No." I shook my head. "It doesn't make sense. Moran wants Rollie to take over operations. It's Rollie who says he doesn't want the job."
Jack whirled and clasped my shoulders. "When did he tell you this?"
"A couple of weeks ago, when we first met. Before he and I left for the festival in Le Puy-en-Velay." I frowned, thinking back to exactly what Rollie had said that day. "It was when he was still trying to make me believe the family business was only an architectural firm. He said his grandfather was disappointed in him for not taking on the duties of the family firm."
He let go of me and turned back to stare at the palazzo as he spoke. "Yeah, I see what you mean. But it still could have been a ruse. He was lying, after all, about the type of business. The whole thing could have been a way to impress you. If he actually wants to be in charge and Moran won't give him the reins, he could have thrown in with Tony B on the promise of a seat of command, and only later realized he should have better picked his partners in crime."
We both seemed to have run out of ideas. There were city noises and strains of conversation periodically riding the wind but nothing that set off alarm bells for either of us. Everyone passing by seemed to be heading in a particular direction. No one took notice of the palazzo. The building was going a little to seed after five hundred–plus years, but the bones were good, and someone had cared for it through the centuries.
After a good twenty minutes, we'd exhausted our patience and moved to investigate the option of getting inside the palazzo via a side door along a darkened section of the block. The lock was a bit tricky, but perseverance and determination triumphed. Jack left my side, motioning me to stay put, and took a quick walk through. While I resented his highhandedness, this was not the time for argument. I removed my heels and stockings as a matter of caution and hoped my feet had healed enough from the previous day's urban hang gliding. I knew wearing shoes was smarter for protection, but while neither of us really thought anyone was inside, high heels are never suggested for discreet breaking and entering. Jack made another quick sweep of the area and came back to my side. "We were right. No one is here. Go ahead and wear your shoes."
"No. Thanks for the concern, but this is much safer in the long run." I hung my heels on my necklace to keep my hands free and followed Jack into the darkness. Something about the blackness around us made me whisper, "Flashlight, or turn on the lights?"
"Let's take a quick jog upstairs first using the flashlight. I've got a funny feeling about this. Something feels fishy."
So he was
sensing it too. Another setup? I hadn't wanted to voice my thoughts, because I was beginning to feel like Polly Paranoid—envisioning scary scenarios with no facts to support the suppositions.
I flashed the light over the walls of the ground floor, and the frescos made me stop and catch my breath. These were no forgeries, but fifteenth- and sixteenth-century works created for the family who built and used this once grand abode as their home. They had likely delighted every family who lived here since. My hand itched to take pictures, to document how the wealthy lived and what they saw every day five centuries ago. The hallways were narrow, and the walls that weren't frescoed were most often covered in marble.
The past opulence had to have been breathtaking, and the ambience was still enough to make me stop in my tracks until Jack hurried me along. As we neared the main entrance and the staircase, I tipped my light upward to the high two-story ceilings. The ornate chandelier once held candles but had been electrified sometime after the turn of the last century.
We mounted the stairs. Within minutes, we traversed the first and second floors and took a closed staircase up to the covered roof. No one jumped out and said "Boo!" though I probably would have wet myself if it happened.
Jack returned to my side, and I said, "I vote for the lights. There's too much to see and look at with a flash. But let's hurry."
"Agreed." He reached out to the switch we found, and the rooftop illumination blinded us for a moment.
Instead of the usual paraphernalia, like chairs, tables, loungers, and potted plants, the space was packed with unopened crates and boxes, all wrapped in heavy plastic. "We don't have time to check these out. There are too many," I said.
"Agreed. But we can open a couple."
"Do we want anyone to know we've been here?"
"At this point, I don't think it matters. We've got to get something going. Besides, they won't know it was us, will they?"
I couldn't argue with his logic, but I wanted to badly. Something about this whole thing stank.
"Do you have the wicked sharp thing you used to cut me down in Orlando?"
The clutch was open in a second, and I slapped my favorite weapon in his hand like a surgical nurse. He approached the nearest crate and cut through the plastic like it was cotton candy. He quickly pried the lid, took a look, and slammed it shut.
"Wait a minute. We're in this together," I protested.
"Trust me. You don't want to see."
I ignored him and lifted the lid. What little bits remained somehow identified the contents as human. I stared into the crate, fixated. "Why isn't there a smell?"
"They're using some kind of chemical to break down the body and prevent odor. This didn't happen very long ago."
I pulled my gaze away from the grisly remains and looked around the roof. "Do you think all of these contain dead bodies?"
Jack replaced the lid, closing the deceased back in the coffin crate. I stepped away and took a deep breath. Seeing a human being dumped in a crate and left to rot on a rooftop filled me with a sense of unspeakable horror. He checked more crates while I spent the time picking my jaw off the ground and looking around fearfully for any sign of new trouble. As he moved closer again, he said, "If this is as big as Nico speculates, people become expendable pretty fast." He opened several more and shook his head. "Let's get out of here and recon through the rest of the place."
"More bodies?"
His face was grim as we walked to the door. "No, just the one. Most of the others hold artwork. Ready for shipping. Multiple copies of the same works. And that crate over there"—he pointed—"guns. I don't know if they are for sale or for security, but we can't waste time looking through the rest right now. What I've seen is enough to keep me awake all night."
I turned off the lights, and he followed me as we walked down the stairs to the third floor. "I'm not sure I understand. A body and guns? What's going on?"
"Probably someone who crossed whomever is in charge. Nico's right. This is big. Really big. C'mon, let's get busy."
It became clear the second floor served as a studio. Different rooms became galleries for different mediums, and the entire space was wired with full-spectrum lights. Canvases of all sizes and shapes, wood, clay, metal pieces and all the tools associated with such things. Even jewelry and unfinished silver and goldsmith work littered the various rooms. All in differing stages of development. Several top-floor rooms contained labs where it looked and smelled like chemical processes were taking place. Varnishing? Aging? Murdering? Creating mediums to mimic old art?
"But why do all of this in a historic palazzo in the middle of the most historically artistic place on the planet?" he asked. "Counterfeiting great works in the very heart of the city defined by the Renaissance? Who would do that?"
"Someone with the bravado to pull it off. The ego to enjoy the juxtaposition," I responded, feeling the anger boil up inside me. "Someone who wants to flaunt his thievery right under the noses of the people committed to the celebration of true art and beauty."
"The irony, of course, would give his ego a boost every time he walked through the door," Jack said in agreement. "Another reason this is probably tied to the marked counterfeit masterpieces we've uncovered."
"But who? Moran? Or Tony B?"
"Tony B doesn't have the financial wherewithal for an operation of this scope," Jack said, authority in his voice. He shook his head. "Though he'd like people to believe otherwise. The man could be a general contractor–type for an organization, but as the leader…no. However, I can see him ordering the death of someone and stupidly think he could hide it in a crate on a roof filled with similar crates filled with more evidence of his criminal activity."
So if Moran was running things through Rollie's presence in Florence, why hire a thug like Tony B, who didn't seem to try to curb his goons, and who possessed a vicious streak of his own that was almost tattooed to his face? Granted his record up until this weekend had always appeared fairly clean, but no one changed so quickly without a trigger for the switch deep in the DNA of his black little soul. Jack's words left a lot to think about, but the minutes were skittering madly by. We didn't have time to do much more than view and speculate as we rushed through the huge and intricate spaces, through the many rooms, and progressed down to the first upper floor.
There, paintings covered the walls, and all manner of works were displayed. The floor held a sense of the temporary, a sort of waiting in the air as though each and every object was impermanent and could be moved elsewhere at a moment's notice.
"This is where everything must cure," Jack said.
Of course. The creative process had several steps before a piece fully became whole. The canvas, the wood, the clay, the metal—each had to dry at individual rates.
"Look, Jack, this is a Poussin. I'd swear to it." I ran across the room. "Over here is what looks like a Turner and a Cézanne. I need more time—"
"Our time's run out, Laurel. We have to get out of here."
While I'd been focused on the art, Jack paid attention to our surroundings. He stood at the doorway waiting for me, and I made my way toward him. He dowsed the light. I passed him and turned on my flashlight to lead the way, but he whispered urgently, "No."
I clicked it off. He pulled me back toward him and put his mouth near my ear.
"Listen carefully. No matter what happens in the next few minutes, I want you to quickly and quietly find a place to hide and figure out a way to get out of here that doesn't depend on returning to the ground floor."
I slowly nodded, knowing he would feel the movement. "But what about you?"
"Forget about me. You are not to try to find me or help me. You may be putting both our lives in jeopardy if you do. We each need to take care of ourselves from this point forward until I get back in touch with you." He gave me a little shake as if for emphasis. "Play tourist. Have fun. Understand? Don't let anyone prove the real reason you're in Florence."
I again nodded and reached with my free hand
to touch where he held my shoulder. "Be careful, Jack."
A soft kiss warmed my ear before he whispered, "I'm counting on your creativity and deviousness to get you out of here safely. Don't let me down."
I squeezed his hand and took off. On the second floor, I'd noticed an architectural structure in the far eastern room that seemed familiar to me, but I hadn't quite worked out how. I wondered if its counterpart was on this floor and raced in silence to further investigate.
Yes! The same. I skimmed my hand over the wood, searching, searching, searching for the irregularity I knew I would find. With a touch, a short door matching the wall paneling popped open. One step inside, and I used the small metal knob to pull the door closed behind me. I switched on my flashlight and knocked away cobwebs. I hated spiders, but evidence of their habitation meant no one used this recently. It wasn't just a space. There was an actual, very narrow, stairway. It went upward or down to the ground floor. I picked the downward option. Yes, Jack said not to return to the street level, but I couldn't bear to go up to the roof with what waited up there. Plus, the Fendi with all my emergency tools to safely climb down the palazzo's façade was still in my closet at the pension. Ending up a greasy spot on the pavement, or if not a greasy spot at least broken in some way, was not part of my game plan.
Halfway down the stairs it sounded like all hell broke loose below me. No shooting. A lot of yelling and furniture movement. That kind of drama. And even scarier when it was sound alone and I couldn't follow the action.
I proceeded quietly until the stairway ended, and I stepped down to the very narrow enclosure. My fingers quickly identified the way out. I did not want to be trapped.
Because a narrow band of light lit up my space, I reasoned the paneling on the ground level in the room must have a decorative feature keeping the two pieces from sealing. After switching off my flashlight and sticking it in the clutch, I discovered I could see into the room if I stretched a little taller on my toes. I carefully pulled on my shoes and found I was now at a perfect height to see.
