Abstract Aliases (A Bodies of Art Mystery Book 3)

by Ritter Ames

  “Does he know?”

  “Yes, and he couldn’t care less.”

  He laughed. “Nico really does call whatever shots he wants, doesn’t he?”

  “As long as he uses his superpowers to help me, I’ll let him keep his attitude,” I said. “He never fails to come through in the clutch.”

  “Do you think it’s due to loyalty or egotism?”

  “I absolutely know it’s a combination of the two. As long as I keep Nico challenged, I’ll be able to keep him. If he does anything slightly non-kosher, he does it to accomplish a necessary goal. He expects not to have to defend his actions, and I won’t argue with him. If he wants to be cranky, I won’t argue on that front either.” I didn’t know if this was for conversation or he wanted confirmation, but I was glad when my cellphone rang and I could change the subject.

  I expected Micelli calling us with another question, but Caller ID showed a U.K. number I didn’t recognize. I gasped. “Hello?” Adrenalin shot through my veins, terror that something happened to Cassie.

  A male voice with a clipped British accent asked, “Is this Laurel Beacham?”

  “Yes, who is this?” I almost screamed out “How’s Cassie?” but thankfully he answered first and saved me embarrassment and worry.

  “I’m Lincoln Ferguson. I report for the BBC and wanted to interview you about the recent recovery of the National Gallery masterpiece. Megan Jenkins said you need to reschedule and I want to follow-up.”

  He sounded sincere, maybe too much so. My radar hit high-alert. “How did you get my number?”

  “Oh, right. I went by the foundation office first and saw the door sealed.”

  In my mind, I could imagine the crime scene tape stretched across the nailed-shut black door. If he’d called the foundation number, Cassie would have answered, and she wouldn’t have given out my number to a reporter. He obviously had a good police source. Aloud, I said, “A bit of misadventure on someone’s part and we’re closed now for renovation. I’ll be sure to contact you when I get back to London.”

  “You’re out of the country the day after the break-in?” he asked,

  He already knew too much, as I’d suspected. “I have an extremely packed schedule at the moment, Mr. Ferguson. I’m away more than I’m home. And I apologize, but I need to end this call now to attend a meeting.”

  “I understand. I appreciate your time, Ms. Beacham.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Ferguson.” I hung up on the call and groaned. “Great, now the press has wind of Simon’s escapade.”

  Jack shot me a sympathetic look. “Did you really think something like that could stay away from the press? They’d jump on it out of concern for a terrorist angle if nothing else.”

  “Gee thanks, nothing like upping the ante,” I said, shoving the phone into the Fendi. “I was hoping for a big news week after the holiday, so everything about me and the foundation got hidden. It’d be nice to actually get back to London before I have to put out publicity fires.” I blew out a long breath. “I should never have told Megan Jenkins I would do that interview. Now I have a reporter on my tail who’s looking at stories in two different directions.”

  “At least one of the directions is positive. You should be applauded for your success at recovering the painting.”

  I shook my head. “You know as well as I do that kind of public praise causes new headaches.”

  “Yeah.” He patted my thigh. “Trying to make you feel better.” He changed lanes and asked, “Did he tell you who gave out your number?”

  “No, but he segued into having seen the office break-in, so I imagine through police contacts.”

  “Could it have been Megan?”

  I laughed. “No way. She knows me too well. She would have called on his behalf first.”

  “Be sure to tell Whatley.”

  “No need. I don’t want to tattle. It isn’t hard to find anyone if a reporter is conscientious enough, and Lincoln Ferguson probably is.”

  Jack snorted. “Lincoln Ferguson? I’d say so.”

  “You know him?”

  He nodded. “Up-and-comer trying to make his mark. Since you’re American, think Anderson Cooper on his rise up, but without the famous mother. I’d lay you odds he wasn’t the scheduled interviewer on the masterpiece’s return, and got on this when he learned about the frontal attack on the foundation office.”

  “This does not sound good.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Stay on your toes around the guy.”

  Our little car glided up to a stoplight and Jack said, “Back to the original conversation. Have any errands to run, or want to see something while we’re waiting?”

  I checked my cell to see if there was a message from the airlines saying I could pick up my bag. Nothing. “I could buy some clothes. But between this outfit and the backup in my carry-on, I’m probably good as long as I use hotel laundry services each night.”

  “How about deciding on another hotel?”

  I shook my head. “We kind of left the job with Nico. If we switch things up now, and he does too, it’s counterproductive and will likely tick him off.”

  “True.”

  The light changed and we resumed forward movement.

  “We’re close to the Santa Maria della Pace,” I said. “I’d love to see Raphael’s Sibyls in the chapel there. It isn’t real touristy, especially in January.”

  “Will it be open?”

  “If it isn’t, the custodian is at the cloister next door. Easy to find him and ask to be let inside.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Minutes later we were at the church complex. The doors to the chapel were locked, and we headed to the cloister, or Chiostro del Bramante, which was a second treat. The cloister was the inner central design element in what was originally a complex comprised of a monastery and the adjacent church. The design reflected Renaissance ideas and the period’s proportioned concepts of harmony and equilibrium. The space even inspired Michelangelo.

  I was ready for a caffeine fix, and suggested going by the café on the second floor before we looked for the custodian. Minutes later, coffee in hand, I said, “Come on. We’ll go stand by the window in the lounge. We can get a first glimpse of the Sibyls from there.”

  The lounge was a short distance past the café, and my favorite window in the world was exactly as I recalled. The view looked into the chapel and perfectly framed Raphael’s fresco. Five hundred years old and it continued to wow me, even from a distance.

  Original in its time due to Raphael’s use of the church wall’s full height to create a two-story representation of the prophets and sibyls, the work elevated already great architecture and delivered iconic status. Raphael complemented the supporting arch of the chapel with the grouped forms of the four seated sibyls as they received angelic instruction. He complemented the vertical windows by using the standing prophets to mirror the architectural effect.

  “No matter how many times I see this work, I’m always amazed at his talent to give an illusion of space to the characters through his pier structure method.”

  “You’re—”

  My cell rang, cutting off Jack’s response. He held my coffee as I dug in the Fendi for my phone.

  “It’s Cassie,” I said, then answered. “Hi. Did you find anything in the office?”

  “No, it was as I thought,” she said. “The police nailed the front shut yesterday, and we went in through the back door.”

  “Yeah, I knew about the door. Had a phone call today from a reporter who went by and saw it.”

  “A new problem?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Tell me about anything you found inside during the search.”

  “Simon and his crew pulled a bunch of files from the cabinets and your desk, but I looked pretty carefully and didn’t no
tice anything missing.”

  “Was the carpet pulled up anywhere? The walls—”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Pretty counterproductive overall.”

  “When’s your flight?”

  Jack handed back my cup.

  “Not until five. The New York office booked me a hotel room.”

  “Max is going to love having you on hand,” I said, turning back to the window and the lovely view. “Make sure he doesn’t get used to it.”

  She laughed. “No worries. Look, I called because I need to talk to Nico.”

  “He was going to call you. He overnighted your charm bracelet. I figured to New York, but I didn’t actually ask.”

  “Yeah, I would assume the same thing. I’ve tried to call him off and on for the last twenty minutes and it keeps going to voicemail.”

  “He probably crashed. Last night started out with a meeting for him, but ended up with two goons chasing him and the people he’d been with. One ended up in the hospital. Nico is okay, just tired.”

  “Oh, good. I kept calling and calling. He’s always woken up before after multiple calls. Must have really been wiped out.”

  “Exactly, I—” I stopped breathing and stared at Jack. He grabbed my coffee from me again, and I saw my hand was shaking. I clutched his arm and squeezed as I worked to keep my voice steady. “Cassie, I’ll go check on him and have him call you. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay. It would help if I could talk to him before I leave. I need to know how to do something computer-wise, and I think he can save me some steps.”

  “I’ll call you—or he’ll call you soon. Bye.” I hung up and said, “Nico isn’t waking up for calls. We didn’t check his pot of coffee like you did ours. We need to get back to the hotel.”

  I snatched both cups from Jack, tossed them into a trashcan, and fast walked down the cloister.

  “Laurel, wait.”

  “Come on, Jack. He could be drugged, or worse.” My words caught on a sob, and I felt my cheeks wet with tears. I wiped them away with my gloves and changed to a slow jog.

  “Wait!” Jack put a hand on my shoulder to slow me down. “I checked the pot at the door. Before I brought it to the table. I had another stir stick. You and Nico were talking and didn’t notice me testing it.”

  I sagged against the wall in relief. “Thank goodness. The awful fears I had.”

  “Maybe it’s a phone glitch because she’s not in Italy.”

  “Could be,” I said, hitting his number with my auto-dialer. The call went to voicemail. “No luck.”

  “We’ve had more than our share of monsters popping out at us lately.” Jack pulled the keys from his pocket. “Do you want to go and check to be sure?”

  “I know I sound silly, but I really do,” I said. “If he’s asleep we can go ahead and pack up and pick where we’re going to stay tonight.”

  My cell rang.

  “I didn’t realize I had my ringer turned off,” Nico said. “What did you need? Then I should call Cassie.”

  “Call Cassie,” I said, relief making me almost woozy. “She’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Okay, but if you’re done with the police, come on back. I’ve found something and I want to show you before I go to sleep.”

  “Will do.”

  A short time later, we were stepping off the elevator and doing a quick detour around two men in cleaning uniforms with a big laundry cart filled with sheets.

  Jack got the green light with the keycard and opened our hotel room door. I entered the suite and stopped in my tracks. The room was complete chaos. Nico’s computers were gone.

  I raced to one bedroom. Jack headed for another.

  Nico was nowhere to be found.

  Thirteen

  “Jack, those guys—”

  He dashed out the door.

  The elevator closed before Jack reached the men, and he disappeared down the stairwell. Thinking we needed to take it from every angle, I rushed to the elevator and hit the call button, grabbing my cell from the Fendi as the elevator signal dinged for the opposite car. I squeezed through as the doors opened. There were already six people and luggage in the car, but I ignored everything and repeatedly pounded the close button on the panel. I prayed the two guys would have to stop at a couple of floors and get stalled in the other lift. When I hit the main floor I ran to the front door, knowing Jack would cover the service area. A black van pulled out of the alley. I raced toward it. The driver saw me. It was one of the cart guys. He peeled out, leaving behind an inch of rubber.

  I hurriedly snapped a picture of the license plate.

  “Did you get it?” Jack asked as he appeared beside me.

  “Yeah.” It was clear enough to see the numbers. “Let’s get the car.”

  Seconds later we were back on the road, but the van had vanished.

  “Track his mobile,” Jack said, shifting quickly around a lumbering sedan.

  Nico’s GPS location showed up back at the hotel location. “It’s not with him. It must be in the room.”

  “Bloody hell—”

  I had the brainstorm. “My charm!”

  “He had it in his pocket,” Jack responded.

  “Check the app!”

  He tossed me his phone. “It’s the one at the top. God, I hope he didn’t change the frequency.”

  “If he did, he would have sent you a new app. Nico can do this kind of stuff in his sleep.” I felt a lump form in my throat and forced a deep breath to calm me down. We didn’t have time for anxiety.

  “Here, I’ve got it,” I said. “Looks like we need to turn at the next block. Should I call Micelli?”

  Jack blew out his cheeks, then cursed when another car cut him off from the turn he needed to take. He muscled his way back into the lane, and we were speeding away again.

  “Yeah, call Micelli. I’d like to handle this ourselves, in case we need to get in under the radar, but we can’t take the chance. Send him your shot of the vehicle’s plates.”

  I kept an eye on the screen app while I used my cell to connect with the detective. Jack couldn’t help himself from trying to watch the van’s progress and kept glancing over. “Keep your eyes on the road. I’ll tell you if they turn again.”

  The car rocked through traffic like a dingy in the high seas. If I wasn’t already scared to death we were going to lose Nico, the ride would have likely pushed me over the edge. As it was, I held on to my phone with one hand and kept a tight grip on Jack’s cell with the other, to keep an eye on the blinking dot that taunted us.

  After a short time on hold, Micelli answered. I told the detective what had transpired in the last few minutes and explained I’d sent the picture to the email address on his business card. Jack kept us running in the direction the silver charm headed.

  “Do you know where they’re going?” Micelli asked.

  “No. Can you see if the registration from the plate tells you anything? In case the van isn’t stolen.”

  “I’ll try, but probably it is stolen and the plate’s worthless,” he said. “I will get someone on this and call you back. Where are you?”

  “Jack, he wants to know where we are.”

  I held up the phone. Jack shouted out the cross streets in Italian and added in English, “Get someone to track this mobile, Micelli. Send units the direction we’re headed.”

  Times like this were why I knew Hawkes wasn’t your average art recovery expert.

  “I’ll leave this line open,” I said to the detective. “Let me know when you have anything we can use. We’ll listen for sirens.”

  “Very good,” Micelli said. “Wait for the polizia. Do not go in alone.”

  “I hear you.” I didn’t necessarily agree with him. It would all depend on how fast they got their unifo
rmed asses in place. I didn’t want to lie, but I sure didn’t want to tell him the truth.

  “Good,” Micelli responded.

  Jack obviously caught what my message truly meant, however, because he turned and shot me a wink.

  What was this winking business all of a sudden? I let it go. It was better than talking and letting Micelli in on what he was missing.

  A patchwork-colored teeny car—well, smaller than ours—cut us off, and Jack hit the brakes and wheeled wildly to grab some new space somewhere. I reached over and laid on the horn.

  “You know no one in this country even hears a horn anymore,” Jack said, shimmying into place and hitting the gas again.

  “Someone must or we wouldn’t hear them going off all the time.” My gaze stayed fixed on the blinking dot. “Besides, it made me feel better.”

  Jack laughed. “Well, there’s reason enough then.”

  “Damn straight.”

  The dot turned. “Take a right in…” I looked up and tried to calculate distance. “Probably three streets.”

  We moved back behind the jerk who cut us off a moment before and I checked each side street as we passed. The area was changing over to light industrial, and the buildings were seguing from retail shops and tourist draws to less flashy storefronts and small warehouses. The dot kept moving on the screen, but slower.

  “Turn here?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Ahead of us the street gave way to a larger industrial park. It wasn’t one like in the U.S., all carefully designed and built to one plan. This space incorporated older bricked buildings with newer warehouse construction, but everything was within a tall fence. I wondered if we were driving into a trap. But we had no choice.

  “Do you see the van?” he asked, then he shouted, “Micelli, are you there? We’re in some kind of industrial trade zone.”

  There was no response from the detective, but I could tell we weren’t cut off. I answered Jack, “No, there are too many trucks.” I looked at the screen. The dot made a left turn. “They went left up here. Maybe if I get out and run ahead—”