Abstract Aliases (A Bodies of Art Mystery Book 3)

by Ritter Ames

  Had they waited, hoping he would get out without turning traitor? Or had they counted on him keeping his mouth shut?

  On a personal note, I wrestled with myself about calling Jack again and asking him to try to find out what Tony B did with The Portrait of Three. The trio of masterpieces had last been in the criminal’s office in Miami when he’d held me captive there. After his arrest in Italy, the Miami detective involved in the takedown got a search warrant based on my testimony. By the time the team hit the building, Tony B’s office was empty, including the two connecting gallery rooms where at least four stolen paintings had hung on the walls. I silently mourned the fact I hadn’t been able to take the priceless works with me when I made my escape.

  Too much to do and think about. I needed to get my last errand run and return to the office to see if Cassie had some good news or had figured out what puzzle pieces went together. Knowing my focused assistant, she’d spent the past few hours madly rearranging her colored notes on the white board, trying to see a pattern some part of her brain assured her was there if she looked closely enough.

  I hoped she’d discovered a clue to the art threat which started as a simple pickup job of a snuffbox at a Lake Como party in September, but quickly gathered steam and villains and forgeries. The snuffbox played a role in how Jack got involved in my life too, as I’d thought it was a simple sixteenth-century object, while he wanted it for an intelligence micro-drive supposedly secreted inside. We were both wrong—or we’d been outmaneuvered when the person who was supposed to deliver the snuffbox to me was murdered before I found him. The next time we saw the snuffbox it not only didn’t have any digital intel, but was found to be a fake that led us to Florence and an even grander-scale forgery factory than anyone imagined. In the interim, I’d tasked Cassie with tracking the tangibly-related forgeries uncovered to date, while Jack and I tried to track the forgers. All of this would have been much easier if someone wasn’t killing forgers at the same time. Seriously limiting our abilities to interrogate sources.

  Until Rollie showed up last night, the players in this farce and most of our leads kept disappearing like smoke in the night. Despite everything, Tony B stayed tight-lipped, apparently even at the point of near death. If someone tried to kill me on orders of someone else—someone who wanted me to keep my mouth shut to help them—it’s an easy bet I’d be singing to every guard, doctor, nurse, or janitor about who was behind the attack. But then, I wasn’t working on making a deal for my freedom.

  Quickening my steps, I detoured for a necessary stop on the way back to the office. The errand was to check on a restoration promised for an exhibit starting the next day. The address was nearby, and in less than ten minutes I was talking to the usually perky brunette who always made me think of a pixie.

  “Another hour or so, Laurel,” the restorer, Nelly, promised. She worked from her second floor flat.

  London’s second floor, so it was a third floor for me. All those stairs.

  I wished her a happy new year, and she responded in kind, though a bit distractedly—not at all the upbeat personality I usually encountered. She showed me the tapestry, pulling at her corkscrew curls while pointing out the final section she wanted to spend more time on. “A tiny bit more refining is all. I promise. I want to do it right.”

  The work already looked brilliant, but I didn’t argue. Her perfectionist tendencies were why I hired her. “Okay, great. Shall I come by on my way home?”

  “I have an appointment later tonight, and I need to leave before five. Can you come back about four?” she asked. She continued running a hand nervously through her hair. “Or I could have it sent to your office by messenger in the morning.”

  “I’ll come and get it. No problem. Or if I can’t make it I’ll send Cassie.”

  We spent a few more minutes talking mutual friends and events before I left her to her expert craft work. I wondered who she was meeting later, and if perhaps the appointment was the reason this normally calm bohemian artist, who was a wizard with textiles and thread, suddenly turned into a most nervous Nelly.

  “Not your problem, Beacham,” I muttered as I waited curbside in front of her flat, trying to hail a cab. I had enough dragons to slay. If Nelly wanted my help about something she would have said so.

  Four

  The black cab let me out at the address of Beacham Ltd., and I walked down the half-dozen steps from street level to reenter the foundation’s London office. I pressed the brass latch lever of the solid black enameled door and brushed the kick plate with the toe of one high heel as I pushed inside. My promotion came several months ago, yet the fact I was in charge of the European arm of this venerable organization never ceased to amaze me. The Beacham Foundation had been a constant in my life since birth, and a constant in my family for generations before me. The New York office had been where I’d played and grown up, going to work with Grandfather whenever I had the chance. Even after Grandfather passed on and my father sold out for the cash he’d already spent, I hadn’t realized it would be my calling and passion too.

  My promotion to head of the U.K. branch came after I uncovered the extensive criminal wrongdoings of the previous person who held the position. Some likely felt the upgrade was my just reward; others thought I was too inexperienced for the responsibility. In part, I sided with the latter—after all, I hadn’t successfully brought the criminal, Simon Babbage, to justice. Only hobbled him somewhat. Our foundation director and chief penny-pinching officer, Max, let me know privately he wanted Simon caught at any cost. No minor thing, believe me. Cost was always uppermost in the mind of my cheapskate boss.

  However, Max did not have to challenge me on this. Catching Simon remained my first thought on awakening every morning, and prosecuting him for selling out the foundation while he worked as a double agent for Moran—and finding out if he’d absconded with a priceless artifact and left me with a well-made fake—kept me channeled on this goal without my superior’s prodding. We weren’t sure there was a true sixth-century sword, or if the fake I returned with was always the treasure. If Simon did steal a priceless relic, I wanted to be the one who brought it in. Optimally, without running the blade through the bastard first.

  “Wow! Welcome back. I didn’t think they’d let you leave this early,” Cassie said as I entered our cream-on-beige reception area. This was a nice space. Her elongated wooden desk and well-lighted worktable sat positioned in one half, perpendicular to the long bank of windows set high along the outer wall.

  “The champagne was gone by the time I left, but the staff continued reveling,” I said. “A few of the directors made noises about leaving, and I took my cue from them.”

  Cassie motioned toward the printer. “They sent a copy of a previously faxed page to you a second ago. Looks like a press release with additional handwritten instructions.”

  The printed text was the updated press release Megan mentioned earlier, and scrawled in the margin was a note about getting a quick interview set up that evening to head off more questions. It was a good idea. The more time until the press got what they wanted, the more time they had to think of questions we didn’t want to answer. Plus, the holiday increased the probability it was a slow news day, making reporters nosier about a full scoop. I pulled out my phone and texted her I was free after four p.m. In doing this, I remembered to give Cassie notice about the other change in plan.

  “I went by Nelly’s on the way back here, but the tapestry wasn’t up to her standards yet. I said I’d pick it up before the end of the business day, as she needs to get away for an after-work engagement.” I tapped the paper. “Now I have a television interview scheduled this evening, a taped affair coordinated by the grateful board at the National Gallery.” I sighed. I might agree with Megan’s reasoning, but it didn’t mean I had to like it. “While I can probably make both, if anything comes up I need you to go by and get the tapestry by four o’clo
ck.”

  She handed me a notepad and pen. “Write down the address for me.”

  As I complied, she asked, “The interview tonight, is it you solo? Or you and someone else?”

  I handed back the notepad and watched her add the time for the pickup and Nelly’s name. My cell pinged to report a text from Megan saying she would be sending talking points momentarily. “It will be me, a head curator, and a conscientious BBC reporter intent on getting the story behind the story. Which will not be completely forthcoming.” Another text alert sounded. “Megan says she has me scheduled with a makeup artist who wants me in her chair at five thirty sharp.”

  “Max will love the exposure for the foundation.” Cassie gave me her Cheshire cat grin.

  “At least one of us will.” I took off my coat, held the collar and gave a quick shake above the tiled part of the floor, and hung the garment on a coat hook to dry. Our rainy day towel sat in its typical place behind the door, and I corralled it under one ebony Louboutin to swipe at the water. “Anything new crop up this afternoon?”

  “A delivery service tried to drop off a package marked ‘personal.’ I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, and it wasn’t for the foundation, so I got him to deliver it to your hotel instead.”

  “Thanks.” While I would prefer more permanent digs, between trying to save the art world from counterfeits and heists and having to work with trans-Atlantic moving professionals in an effort to get my possessions transported from New York, finding a flat of my own stayed sidelined for temporary digs. The hotel did its best to keep me comfortable, and given I typically stayed in some hotel somewhere two hundred or more days a year for my job, it felt enough like home for the moment.

  Cassie walked around to the front of her desk, leaning on the top and crossing her arms. “I’ve waited long enough. Tell me what happened between you and Jack.”

  I laughed and gave her most of what she’d missed while she was away, and how our midnight adventure ended. One thing I didn’t tell her about was Jack and my having dinner together the night she left for America, nor about the brief dossier he’d sent on himself to convince me to go to Ireland with him over Christmas. The information was a start. I’d learned he grew up with a single mom and went to an exclusive prep school thanks to a number of wealthy patrons. Whose names were not listed in the dossier, by the way. His mother died of breast cancer mere days after his twenty-first birthday, and he entered the Royal Navy a week following his graduation from Oxford. I found nothing in the file detailing facts after his military stint. It wasn’t everything I’d hoped for, but it was a start. At my insistence, he did provide a copy of the dossier he had on me. It was illuminating…and irritating.

  After some late night reading, I did accept his olive branch—and plane ticket—to join him in Ireland for a couple of days of sightseeing and relaxation.

  We went there purely as friends, but having a few days away let us see each other in a different light. Well, maybe more clearly. I’d spent enough time reminding myself of how much he irritated me that I found it surprising to let down my guard and simply enjoy him being charming.

  But I had no desire to tell Cassie any of this. She’d make more of it than I preferred. And I wasn’t completely sure what I preferred. For now, hearing about Rollie’s appearance was enough to send her into a tizzy.

  “Thank goodness Jack was there! Do you think he was trying to kidnap you again?”

  “We aren’t certain Rollie knew about Tony B kidnapping me last time. All we know for sure is he was in the museum the day it happened.”

  “We need to get you some protection.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s necessary and would make life more difficult. I’ve already messaged Nico for a new tracking charm and he monitors me 24/7 on my phone. I’m covered.”

  When I’d left earlier in the morning, the pink spikes in Cassie’s blonde hair formed a uniform ’do all over her head. In the intervening hours the left side had evolved into intermittent patches of pink squashed against her skull and random spikes taking on a drunken air after having been pulled and clenched in her fist while she worked. “Your hair tells me you haven’t made much progress in your project.”

  “Oh, is it bad?” She circled the desk and pulled a mirror from the top drawer.

  “Needs evening out, is all,” I said as I cranked the deadbolt. Twisting strong locks tightly closed had become a way of life for me. As late as early fall, my life was my own; I was even on my way to my first vacation in four years. Only to be sidetracked by the recovery job which ended way off course and gained me Jack Hawkes as an enigmatic sidekick. Well, less enigmatic all the time, but still a bit shadowy. I contemplated telling Cassie about his call from Rome, but decided not to send things down a new side path until I’d heard what she came up with while I was gone.

  As I crossed the carpet, I said, “You’ve moved away from Post-Its on the whiteboard, I see, leaving me to assume you’ve been playing with computer files again. Bring whatever you have into my office and we’ll brainstorm. Maybe you need to hear your ideas out loud.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  In about thirty seconds she pushed in, carrying her laptop and a couple of file folders, and sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs. My office was my sanctuary, though despite my protests it continued to look more like Simon’s old office than I wanted. Cassie held to the belief everything must be restored whenever possible. I had wainscoting and a wallpaper pattern she saved from destruction, rather than ordering the fresh look I’d requested. Not that I should expect anything less. Her background was art history and restoration after all. Wherever possible, I made changes, though not as quickly as I wished. At the same time, I continued to wonder who was really in charge.

  “Where should we start?” I asked, pushing aside a couple of reports and my Fendi. She centered the laptop, making the screen visible to both of us.

  “My brilliant idea didn’t really pan out like I’d hoped,” she said. “But I know there’s something…I’ll see it eventually.” She sighed and punched a couple of buttons on the keyboard to load a carousel of photos. “I printed copies of recent stories surfacing about faux religious icons showing up and the supposed originals subsequently deemed fakes. Nothing new, but no sign of the true masterworks either. I forwarded the name of another dead forger to Nico, since you made this a priority before we left for Christmas.”

  “Good. We need to find someone who can talk to us about who the forgers had been working for. At first I thought it was Moran, but he’s used forgers for years without their life expectancy suddenly tumbling. If he’s employing these victims, we need to learn why the dynamic changed the last year or so. If it’s someone besides Moran, we have to learn who and figure out a plan of attack. I’m no fan of forgers, but I’d prefer they ended up behind bars instead of inside coffins.”

  She slapped a folder atop my chrome and glass desk. One of those changes I mentioned. Simon’s had been a carved rosewood behemoth. The new desk was a contrary move on my part. I really favored antique over modern, but I needed to make the office feel different. I had too much negative history with the old furnishings. Cassie understood, but hadn’t forgiven me yet for the switch. She sent Simon’s desk to a storage warehouse somewhere in Chelsea, along with other items we didn’t need or currently use. Nothing was said, but I knew she hoped I’d change my mind and retrieve the antique soon.

  I opened the slim folder to find the stories she’d mentioned, as well as a cornucopia of art masterpiece prints, from paintings to statues to jeweled items and lithographs. “Each has a forger’s mark?”

  “Yes. Some the same Florentine forgers’ marks which started all of this, and some different forgers’ marks to investigate next.”

  “Why mark the fakes as fakes?”

  “Not all of the forgeries are marked, remember. Could matching the forgers’ m
arks with the dead forgers be a way to…” Cassie shook her head. “I don’t know. See a means of pointing to why any of this is happening?”

  I pulled a map from my desk drawer we used to highlight the locations of murdered forgers in the past twelve to fifteen months. So far, no pattern emerged. “Nico and I discussed an idea similar to this before he left for Italy. I’ll remind him when we talk again. He had a few ideas about databases to check and might have come up with something new while he’s been away.”

  “Do you want me to work on the database angle? Try to match the marks and the dead forgers through computer files?”

  “No. It’s better if you work on the art angle. Copies versus originals are more your specialty. Leave the hacking potential to Nico.” Most of our information on the murders—usually muggings—came via Nico tiptoeing through law enforcement databases without leaving behind footprints. Jack had sources he wouldn’t talk about, but he was able to produce needed information at critical times. However, the need for warrants and jurisdictions made it more difficult when other countries were involved and was where Nico’s talents shined.

  “And leave the meetings with shady informants to you?” she asked, raising a thin brown eyebrow.

  “I’ll only meet with known quantities,” I promised. “But yes, I’ve sent out a few cautious queries and hope for information in the coming days.”

  She tapped a fingernail twice on a second file. “Don’t want to change the subject, but here’s additional data on the painting you asked about from the yacht in Miami. I found it accidentally when I worked on the other stuff.”

  “Woman Dressing Her Hair?” I almost snatched the file from her hand. The painting was a forgery hanging in the saloon of an incredible mega-yacht Jack and I stayed on a few months back. My geek extraordinaire, Nico, worked on the yacht ownership angle, and Cassie was tasked with the art research. Despite best efforts, we had nothing more than the memories I brought home from Florida. No, correction. We had discovered the original work disappeared almost thirty-five years ago from a secure location while repair work was being done to the piece. The trail went cold immediately afterward.