by Ritter Ames
“I’d feel better if we—” My phone pinged, and I hauled it out of the Fendi. It was a text message from the airline. “Well, we have another reason to go to the airport. The strike is over and my bag is no longer a hostage.”
The elevator arrived and one elderly lady was onboard.
“Perfect,” Jack said to Nico. “With the strike over you can check your bag.”
Our fellow passenger looked at us quizzically, but didn’t say anything. I smiled at her, and at the lobby she got off the elevator ahead of us.
I wanted to tell her to count herself lucky. The conversation she overheard was the most normal one the three of us had shared all day.
Fifteen
In due time we arrived at the airport. Jack stayed with Nico through check-in, partly to help with the bags but mostly to be sure no one followed our limping geek. Then he met me at the office in baggage claim where I collected my recovered wardrobe. I knew it was silly with the hotel professionally cleaning my tweed outfit the night before, but I was almost giddy with the idea of putting on different clothes in the morning.
As we walked back to the taxi stand, he said, “I don’t understand why Roberto hasn’t called.”
“Maybe Micelli kept him busy all afternoon. A lot has happened today, but it’s only five o’clock. Not yet a Roman dinnertime,” I said, looking at my watch for confirmation. “Why don’t I notify Micelli we’re heading out and you try to call Roberto?”
“Let’s get a cab first. Less chance of being overheard.”
Minutes later, we were in a taxi and heading for the train station. Micelli stuck to English as we talked. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of us leaving, but I think he was a little relieved just the same. Jack wasn’t able to connect with Roberto, and he asked to talk to the detective before I signed off. He asked if Roberto was at police headquarters.
“Thank you, yes, keep me informed,” he said after Micelli had controlled the conversation for a few minutes. “You can reach me at my number, or call Laurel at this one if necessary.”
He ended the call and handed back my phone. “Micelli has no idea where he is. Roberto left about an hour after we did.”
“Do you want me to give you reasons not to worry?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll tell myself all the things I would be saying to you. Which you wouldn’t believe either if our roles were reversed.”
“Not everyone can disappear in this case.”
“Keep repeating that to yourself,” he said. He pulled something from his pocket. “Give me your bracelet. I want to add this charm to it before I forget.”
I handed him the silver chain bracelet and he worked the charm’s small ring into one of the links. He closed the loop tight with his teeth. “There. May not pass muster with a jewelry designer, but it should hold tight until we can get it done better.”
“It’s lovely,” I said, holding it up for inspection. “Has the unique craftsman look to it.”
“As long as it tells me where you are.”
The cab pulled to the curb outside the train station. We were soon on our way inside with our bags.
The train for Cologne left in an hour and would get us to our destination before sunrise. We checked in without a problem and had time to grab a quick meal before boarding. Without comparing notes, we both looked for a table hidden from the main thoroughfare, choosing one surrounded by several groups of laughing travelers.
We pretty much ate our ham sandwiches in silence, but I couldn’t keep from watching the people around us. I was surprised when I looked down and saw my food nearly gone. Jack had already finished and was watching me watch everyone else. He smiled when I noticed I’d been caught.
“Sorry,” I said, setting down the last bite of my food and wiping my hands on a napkin. “I’m probably being a little hyper-sensitive, but—”
“There’s no such thing. I’m beginning to think our instincts are all we have to bank on, and yours have been golden most of the time. Even when you were slipping away from me,” Jack said. “Never apologize for being careful.”
I shrugged. “We make a good team.”
He laughed, tipped back his beer and drank the rest.
“What?” I asked.
“Words I never believed I’d hear you say.”
I felt a blush rising and exited quickly, citing a visit to the ladies’ room while I had the chance.
When I came out, Jack was waiting at the door with our bags. His face showed me he wasn’t there simply as a precaution.
“Is something wrong?”
“A call from Micelli,” he said. “Roberto was found behind his favorite bar. His throat was cut.”
We were a subdued pair boarding our long silver and orange-trimmed night train about seven in the evening. Because he brought the artist into the case, Jack blamed himself for Roberto’s death. I gave all my arguments about how there was no way the Amazon or anyone else connected knew Roberto was the artist of record. We both knew, however, there were leaks in every avenue of law enforcement, and criminals weren’t the only informants who worked for the other side.
“The third innocent person killed, and a third killer,” I whispered once we’d chosen seats. “What’s the deal with that M.O.?”
Jack put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, speaking softly into my ear, “If you can overpower your victim, it’s a good way to do the job. The throat is cut, they can’t cry out, and the end comes pretty quickly. Of course, you’re likely to walk away with blood all over you.”
“Not a good fashion statement, but effective.”
“Right. But I’m not sure it was a third killer using the same M.O.”
The conductor entered the car and did a head count. I smiled at him and he nodded back, walking past us to the back door.
Jack quietly continued, “The first killer could have done this one as well. We know the person who confessed to killing the Greek over the snuffbox was a ringer. As far as the next murder goes, the DNA results proved for sure Tina killed her mother in Miami. She’s in jail, which puts her out of contention for Roberto’s hit.”
The second murder was the one in Miami where Tina worked things to make it look like she was the victim. It was several hours later, and after Tina fled the country, that the true identity of the dead body was determined.
“We know the Amazon was in Rome within the last twenty-four hours,” I said. “Are you theorizing she could have been killing the Greek the night before I first met her in London?”
“Definite possibility.”
“I wish we knew who she works for.”
“Another conundrum.”
More people moved in and filled some of the seats around us. No one sat close enough for concern, and I didn’t think anyone was particularly interested in Jack and me.
“Leaving us to infer a slit throat is the current assigned murder method for whatever group is behind all of this. Or what? It’s the most convenient option?”
Jack said, “I’ve been thinking about this, and why Tina would have killed her mother in such a ghastly manner. She could have shot her with a silencer and not left incriminating DNA. She didn’t seem the type to get a power trip from bloodstained clothing.”
“No, definitely not.”
“Which is why I’m wondering if Tony B told her to kill in that manner. Kind of sadistic, but fits his personality. It allowed for the death in Miami to look more like a mugging in the alley, but a shooting would have worked equally as well.”
“He could have hired the Amazon to kill the Greek and search the Beacham office after Simon disappeared?” I asked. “On the other hand, it doesn’t fly when we know she killed Tony B in the hospital yesterday.”
“Change of loyalties?”
The final train whistle sounded.
>
After learning Simon gave Tina the snuffbox, we’d pretty much operated on the theory he’d been responsible for the Greek’s murder in September. “If we assume Tony B had the Greek killed, how did Simon get the snuffbox later?”
“You’re right, it doesn’t fit with the facts,” Jack said. He twisted in his seat and stretched out his long legs. “To be truthful, I’m kind of falling into the trap of thinking Tony B was evil incarnate.”
“You’re convinced he and Simon weren’t both working with Moran?”
The train slowly pulled out of the station.
He shook his head. “No. Tony B showed up at the Ermo Colle event in Florence. I’m not sure of his connection or why he was there, but I can’t tie him to Moran.”
The train started a rhythmic shushing sound below us, and our seats rocked gently side to side.
“We saw Scarface with Rollie soon after the event, and you said Scarface has a connection to Tony B,” I reminded.
In October, when we left the event in Florence, we had dinner then walked to a palazzo I’d had a suspicion about. The negative feelings escalated when we were seconds from being discovered on the way there by an angry Rollie as he strode down the sidewalk chewing out a hired mercenary Jack recognized. It was only through Jack’s quick reflexes we weren’t discovered. Less than an hour later, we broke into the palazzo and things got worse.
“Scarface, as you refer to him, is hired talent,” Jack said. “While I’ve never known him to work for Moran, it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have taken on a new commission. I’ve tried to check in the last few months for more current detail on him, but he’s gone deep underground as well.”
The train was clear of the station and railyards and headed into the darkened city environs.
“You’ve decided Rollie doesn’t have any connection to Tony B?” I asked.
He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know. They were together briefly in Miami on the video, sure, but it could have been a contrived thing by Tony B or his wife. If I knew why Tony B went to the Florence event the next day, it might be different. He hadn’t seemed to know you were going to be there, so—”
“I know why he said he was there,” I said. “He implied he was giving up The Portrait of Three at Ermo Colle’s request—”
He whirled in his seat and gripped my shoulders.
“What did you say?” he asked, his eyes wide in surprise. These were the paintings I’d seen in Tony B’s Miami office during my kidnapping. All were masterpieces alone, but together, especially with the Juliana centerpiece by the reclusive artist Sebastian, their value was unparalleled. Beyond the monetary loss, their subsequent disappearance, and my fear they would be lost again for another dozen years or more, or had been destroyed as Tony B threatened if I did anything to hinder his plans, fed my guilt over escaping without them. Despite the fact I hadn’t had time to liberate them and barely made it safely away myself.
“I didn’t believe he gave up the originals,” I explained. “I didn’t say anything before because I hoped to go after them later myself. But when the Miami detective said none of the paintings were in Tony B’s office when it was searched, I assumed I was either mistaken by his comment in Florence, or he’d hidden or destroyed the masterpieces.”
“You saw them? You saw the Juliana?” he shook my shoulders a little as he spoke.
The chief reason I didn’t tell Jack was they didn’t have anything to do with the mission we were supposed to stay focused on, and I didn’t want to sidetrack anyone. Regardless, my plan remained to keep their recovery a future project on my mental itinerary.
I never anticipated this reaction.
“Yes, I saw them. As well as a second, unrelated painting by Sebastian. A large Tuscany scene I hadn’t known existed.” I said. “Tony B had all of them in carefully controlled rooms. The Portrait of Three were further protected by being housed in another interior room. He said he’d purchased them. Hadn’t been the thief, but knew they were stolen. He showed the paintings to me after he read an op-ed piece I wrote about their loss to the world. He said he did it to set my mind at ease, but it was really to gloat. I never thought I’d see them again.”
“You saw them?” he repeated, a dazed look on his face.
“This was the second time,” I said. “The first was on the night the paintings were stolen. At the same museum in Florence fifteen years ago. I was there with Grandfather when they were to be revealed, but all three were stolen before the crowd saw them. My memory of the theft is what unnerved me so at the event last October. The new owners redecorated the building to look exactly as it was the night of the disappearance.”
“Oh my god. You were that mouthy little girl.” He shook his head.
I pulled back in shock. I’d had no idea we’d met before. “You were the bossy teenager who yelled at me and caught the guard’s attention so we had to leave. I was so angry at you.”
“I just said you had to go back—”
“And I wasn’t a little girl,” I interrupted. “I was twelve. I only wanted to look at the most beautiful painting I’d ever seen. Juliana was—” I stopped when a sob caught in my throat.
“Juliana was my mother,” Jack said softly.
My right hand flew to cover my mouth. His eyes shined for a moment, then he blinked rapidly and rose from his seat. His voice was thick as he said, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
He disappeared into the next car.
Sixteen
“My mother was Sebastian’s student before I was born,” Jack explained.
He’d been gone for a good half-hour before he returned. I’d wanted to give him the space he needed. Who could have known the shock of my innocent comment? I was worried and had decided to track him down exactly when he walked back through the door of our car and returned to his seat. He had yet to look me in the eye.
“Sebastian was already famous,” he continued. “He liked to give young artists a leg up in the business. My mother was one of his favorites.”
“Was he your father?” I asked.
He laughed silently, shook his head, leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes. “No, but you clearly read the dossier I sent to you.”
“What little there was of it,” I said.
My words made him smile. “You’d like the rest of my story.”
“As much as you’re willing to tell me,” I said and waited.
The file he sent to me in December showed he was raised by a single mother, Juliette—no father’s name mentioned—but I naturally didn’t put her name with my knowledge of the painting at the time. No reason to believe there was a connection. The expense for his schooling came from several wealthy sources. Nothing in the file had mentioned anything about the artist known as simply Sebastian.
Finally, Jack sat up and turned his head to look at me. He said, “After a few years of Sebastian’s tutelage, my mother realized she was an excellent copyist but didn’t have the imagination to create great works. She’d fallen in love with him. But his wife was ill, and my mum felt conflicted about the situation. She left, briefly fell for another married man, which is how I came to be.”
He returned his head to the seatback and stared straight ahead, continuing his story in a quiet tone, “I was shipped off to boarding school as soon as I was old enough, leaving Mother free for other interests. By this time, Sebastian’s wife had died, and my mum felt guiltless about resuming life as his paramour.”
“Did they marry?”
He shook his head. “She never married. She stayed with Sebastian until she passed away from breast cancer.”
I knew from Jack’s dossier his mother died several months before he graduated from Oxford, and he joined the Royal Navy a week after. I’d wondered when I read the file if his decision to enter the military was due to her death, but this didn’t seem th
e time to ask.
“She kept busy by copying works she loved and giving them to people she adored. You saw one of those on the yacht.”
“Woman Dressing Her Hair.” My words came out as a whisper.
He nodded.
I finally grasped why the painting made such an impact on me. “The brushstrokes reminded me of Sebastian’s—but not quite.”
“Yes. However, she never copied one of his works. She couldn’t get the light and color correct.”
“The same problem everyone else has.”
“She’d worked with him long enough to where the technique she used was really more his than her own,” Jack said. “Woman Dressing Her Hair was copied a few months before she first left him. She painted the copy for herself, had always liked the work, but gave it away to Margarite when the original went missing.”
Margarite was the woman in charge of the yacht we stayed on in Miami. One reason I’d wanted to see her again was because she knew my mother. She was also the other person in the first mysterious photograph. The picture I’d received in Florence.
But there hadn’t been time lately for any travels not related to stopping the heist. Funny how she was twining together both my life and Jack’s through friendships to our mothers before either of us was born.
“Margarite was the painting’s owner?” Why hadn’t I seen her name anywhere in the meager documentation we’d found about the work?
“No, the owner was her lover,” Jack explained. “It was her favorite of his paintings and had been lent out in an exhibit. Then disappeared. My mother sent the copy and Margarite has treasured it ever since. She’s asked me several times if I would like to have it. Maybe someday.”
There was something I had to ask. “Why did Sebastian sell Juliana originally? It’s obvious from the painting he adored your mother. The work is flawless. Incomparable. Why did he let it go? And why didn’t he paint another after it was stolen in the exhibit as The Portrait of Three? Or did he?”
