Abstract Aliases (A Bodies of Art Mystery Book 3)

by Ritter Ames

  Sheesh. That was gratitude. I kept him from getting his gun confiscated or stolen by the valet service and received a lecture for my trouble. I already knew the long reach of the Prevention of Crime Act, which is why I’d had to give up carrying my beloved telescoping baton. In the back of my mind I wondered if his response was merely to irritate me enough so I wouldn’t ask for more info on his reconnaissance. I almost sent another text to call his bluff, but it was irritating to have to push. I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed to the office, stopping on the way for coffee and a cruller.

  Even with my late night I was at my desk half an hour early. Messages checked, phone calls returned, and a note written for Cassie filled the time until I needed to leave for my National Gallery appointment. I was delivering an Old English masterpiece I’d recovered through a combination of unorthodox networking and some pseudo-hostage negotiating. The painting leaned against the wall by my office door, wrapped in plain brown paper, awaiting its return to the museum.

  A couple of generations ago, the Beacham Foundation started out as a fundraising liaison for museums and artistic organizations, helping match up funders with fundees during my grandfather’s reign. After my father lost control about a decade ago, things evolved to a greater degree in recovering missing masterpieces and shoring up exhibit security.

  My boss, Max, had been one of my grandfather’s protégés, and when he assumed responsibility over the foundation, he recognized it sometimes required unconventional thinking and practices to ensure art stayed in the public realm. Given this usually meant less was paid out in ransom for stolen pieces, these ideas made us very popular with the insurance sector and museum board members.

  We kept our fingers in art circle fundraising, even as our mission expanded, and I personally attended several dozen posh pledging events annually. No one wanted to pay twice or three times for the same painting or sculpture, which happened when pieces were stolen and ransomed back. Add in the fact many museums didn’t have the funds to insure most of their pieces, and ransom was often not an option anyway. For those who did insure, the insurance companies put their own pressure on the administration and wealthy art patrons, frequently employing corporate bounty hunters to mitigate losses to stockholders. It was easy to see why recovering a national favorite, like this painting, made me a person to call when masterpieces went missing.

  I was almost out the door when Cassie finally got into the office. I’d expected her at nine, but she was more than an hour late. The shadows under her eyes said she had a major case of jet lag.

  “I left you a note,” I said, pointing to her desk. “I have an appointment, but I’ll be back by early afternoon. Can you work without me?”

  She’d already moved automatically to her white board. From her leather tote, she pulled a stack of Post-It Notes she’d probably scribbled up during the plane ride back. “Sure. Go ahead. I need to check some files and make a couple of calls.”

  “You do remember it’s a holiday?”

  “I know. I’m good at leaving voicemails.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, pulling open the office door. “I listened to four about one thirty this morning.”

  She stared at my face. “Why did you change your makeup?”

  “Jack slugged me last night.”

  “What?”

  “He aimed for Hamish. I got in the way.”

  “Hamish Ravensdale?”

  “The very same.”

  “Why was he in London, and why did Jack try to hit him?”

  “He was visiting for the holidays. Jack threw the punch because it was midnight, and Hamish pulled me away from Jack so he could kiss me instead. Then Jack tried to slug him, hit me, and as Hamish ran away Rollie showed up.”

  “Rollie? What kind of New Year’s party did you attend last night?”

  “Good question. As far as I know Jack’s still trying to figure it out.”

  Cassie gave me her worried mother look. “Your makeup is good. I wouldn’t even know if you hadn’t told me. Does it hurt much?”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. Jack kissed the pain away soon after.”

  “Damn it, Laurel!” She dropped her pastel notes. “You can’t leave until I get details.”

  “A joke, Cassie. I promise I’ll tell you everything later.” I slung my purse on my shoulder, gripped the top edge of the package guaranteed to be the star of the meeting, and zipped out the door.

  Three

  My late-morning and early-afternoon hours were spent in reserved celebration with the curators at the National Gallery. As a collective body in that sweeping institution, they were thrilled in reticent British fashion—broad smiles, dignified but relieved handshakes, and the offer of tea and toast when I entered the conference room with my flat brown-paper-wrapped package. Moments later, one of the more senior members ordered up champagne flutes and the tea was forgotten.

  “A toast to the woman of the hour, Laurel Beacham,” the director proclaimed. “A lovely lady, and the world’s foremost art recovery expert.”

  My face felt the heat of a blush, but I smiled broadly and played the role I was born to. I clinked glasses with the guy beside me, who’d been paying more attention to my attributes than to those of the painting I’d recovered. One more time I told myself it was not my fault I was an almost thirty-year-old leggy blonde who had more brains than many people gave me credit for. I moved to the other side of the room when I saw the media person, Megan Jenkins, motion for me to join her and a board member.

  The media woman nodded toward the silver-haired gentleman in the Savile Row suit as she said in her lovely Irish accent, “Laurel, I was just telling Lord Singleton how the BBC is intrigued about this story.”

  Our gathering celebrated the return of a lesser-known but beloved British masterpiece I’d recovered the morning before. Immediately ahead of authorities collaring the thief. The work had disappeared in a sleight of hand maneuver the thief employed in a lucky moment, and he planned to use the treasure in a vain attempt to win back the woman of his dreams. Bad luck for him, the act turned into his personal nightmare. Scotland Yard is good, but more intent on getting their man. Art is my area of expertise, and catching the thief remains paramount, but secondary to retrieving items like a fifteenth-century original oil painting.

  Success came after a few days of reconnaissance, as well as calling in favors from all corners of my personal intelligence network of sticky-fingered pickpockets, cunning grifters, and less-than-forthright fences. All of those bits and pieces of finagled information culminated in a long session of strategic negotiations with the thief in question, and finally resulted in my liberating the work of art from captivity. Leaving the perpetrator to once more reside as a guest at one of Her Majesty’s historic penal establishments. Nothing had been heard of the girlfriend.

  This kind of success buoyed me, when I knew I’d pulled off a feat others in my trade only dreamed of accomplishing. I appreciated why the story caught the attention of media outlets, but I wasn’t going to spill my secrets on television.

  “Wonderful, Megan. Let me know when the story airs and I’ll try to catch it.”

  “No,” she said. “They want to interview you.”

  As I feared. “Really, I don’t want to take the emphasis off this valued institution, and I especially don’t want to play a part in sensationalizing a crime. If they want to do a piece highlighting how this brilliant work of art is back in the collection where it belongs, for instance, and interview the curator, I’d be happy to play second chair. But I have no interest in a one-on-one interview.”

  “I understand and concur,” Megan said.

  “We were hoping your response would run along those lines,” Lord Singleton said in his cultured baritone.

  “We’ll have to give a more detailed response than the press release I sent out earlier,
” Megan said, frown line forming above her tawny brows. “However, I am glad we all agree.”

  “You have my number,” I replied. “My assistant, Cassie, keeps my schedule. Let us know what you work out. Email any copy you want me to stick to in my responses.”

  “Thanks very much, Laurel.”

  For the next hour or so I circled the room chit-chatting, picking a few brains about missing art works I had a particular interest in, and making sure to connect with everyone for the sake of keeping contacts while we all had the museum to ourselves. Constant gratitude is wearying after a while, however, and I eventually ran out of original ways to say “it was my pleasure.” But this came with the job and was the way I got my name on more private-ticket guest lists than the average art recovery pro.

  The museum crew continued marveling over the recovered painting and worrying to seek out any new scratch as I said my goodbyes and headed back to the office. Almost everyone tried to get me to stay longer, but I resisted. I wanted to learn why Cassie cut her holiday trip short by two days. I also knew she’d kill me if I waited much longer before explaining what I’d teased her about when I left.

  As I saw the museum’s exit in the distance and picked up my pace, I planned what I would and would not say on the record if the interview ended up being a go. All I knew for certain was I would say as little as I could get away with and try to put as much attention as possible on the museum and its professional staff.

  It would be good press for the Beacham Foundation, sure, which was how Max, my boss, would view things, no matter how many ways I petitioned for a low profile. It was hard enough outsmarting art thieves. My job would be made doubly difficult if the more competitive criminal element of society decided to test my mettle simply because I got primetime press.

  I hurried through the museum’s public areas, smiling when the lone guard stood up to let me out of the building. The bleak gray skies showed through the huge windows. I cinched my leather coat a bit tighter and slowed as I hit the building’s outer paved apron. Before leaving the protection of the Gallery’s portico, I pulled out my phone. Buried in the middle of the missed calls and messages was a text from Nico. He had a new charm ordered and warned me to keep my phone on at all times until I received it. I texted back for him to tell them to expedite the damn thing to me and stop nagging.

  The evening before had been glorious for the celebration, but today everything was damp and dark—from the coats on the pedestrians to the mottled clouds above. Last night, clear skies offered the perfect venue for the Mayor’s New Year’s fireworks. Twelve hours later, all the energy was spent in getting to the next sheltered location. I had another stop nearby and planned to briskly walk the long mile and ruminate over possibilities while I gained a little high-heeled exercise to make my Fitbit happy.

  Trafalgar Square, steps from the National Gallery, remained one of my favorite places to people watch, but the drizzly weather eliminated the possibility. I hurried down the stairs and across Trafalgar. As I rounded the sidewalk past Nelson’s Column, I reached up to stroke a front paw on a huge brass lion reclining at the base. For luck, if nothing else. Then I struck off in the direction of the office.

  My phone rang. It was Jack. Any other time, I’d think he was calling about the case we were working together as unofficial partners. The one which sent him tailing Rollie on his midnight run. After last night, though, I figured he was calling to see if my chin was black and blue. I answered, saying, “You don’t have to worry. I look fine.”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  I started to tease him about his habit of answering my question with a question. His tone of voice changed my mind. “Left the National Gallery a minute ago and on my way to the office after a quick errand. Why? Where are you?”

  “I’m in Rome. Tony B was attacked early this morning in prison. The outlook is bloody dicey.”

  Now I understood Jack not calling earlier to give an update. He knew I’d have wanted to tag along. Tony B was a thug whose allegiance to man and country was determined by whichever best payday he could receive. After his arrest in October, we’d been trying to ascertain who the felon worked for, but he wasn’t talking. In the meantime, the U.S. attempted to extradite him for a murder in Miami that occurred the same day he’d had me kidnapped. Italian authorities, on the other hand, wanted him chiefly for major art crimes. I could only imagine the number of people who might want him dead. Jack and myself included—after he answered our questions, of course.

  “He’s alive though?” I asked, looking around to check no one was nearby. I hunkered down close to the statue and shivered. I blamed the cold, but wouldn’t have sworn to it.

  “Barely. In ICU. I have a mate on the military side who’s attempting to get me in to see him.” Jack blew out a long breath. “The DNA evidence finally came through matching the true killer to the murder, but not Tony B, and a deal was struck yesterday. He was going to talk and get a lighter sentence with no extradition if he testified via video against Tina in the Florida murder trial.”

  Tina Schroeder was someone I thought was a longtime friend, but who had learned from her mother to play every angle of opportunity without any scruples. She’d changed her identity and thrown in with Tony B until they both got caught. Then they turned on each other. Before the attack in prison, it sounded like Tony B was gaining the best outcome.

  “Don’t tell me Italy and the U.S. were going to let him go.”

  “No, but he would have had a chance to get out much earlier than any of us would like. With no evidence to tie him to the killing, the kidnapping charge against you likely remained the strongest thing the U.S. could hold him on. Here in Italy, they had a gun charge and a stretch toward attempted murder with you testifying and Nico backing you up, but they’re more inclined to pursue the art and antiquities charges. Thus, they were better open to dealing.”

  Which led me to wonder if this murder attempt was mounted by the bad guys who didn’t want Tony B talking about them or the good guys who preferred he didn’t get out with little more than a slap on the wrist. “Who do you think did it?”

  “My money is on his employer,” Jack said. “If we could find out who it is, of course. After discovering Rollie in London, I can’t decide if it makes a stronger case for Moran to be Tony B’s boss, or a reason why he likely isn’t.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “If I’m allowed to go in with the prosecutor, we hope to get some of the names promised as part of the deal. All assuming, of course, Tony B is alive and conscious when we arrive.”

  “How far away are you?”

  “Five minutes from the hospital. I’ll have to turn my mobile off inside. I wanted to give you this information while I could. I was just briefed a minute ago.”

  A minute ago, my ass. He ran off without me, like last night. Nevertheless, this phone call was a big step for Jack. Admitting he was letting me know current info almost as soon as he learned it was not a practice he did easily.

  We both suffered from a driving desire to be the solitary point person with the lion’s share of the data. A pivotal point in our relationship happened about a week earlier when I demanded Jack not keep me in the dark about himself and our respective jobs. Even when he won’t admit anything concrete about his job, it pretty much has to be something in law enforcement and have a tangible connection to art. Or he’s an excellent con man who is superb at running the long game. I was trusting him more, but the jury was out until I received a definitive answer—and I told him so. This new about-face for him tied to my requirement. Probably a little guilt from last night too. Of course, acknowledging the act meant I was obligated as well to start being equally open. Or appear a hypocrite.

  “Thank you, Jack,” I said, ignoring the stress gathering around my shoulder blades.

  He mumbled something I didn’t catch, then said, “We’re here.
I have to go.”

  “Are you still tracking Rollie?”

  “The tracker isn’t moving, so he’s not wearing his coat. I do know where he spent the night.”

  “That would be?”

  “The same Mayfair address we already knew about.”

  At least we had confirmation the address remained an active one for Moran’s group. We’d spent time watching the residence over the past couple of months, waiting for anyone but the regular maids and tradesmen to enter. Two weeks ago Nico learned the place had changed ownership, purchased by a German conglomerate, and we assumed Moran decided the location was too hot to hold on to.

  “The German corporation didn’t appear to have ties to Moran. Do you think it’s covering for him, or Rollie kept a key and a copy of the alarm codes?”

  “Either or both, it doesn’t matter. I notified Scotland Yard last night, and they tell me he was spotted leaving by taxi before six this morning.”

  “I’m assuming this was about the same time you were contacted by Rome.”

  “Yes. I don’t know what it all means, but keep your mobile on and I’ll call back as soon as I know something,” Jack said. His tone grew quieter when he added, “Please be careful. You’re on your own.”

  “Don’t worry. Cassie’s back, and we plan to spend the day in the office. We’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll try to catch a return flight tonight.”

  “Okay. Good luck.” I hung up.

  More to ponder. An attempt to kill Tony B before he could talk. Why wait this long if it was related to someone who employed him to do the dirty work? He’d been in prison for months. Plenty of time to take him out if his death was the objective.

  “He finally had a deal,” I mused aloud as I returned my phone to my Fendi and brushed at a scuffmark on the bag’s silver-gray side.