by Sara Rosett
“No.” Jack swiveled to the box. “You said you checked the return address?” He read the first line of the label. “Spar Eon. Never heard of it.”
“Me either. And I can’t find anything on the web about them. No website, no mentions anywhere. And look at the address.”
Zoe pointed to the return address that listed Denver, Colorado as the city and state. “This Zip code doesn’t exist. I think the whole return address is made up, just a placeholder to fill the space.”
Jack was staring at the label with intense concentration. “What is it?” Zoe asked.
He picked up a pen. “Got a spare sheet of paper?”
She handed him the flyer that she’d made notes on earlier. “Not much room on here,” he said.
“I know. I need to invest in something more professional like an actual notepad.”
“I’m sure the budget will stretch to that,” Jack said, throwing her a grin before he began jotting down letter combinations. He wrote for a few moments, then said, “I think it’s an anagram. ‘A person’ sent this to you.”
“What?”
Jack handed her the flyer. “If you rearrange the letters, you get this.” He tapped the last line of his various letter combinations.
Zoe’s hand dropped to her side. “Is this a practical joke?”
“Odd sort of joke.”
“I know. It’s not even funny. Only strange.” They both studied the ballet dancer for a few seconds.
Zoe shook her head. “Harrington wouldn’t send me something with a misleading label, even as a joke. Not his style.”
“Definitely not.” A smile flickered over Jack’s face. “He’s far too formal to be interested in practical jokes.”
Zoe tossed the flyer on the island. “I’ve met a lot of people recently in the art world, but I can’t think of a single one who’d mail me a sculpture of a Degas ballet dancer.” She leaned her elbows on the island, and examined the dancer, her face a few inches from it. “I wish I knew if it was real or a fake.” She straightened and sighed. “Either way, I don’t see how I can get around calling someone official to look at it.”
“The FBI?” Jack asked.
Zoe wrinkled her nose. “I suppose. I’d rather not talk to Sato, but I don’t see any other option.”
“He’s the best choice, I think. He’s not a bad guy.”
“That’s generous of you, considering he wanted to arrest you for murder and who knows what else. Oh, and he wanted to arrest me, too, don’t forget.”
“But that’s all in the past. He was helpful, there at the end.”
“Right. Once it was all wrapped up, and we’d done all the work for him. I’ll admit, I’m still a bit touchy about all that, but it will be better to talk to him than someone at the police station. At least he can probably get in touch with the Art Crime Team quickly.” Zoe reached for her phone.
She’d known in the back of her mind from the minute she saw the dancer that she’d have to make the call, but she’d been putting it off, hoping something would come to light that would make it unnecessary. But she had to admit that whether the ballet dancer was real or a fake, a threat or a joke, it was listed on a directory of stolen art.
She didn’t have the expertise to make the call about the sculpture’s authenticity, and while she might be able to recruit someone out of her new list of contacts who could tell her, she wasn’t going to hold onto something that seemed to be hot art. She found the number for Special Agent Greg Sato and dialed.
4
Zoe would have rather talked to Sato’s former partner, but Mort Vazarri was retired, and probably puttering around his garden, doing whatever gardeners do in the fall. She had mentally prepared a quick summary to leave on Sato’s voicemail, but he came on the line.
“Oh. Hi. This is Zoe Andrews. You’ll remember me as Zoe Hunter.”
“I remember. Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Thanks. I should say congratulations to you, too. Jenny sent me a note after the wedding with some pictures.” Jenny was a freelance journalist who ran a popular blog called The Informationalist.
“Thanks,” Sato said. “How can I help you?”
Sato had never been one for chitchat. Zoe cleared her throat and launched into the short explanation about the ballet dancer. She’d barely mentioned the sculpture, before Sato cut in. “Let me stop you right there. You still live in Dallas, correct?”
“Yes,” Zoe said. But what did that matter?
“I’ve transferred to Denver.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Zoe said. “I haven’t heard from Jenny in a while, so I didn’t know.”
“Just happened about a month ago. Work transfer for me. We’re still unpacking. Jenny has been a good sport about it. Says she can do her work from anywhere.”
“That’s great.”
“So you should call Dirk.”
“Dirk?”
“Dirk Sorkensov,” Sato said in a tone that meant Zoe should recognize the name.
“Um…I don’t think I know him.”
“That’s right. He was my partner after Mort retired, but Dirk was out when that whole thing around the fraud case went down. His wife had a baby, and he took some time off, so you wouldn’t have met him. Good guy. Here, I’ll give you his number.” Zoe scribbled the number down as Sato continued, “He looks like he went to work for the FBI about fifteen minutes ago, but he knows his stuff. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear from you.”
Was there a shade of sarcasm in those last words? Zoe suspected there was, but only said, “Okay. Thanks. I’ll give him a call.”
“Good. I’ll tell Jenny you called.”
Zoe hung up and saw Jack’s raised eyebrows. “Sato and Jenny have moved. He gave me his old partner’s phone number, a guy name Dirk…um…something. I didn’t quite get the last name.”
Zoe dialed the number and left her succinct message on Dirk’s voicemail. She slipped the phone into her pocket and crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the ballet dancer. “And now, we wait.”
Tuesday
“Jack, the FBI is here,” Zoe called, then paused to give her head a shake on her way to open the front door. “Now, there’s a sentence I’d hoped to never say again.”
As Jack trotted down the stairs, he slipped on his suit jacket. He smoothed his tie and gave her a firm kiss. “It’ll be fine.”
“I know,” Zoe said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “Thanks for being here.” Jack had a meeting downtown at the future site of One Heritage Plaza, which would be the eventual name of the skyscraper that he was providing security input for, and he needed to be there in an hour. He’d normally have already left to make sure he had plenty of time to get there, but today he’d said he would stay with her until the FBI left. “I can always reschedule,” he’d said.
Zoe opened the door to a young man with dark hair and an open, cheerful face. He wore a plain suit jacket over a white shirt and dark pants. “Special Agent Sorkensov.” He showed his badge. “Zoe Andrews?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Zoe said. “And this is my husband, Jack. Come through to the kitchen, Agent Sorkensov,” Zoe said, stumbling over his name as she led the way through the hallway to the back of the house.
“Call me Dirk,” he said with a quick smile. “It’s much easier.”
Zoe immediately liked him with his easy manner and relaxed attitude, which was so different from Sato’s aloof personality, but Zoe caught herself. “Dirk” might be putting forward a non-threatening attitude, but he was still an FBI agent, and she’d had enough brushes with them to remember not to let down her guard. A glance at Jack’s face confirmed that he felt the same way.
Zoe waved a hand at the ballet dancer, which still stood on the island, the packing materials and box surrounding it. “It’s quite a mess,” Zoe said. “But once we realized it was stolen, we decided to leave it as it is until you got here.” That wasn’t to say that Zoe hadn’t asked her new art world contacts if they’d heard any menti
on of the statue, but no one had. She’d also tried to find out more about the fake address the box had been shipped from, but hadn’t had success there either. Possible fingerprints on the box were the only other thing she could think of that might give a clue about who had sent the statue, but since she didn’t have access to vast databases with fingerprint records, she’d have to leave that one to the FBI.
Dirk circled the island, looking over everything without touching it. In the bright light of the kitchen, Zoe could see that despite his young-looking face, he had bags under his eyes. He completed the circuit and reached into the outer pocket of his suit jacket. “When did it—” As he pulled a notebook out of his pocket, a plastic toy bottle clattered to the floor and rolled over to Jack’s foot. Jack handed it back.
“Sorry,” Dirk said. “My daughter is two. She likes to hide things, thinks it’s a great game.”
“No problem,” Jack said.
Dirk shoved the baby bottle back in his pocket and cleared his throat. Zoe answered all his questions, running through the details from the moment they found the box on the porch to her decision to call Sato.
Dirk used a pen to push the flap of the box down so he could read the address. “We’ll look into this address,” he said. “And check everything for fingerprints, but…”
“We’ve probably ruined anything that was there,” Jack finished for him. “Sorry about that.”
“I didn’t realize when I opened it,” Zoe said.
Dirk pulled on a pair of gloves and proceeded to bag everything from the sculpture down to the last shred of packing paper. As he worked he looked at Zoe. “You work for Harrington Throckmorton?”
“Yes, as a consultant,” Zoe said. “I called him last night and told him about it. He didn’t send it, and he doesn’t have any idea about who might have.”
“I’ll need his contact information.”
“Of course.” Zoe gave him Harrington’s business card.
“Anyone you can think of who’d send this to you?”
“No. I’ve worked with Harrington for a while, but the cases I’ve helped him with have involved paintings. Harrington checked his files and said he hasn’t been involved in any cases of a theft of a Degas sculpture.”
Dirk nodded, his gaze fixed on the piles of evidence bags now spaced across the island. “I’ll contact the Art Crime Team, of course. I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”
As he bundled everything into his arms, Zoe asked, “You haven’t heard anything about that theft at the Westoll, have you? A Picasso and the Canaletto…”
“Not a thing.”
“Oh. I’d thought since it was local…”
“No, not a murmur,” he said as he walked to the front door where he paused. “Great meeting you both,” he said with a wide smile. “I always thought you were innocent in that other case.”
“I bet Sato didn’t agree,” Zoe said before she could stop herself.
“I’d say we had divergent theories of the case, but he came around in the end. The evidence always plays out.” He gave a nod and went to his nondescript four-door sedan that was parked at the curb.
“That was weird,” Zoe said. “It was almost like…I don’t know…we were some long-lost friends.”
Jack closed the door. “He knew about us from the fraud case, and I think he was excited to meet us.”
Zoe walked back to the kitchen. “Strange. That had to be the least stressful interview ever.”
“Let’s hope he stays our new best friend and puts in a good word for us with the Art Crime Team.”
“Yeah, they probably aren’t predisposed to be in our corner.”
Rbn: Wrapping up here.
Tuck05: Still no glitches?
Rbn: None. The boss told me how much he appreciates the long hours I’m putting in.
Tuck05: Irony. What’s your timing?
Rbn: A week to 10 days.
Tuck05: Ok. Looking forward to it. Can’t wait to see it hit the news.
5
Thursday
Zoe hadn’t expected to hear back from Dirk right away. She spent the next few days working on more admin and research tasks for Harrington and finishing off copy edits for a short nonfiction book, a freelance project that she’d picked up. But she felt antsy, waiting for a call from the FBI Art Crime Team. She hadn’t heard back from Evelyn either, and when she checked in with her, Evelyn said, “I’m sorry. I’ve been overrun with work. Haven’t had a chance to get to the video footage, but I will. I promise!”
When the phone finally rang on Thursday, Zoe was not surprised to see an unknown number.
She answered and heard a male voice ask, “Zoe Andrews?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Hold for Mr. Thacker please.”
Mr. Thacker? While techno music played in her ear, Zoe skimmed through her mental contact list of friends, family, and work associates, but came up blank. The name Mr. Thacker did sound familiar, though. He couldn’t mean Fredrick Thacker…could he? No, surely not.
Zoe tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and went on with her packing while the hold music played. Jack was attending a conference in Denver on Friday and Saturday. Since her workload was so light, Zoe was going with him. She planned to sleep in at the hotel, then lounge around the pool while Jack worked. On Sunday, they would go to the mountains for a day of hiking before they returned to Dallas on Monday. She placed a folded shirt into the open suitcase on the bed then crossed the bedroom to the desk where Jack’s laptop was. Once the browser came up, Zoe typed in the name Fredrick Thacker.
A deep masculine voice came on the line, replacing the hold music at the same moment the search results loaded and an image of Fredrick Thacker with his narrow face, aquiline nose, and thin lips open in a half-smile filled the top of the screen.
“Zoe Andrews, it is a…pleasure to talk to you,” he said. “Fred Thacker here.”
“Um, it’s nice to talk to you, too,” Zoe said. Could she really be speaking to the Fredrick Thacker, the tech entrepreneur and owner of Eon Industries, turned avant-garde philanthropist?
“I had to call…to thank you.” He spoke again with the same cadence. The pause in the middle of the sentence added significance to the final words.
Zoe cleared her throat. “Um…thank me for what?”
“You mean they…didn’t tell you?”
A frisson of nervousness jolted through her. This was a wealthy and influential guy. He obviously thought she knew something that she didn’t. She considered trying to bluff her way through the strange conversation, but decided that could make her look even worse than admitting she was confused. “I’m afraid I’m lost,” she said. “Tell me what?”
“Typical government inefficiency,” Thacker muttered, then went on in his regular tone of voice. “Let me be the first to thank you,” he paused again with what Zoe realized must be his typical conversational style, then said, “for the recovery of my ballet dancer. I’m thrilled to have it back.”
“That’s wonderful,” Zoe said. “I had no idea. It arrived here in the mail, and I called the FBI. I didn’t have much to do with getting it back to you.”
“Nonsense.” His voice was firm. “You did the right thing. A less scrupulous person might have been…tempted to keep it for themselves.” His deep voice and whispery emphasis gave the word extra impact.
“I couldn’t do that,” Zoe said. “Besides the fact that I would never be able to enjoy something that I hadn’t purchased fair and square, there’s also my job. I work in art recovery.”
“Yes, I know. With Harrington Throckmorton.”
“Oh, you know him?” Did everyone in the world know Harrington? He had been in the business for years, but the thought of how long it would take to get to the half-way point of his knowledge and contacts was daunting.
“Only by reputation…and his reputation is excellent.” His voice shifted from conversational to brisk. “But back to the reason I called. I appreciate the part you played i
n getting my little dancer back to me.” He waited a beat, and Zoe realized his speak-pause-speak pattern resulted in a cliffhanger aspect that had her listening extra intently to see how he would end his sentences. “I understand you’ll be in Denver with your husband for a short trip next week,” he continued.
How did he know that? With anyone else she would have asked outright where he’d learned about the trip, but with Thacker…well, he was a powerful man and she didn’t want to get on his bad side.
“You’re wondering how I know this?”
“Well, yes.”
“Your husband is attending a cybersecurity conference in Denver. His name is listed on the website as one of the attendees. I made an educated guess that you’d accompany him because…who wouldn’t want to visit Denver in the fall?”
“You guessed correctly. I am a bit of a travel junkie. I love to visit new places.”
“Then while your husband is attending his lectures, come visit me in Vail for a day. I would love to meet you…in person.”
“You won’t be at the conference yourself?” The meeting focused on cybersecurity, an area that Jack was moving into with his business. Until last year, he’d focused mainly on advising clients about physical security issues like how to make sure buildings were secure or how to make sure your fine art stayed in your home instead of ending up on the black market. But lately Jack had decided to branch out and add cybersecurity to his list of consulting services.
He’d taken several night classes to get up to speed on the topic. Attending the conference was part of his learning curve and would also be a networking opportunity. Zoe didn’t know a lot about the tech world in general or the cybersecurity world in particular, but even she knew Fredrick Thacker had made his money in a startup that brought high-tech home security options to homeowners by cutting out the middlemen of established home alarm companies. Thacker had been the company’s spokesperson and several of his funny ads had gone viral, making him a household name.
