by Lisa Harris
“Tell me about your brother,” she said.
While she waited for him to respond, the train sped through a darkened tunnel, then emerged a few seconds later on the other side, back into the bright, morning sunshine.
Joe rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly in no hurry to answer. “Ryan had only been working at the museum a couple months as a security guard. Ironically, I was the one who got him the job.”
“It’s interesting how you both worked jobs connected to the art world.”
“While my dad couldn’t draw a stick figure if his life depended on it, our mom was an artist. I have an appreciation for art, Ryan had her gift and planned to use his working in film. Animation in particular. I read it in your file that you’re an artist, too.”
She fiddled with the cap of her water bottle, noticing his change in subject. “Seems like a lifetime ago since I actually finished a project. Before moving to Rome I studied art in Florence and later at a couple universities in the States. I eventually started teaching. And while I loved instructing, I ended up not having enough time to do my own work. I was actually looking to make some changes career-wise, but then Thomas died, and I moved here instead.”
“I’d love to see some of your artwork.”
She shook her head. “Like I said, I haven’t painted for a long time.”
Not since Thomas had died.
The counselor she’d gone to a couple times had told her it would be therapeutic for her to keep painting, but for some reason she’d lost her joy in the process, and had yet to rediscover it.
“Tell me more about your brother and the day he died,” she said, turning the conversation back to him.
Joe shifted in his seat next to her, the pain of his brother’s death clearly still raw. “He was twenty-two years old. He planned on marrying his girlfriend, then settling down and working toward his postgraduate degree.”
“It’s frightening how quickly your world can turn upside down. Thomas’s death…your brother’s death. Both completely unanticipated.”
“It was all over the news at the time. Two men, looking like tourists, walked into the museum in the middle of the day, grabbed a painting off the wall worth half a million dollars and started walking out, just like they’d done the past two robberies they were involved in.”
“That’s a pretty brazen way to rob a museum.”
“Exactly. And hard to believe they’ve gotten away with it so many times.”
“And your brother? How was he involved?”
“We’ve been able to put together a rough timeline. Apparently Ryan was doing his rounds and noticed that the painting was gone. He called his boss to verify if the painting was being cleaned, because it wasn’t on the list. When the curator said no, he headed for the museum entrance. According to video surveillance, he missed the thieves taking the piece by a matter of seconds. Which was why he managed to catch up with them as they were getting ready to walk out the front door. When he tried to detain them, one of them panicked and shot him, then they both ran out of the museum and disappeared.”
There was something comforting about talking to him, not as an FBI agent, but simply as someone who had lost someone he’d cared about. It brought them to the same level and allowed her to understand him better.
“Were you able to identify them?” she asked. “There has to be some evidence of who they were.”
“We have video from all the robberies, but the men had clearly staked out the museum before they hit. They managed to avoid the camera in all three situations. The only other evidence is a set of fingerprints one of them left on a broken frame, but he was never identified.” Joe’s jaw tensed. “The only thing we do have is a description from Ryan.”
“So you were able to speak with him before he died?”
“One of the officers at the scene did. By the time I got to him, he’d already been rushed to the hospital. He died on the operating table, before I had a chance to see him.”
“I know how hard that had to have been.”
When Thomas had been shot, her greatest regret had been that she hadn’t been able to talk with him before he died. She remembered the morning he’d left for work like it was yesterday. They’d fought about something stupid. She’d accused him of never cleaning up his morning coffee mess.
And those were the last words she’d spoken to him.
No goodbyes. No “I’m sorry.” Just a casket and a funeral to plan, along with the police’s accusations that he’d been a dirty cop.
Joe leaned back in his seat and caught her gaze. “What makes me angry is that his death never should have happened. A two-hundred-year-old painting isn’t worth his life. It’s not worth anyone’s life. But instead I received a phone call telling me to go immediately to the hospital.”
All in an instant, just like her situation. Everything changed.
She’d received her own phone calls. First when her parents had died. Later about Thomas. Both came with an initial shock. That feeling that you were going to wake up soon, but you never did. And Thomas’s betrayal had been an added thorn that had wedged its way through her heart.
“I know I’m not the only one who’s lost someone,” he said, catching her gaze.
“It is hard,” she said. “That initial shock and the numbness at first. Then everything begins to wear off and all you want to do is escape from the emotions.”
She took another sip of her water, surprised at how easy it was to talk with him. Maybe it was because with his own loss, he understood to an extent what she had gone through.
“Did they ever find the gun used to kill your brother?” she asked.
“It was found in a Dumpster a half a mile from the museum. As far as we can tell, they escaped on foot at least that far.”
“The same gun that killed Thomas.”
Joe nodded.
“You can’t assume that there’s a connection to Thomas’s case, though,” she continued. “What I mean is just because the same weapon was used, doesn’t mean that the cases are related.”
“That is true, but there were a number of other things we’ve discovered that tied the two cases.”
“For instance?”
“The robbery that killed my brother was one of several over a time period of about five years where high-priced, easy-to-carry-out items were stolen. We have evidence that all of the robberies are connected and that the perpetrators have links to a local drug cartel. And the three Li Fonti paintings we’re looking for were taken from the second museum robbery.”
She glanced down the narrow aisle of the train. A couple people were reading books. A businessman worked on his computer. A young mother was trying to keep her toddler occupied. She worked to keep her thoughts focused. Joe’s conclusions made sense. But it also meant that Thomas had managed to cross some dangerous people. And in the end it had gotten him killed.
She turned back to Joe. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming with me. You could have pulled the ‘I’m an agent’ card and made me stay in Rome with some of your babysitters. And I know this is personal for you, but even after all these years, I need answers, as well.”
“And that’s what we’re going to get.”
Her phone rang and she checked the ID. It was her sister. She quickly answered the call. “Shelby? Are you okay?”
“Okay? No, I’m not okay. Not at all. What in the world is going on?” She sounded frantic. Hysterical. “I was just pulled out of class by my principal and now some FBI agents want me to leave and go to some safe house. I had to beg them to let me use my phone to call you.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Not much. That some lunatic is stalking me, and they have photos to prove it, and then they told me that this is somehow all connected to Thomas and some drug cartel.”
“Shelby—”
“But that makes no sense,” her sister continued, not letting Talia get a word in edgewise. “Thomas is dead. How can all
of this have to do with him? And the cartel? Seriously?”
“Shelby, stop. Take a deep breath and listen to me.” Talia let out a sharp breath of her own, then sent Joe an apologetic look. Her sister had always been the dramatic one. And this situation was clearly not going to be an exception.
“Fine. Just tell me what’s going on,” Shelby said.
“I’m still trying to figure out everything as well, but there are a set of valuable paintings someone is after. They believe Thomas stole them, and that I now have them. They’re using you as leverage to get me to turn them over.”
“You can’t be serious. There are people threatening to kill me? This sounds more like some Jason Bourne movie. Not my life. Remember, I spend my days teaching kindergartners to read, to count objects and classify options. Not evade hit men and the cartel.”
“It’s not going to come to that. The FBI will keep you safe. You don’t have to worry.”
“Right. Do you have them? These paintings?”
“No.” Talia hesitated. “Well…maybe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s likely that they were in some of Thomas’s things. We’re on our way to Venice now to track them down. His mother remembers seeing them.”
“Wait a minute…who is we?”
“I’m traveling with an FBI agent.”
“An FBI agent.” Shelby let out a high-pitched laugh. “Of course you are, because there’s nothing strange at all about your traveling across Italy with an FBI agent while trying to track down some stolen paintings. And by the way, how much are these paintings worth?”
Talia hesitated before giving her sister an answer. “Depending on the buyer, he told me about half a million—”
“Are you serious?”
“Each.”
“Well, no wonder they want them back.”
“Shelby, listen. Just do what they tell you to do. They’ll take you somewhere safe for the next couple of days. This will all be over soon.”
“I can’t just leave my job—”
“It’s going to be okay. I promise.” Talia hung up the phone a minute later, then dropped it into her lap, wondering if she should have made a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. “That, as I’m sure you could guess, was my sister.”
“That didn’t sound like it went too well.”
“She’s upset, but I can’t say that I blame her. They’re taking her somewhere safe for a few days until this blows over.” Her fingers gripped the armrest. “But at least she’s okay.”
*
Joe leaned forward, wishing things could be different for both of them. He wished his brother was still alive, that Talia hadn’t have gone through the loss she had. But what was it that the Bible said? God causes the sun to rise on both the evil and the good, and the rain to fall on both the righteous and the unrighteous. There was no way of avoiding the difficulties.
But he could do everything in his power to get her through this one unharmed.
“I meant what I said. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that both you and your sister are okay.”
“Except neither of us can guarantee the outcome. I shouldn’t have made the promise to my sister, and you can’t make me that promise. Life doesn’t exactly turn out the way you’d like it to sometimes.”
A woman sat down a few rows ahead of them, pulling his attention momentarily away from their conversation. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but there was something familiar about her.
“Joe, what is it?”
The fear was back in her eyes. He knew she wanted to think that they were safe now. That there wasn’t anyone out there—or on this train for that matter—who could touch them. That they’d simply arrive in Venice, find the paintings and put an end to all of this.
But he knew it might not be that easy.
“I guess this time you’re not the only one who’s paranoid.”
“You think we’re being watched?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Joe studied the passengers in the car they were in. “There’s a woman four rows in front of us, thirtysomething and wearing a purple shirt and jeans and facing us. I can’t figure out what it is, but I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Where?” she asked.
“I don’t know…maybe from the Colosseum. Maybe on the street sometime this afternoon.”
He watched as the woman grabbed a book from her bag and started reading. He couldn’t figure out exactly what it was, but the feeling kept nagging at him. Matteo Arena had managed to follow them through the subway station and he’d been arrested, but they knew there was someone else behind all of this. Someone with enough skin in the game to ensure they knew exactly where they were at all times. Someone who could be there when they found the paintings and see that Talia didn’t hand them over to the FBI.
He shifted his gaze out the window again. Acres of vineyards stretched endlessly beyond the tracks. But maybe like Talia he was just being paranoid. He’d always tried to stay focused with his cases. Impartial and detached, in order to make sure he didn’t miss something. But as unsettled as he was feeling at the moment, he was trained to be observant and he knew he’d seen her before.
He turned back to Talia. “Let’s go over this again. What exactly happened between you and the intruder in your apartment before I arrived?”
She hesitated briefly, pressing her lips together. “He—he pulled out a gun and told me I should have shown up with the paintings.”
“And after that?” Joe persisted.
“He told me to give him my bag.”
“Okay. And did you?”
“I tossed it to him, and he then proceeded to empty everything onto my bed like he didn’t believe me.” Her brow furrowed as she looked across at him. “What are you thinking?”
He glanced down at the floor beside her. “That’s the same bag he went through?”
“Yeah, he didn’t take it. I just dumped everything that I needed back into it before we left.”
He jutted his chin at the bag. “Do you mind?”
“No. Of course not.” She quickly handed it to him. “But what are you looking for?”
“A tracking device.”
He caught her surprised expression as he began meticulously going through the contents of the bag near the window, making sure he was out of the line of sight of the woman and any other passengers. He glanced at Talia, hoping she really didn’t mind him invading her space. But if he was right, they needed to know. He pulled out a makeup bag, lotion, hand sanitizer and her passport among a number of miscellaneous things, and stopped himself from smiling. He’d never been able to figure out how a woman could pack so much stuff in such a small space.
“Any pockets?” he asked, running his hand down the sides.
“There’s a zippered one.”
He found the closed pouch, unzipped it, then reached inside. He pulled out the small GPS no bigger than a dime and set it on his thigh.
Talia leaned forward. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He bugged me?”
“It looks like it, and it explains a lot. He must have slipped it into your bag at the apartment when he searched it. Which meant he was able to follow us into the subway and didn’t have to worry about losing us.”
“What about the woman?” she asked, glancing at the figure who was still reading. “Do you really think she’s in on this?”
“I don’t know.” He looked again at the woman who was still reading. She still hadn’t turned a page. He pulled out a tissue from Talia’s purse before putting everything back inside. “But we know he wasn’t working alone. Someone’s behind this. Someone who wants to make sure they get what they are after.”
“Give me a second,” he said. “I want you to stay here.”
He dropped the GPS into his pocket, then stood up and headed down the aisle. He snapped a couple of photos of the woman with his phone while pretending to text. Not that anyone noticed. Most of the passengers had earph
ones in as they listened to music or were fiddling with their phones. They certainly weren’t paying attention to anything going on around them. And neither, it seemed, was she.
He walked up to the suspicious woman, dropped the tissue on the floor, then bent down to pick it up, quickly sizing her up. He’d bet his bank account that she was an American, primarily due to the North Face backpack beside her, and the book she was reading.
He caught her gaze and nodded as he picked up the tissue and knocked over her bag with his foot. “Sorry.”
She leaned forward to set her bag upright and nodded. The amber pendent of her necklace caught the light.
He stood up and kept walking, certain now. He remembered now where he’d seen her. The woman had been sitting across the narrow street from them, at an outside table in front of the café, looking like a tourist, when he and Talia had first sat down. When Talia had received another text message.
And what were the chances that the same woman was now on her way north on the same train. Another coincidence?
He didn’t think so.
The train took a curve, throwing him slightly off balance. He gripped the back of a seat and caught himself before going on. He watched her through the reflection of the window as she slipped her book into her bag and started after him, further proving his theory that she was involved.
He stepped into the next car and kept walking, then quickly turned around and faced her.
“Excuse me,” he began. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you look familiar. Have we met?”
“I don’t believe so.” She spoke with a horrible Italian accent. “You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps at a party?” He was winging it, but he needed answers. And besides, what did he have to lose?
“I don’t think so,” she said, ignoring him.
“Actually it doesn’t matter.” He pulled out his badge and held it up. “I’m Agent Joe Bryant with the FBI. We need to talk.”
He watched her face go pale. The Italian government knew he was here and while he didn’t have the authority to make an arrest, she didn’t have to know that.
“Like I said, you must be mistaken.”
