In Too Deep_An Iniquus Romantic Suspense Mystery Thriller

by Fiona Quinn

  “But those cameras only function if the alarm is set off?”

  “Right, we don’t run them all the time. There’s no point. We really don’t have anything other than art that’s of value to a thief at the gallery – we don’t have cash, for example. The only reason for anyone to eye us as a potential target would be the art.”

  “So there’s no way that your cameras might have caught the face on the sniper?”

  “No. No one would have been in our building other than our night security guard. So no one would have set off the alarm that would start the off-site security taping.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d sure like to get a look at his face. Even seeing his rifle would give me a lot of information. So, insurance—you were saying you have very little – so this probably doesn’t have anything to do with insurance fraud?”

  “If we got an insurance payout, it would go to the artists whose work was stolen. We work on commission. We don’t buy and then sell. We show the works, and then take a forty-percent cut of the sale. The agent usually takes fifteen percent, and the artist is left with thirty-five. If a hundred-thousand-dollar painting is stolen pre-sale, and if it were insured, it would only be insured for thirty-five thousand dollars—that’s the amount that the artist would be out. The gallery would make no money. The agent would make no money. We all understand this from the beginning. No art? No payday. The owner, in this case the artist, is the one who posts the loss, and the artist would recoup the loss of his share of the payday pie. See?”

  “Yes, that makes sense, but how do you come up with that amount? How does the insurance company know what a painting’s worth?”

  “Exactly the right question. How could they know? ‘I’m Joe-anybody, and I painted this picture of my dog smoking a cigar. I think it’s a million-dollar masterpiece.’ That’s not going to wash. Value is developed through expert opinion. It’s similar to real estate. A house value is somewhat subjective too – where is the house located? What is the condition of the house? Did someone famous live there, or did something historically important happen there? What’s the market doing now? What is a buyer who bought a similar house this month willing to pay? Those kinds of questions. It’s really a matter of knowing your market as to what price you put on a piece – and everyone has to agree: the artist, the agent, and the gallery.”

  “You were making a point about never-before-sold paintings.”

  “Just that once they’ve been sold, then they’ve established a market price. We know what they’re worth. And since someone paid a hundred thousand dollars to procure the painting, they’d get the whole amount if they filed an insurance claim. Just like if you crashed your fifty-thousand-dollar car, they don’t go back and give you the amount that it was when it was sitting in the factory parking lot before all of the middlemen took their fees.”

  “Huh, interesting. Did you insure the paintings when you started the collection process?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t get that far. My uncle gave me the project, then asked me to hold off making any overtures, then he let me know that we wouldn’t have any art with which to move forward.” Lacey sniffed as she opened the glove compartment and peeked inside. Then she patted her coat pockets.

  Deep popped a button on the central console and reached in for a plastic travel pack of tissues. “So fake-Lacey made all of the arrangements?”

  “Someone else. Not me, that’s for sure.” She pulled a tissue from the pack and rubbed her nose, hoping she wasn’t catching cold. She really didn’t need a fever and misery to add to her problems. “Let’s remember what the counterfeiter said. They needed the fakes on display; they needed the agents to be photographed with the fakes, thereby giving them the air of authenticity; and they were doing that on Friday so something could happen Friday night ahead of the Saturday opening show. That’s extremely strange. What were they going to do with the originals?”

  “Well, we can watch and see. But our presence there today might have shaken things up,” Deep said.

  “How would they know we were there?”

  “You signed your name. The bad guys would know either you or fake-Lacey were there today, if they were to check the logs – a stretch, but it could happen. Also, there were two cameras in the room. When I went in there with the lights off, I moved boxes in front of the lenses, so the camera feed would show black. And even though I moved everything back the way I’d found it, that will probably raise some suspicions. But sometimes, you have to take chances to gather intel. And I think we lucked out on the artist being in there and taking the phone call.”

  Lacey’s body convulsed with a suddenly shiver.

  Deep sent her a searching look.

  “Someone just walked over my grave.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Steve

  Tuesday, Dawn

  “Steve, man, I hate to do this to you,” Higgins’s voice came over his phone. “We need you in the morgue to do a quick identity check from the Zoric case. I’m swinging by to pick you up.”

  Steve had just fallen asleep, and for the briefest second, thought this was his recurring nightmare.

  “Are you there, man?” Higgins’s voice picked up in volume, and Steve had no choice but to wake up fully.

  “Why do they need me?” There were only two possible victims that would have the bureau pulling him from his bed. Sudden tears blurred his vision.

  “They think it’s either Danika or Lacey. You’re the best person to refine their search.”

  “Shit.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Steve scrubbed shaking hands over his face. A living shit-filled nightmare. Please, don’t let it be Lacey. “How far are you out? I need to pull on some clothes.”

  “I’m outside already. And I’ve got a cup of joe in your cup holder.”

  Steve couldn’t make himself stand up. His body wasn’t cooperating. The last thing he wanted to do was go down in the basement of the hospital and pull out a drawer to find Lacey laying there. It was as if his body had decided if it wouldn’t stand up and make the trip, if he stayed put, then Lacey would be safe and not artificially preserved in a refrigeration unit.

  Safe, Steve reminded himself, wasn’t really on the table. If Lacey got scooped up by one of Zoric’s professional abductors, then she might be wishing she were dead at that moment. And with Joseph Del Toro out of the country, Steve couldn’t imagine another man from Lacey’s rather narrow life who had the capacity to sweep in and save the day, like some freaking action hero. In his mind, Steve couldn’t find a single scenario that made Lacey okay.

  “Look, have them measure the body. Lacey is five-foot one, and Danika is five-foot five,” he said.

  Higgins cleared his throat. “That’s not going to be possible. I’m sorry.”

  ***

  “I can tell you she was already dead when the train hit,” the medical examiner said as he pulled back the drape to expose the victim’s head and shoulders.

  Steve looked down at the long brown hair. Her face was bruised and battered. It was one of them, Lacey or Danika, he was pretty sure. Last he had seen, Danika had dyed her hair strawberry-blond. But he knew that had been temporary, since Danika was supposed to host the agents at the pre-opening cocktail party Friday night, acting as Lacey.

  Lacey should have been in a safehouse by now. Steve was trying to pull her out the night Bardman was stabbed. They had planned to hide her away where she’d be safe until the bureau scooped up all of the players and put them in jail. He’d failed her. Then Higgins had failed her. And Lacey had run.

  “They beat her up a couple of days ago. There was time for her injuries to start healing. Then she was shot. Three rounds in the heart is what we can see from a cursory exam. She’s third on the list for autopsy once the rest of the team gets in to the lab and our workday gets underway.”

  “When did she die?” Higgins asked.

  “With this cold snap, it’s going to be hard to give a tight timeframe. We’ll know better with the autopsy. I’m not goin
g to speculate.”

  “So she was already dead when they dumped her body on the rail?” Steve asked.

  “She was dead when she was found.” The medical examiner shoved his hands into his lab coat and rocked back on his heels. “You can read the witness report the police left. It basically says a nurse saw some men dump a woman on the tracks, jump back in their car, and drive away. No descriptions. It was too dark. Only headlights from the car and what they illuminated as they moved the woman. The witness saw the train coming and tried to get to the track in time to save her. The witness was dragging the victim off the tracks when the train came up, and she had to let go of the victim to get away herself. The train cut off the victim’s legs above the knees. That’s when the witness realized the woman was already dead. The PD are trying to find the legs now. They must have gotten dragged down the track.”

  Steve stalked over to the corner, grabbed the lip of the trashcan, and vomited up his coffee and a good dose of stomach bile. He moved to the sink to rinse out his mouth. His face was slack as he moved back toward the victim, his eyes drooping with exhaustion and grief. Lacey wasn’t okay. Whether this was her or not, she wasn’t okay. She was a kind, sweet, amazing girl who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time; the great-niece of a really wrong-minded man, and the girlfriend of a freaking asshole. Steve knew that whatever had happened to Lacey, he could have stopped it. Should have stopped it. And didn’t.

  Please don’t be Lacey. It was an idiotic prayer; either it was Lacey or it wasn’t. Wishful thinking couldn’t change one girl’s fate for the others. Not that he wished Danika dead. Shit.

  “Lacey Stuart has brown eyes and Danika Zoric’s eyes are navy blue.”

  The medical examiner shook his head. “Too soon to tell. The victim’s eyes are blood shot with broken blood vessels from the blows to her eye sockets, and the pupils are still dilated from her death.”

  Steve swallowed hard as bile jumped up his throat again. He had to bend over and put his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath. Higgins pat his shoulder, then left his hand there, stabilizing Steve.

  With a barely audible whisper, Steve offered, “Lacey had a tattoo of a Mockingjay about four inches wide between her scapulae.”

  The medical examiner shook his head again. “High caliber exit wounds. Her back is shredded behind her heart.”

  “I’m sorry,” Steve said, his eyes squeezed tight against his tears. “I can’t tell you who this is. I don’t know who this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lacey

  Tuesday, Dawn

  Sleep that night had been tough for Lacey to catch hold of. It seemed like she had spent hours swirling on the dark waters in that Neverland place on the other side of wakefulness. She must have been making a lot of noise, because Deep left the bed to snap on the hallway light, then went back in to untangle her from the sweat-dampened sheets. Fear was cold, sweaty business.

  When he’d straightened her bed clothes and tucked her neatly back in, Deep started to leave again to click off the light.

  “Please don’t go,” she whispered, in the darkness of the windowless room.

  “I’m right here.” His voice, warm and comforting, came from the side of her bed. Then she felt the mattress sink as he put the weight of his knee down. He climbed under the covers and pulled her tightly against the curve of his body. He stroked her hair, kissed her neck; Lacey had responded by sitting up to wiggle out of her nighty.

  Large and strong, with the rub of callouses, Deep’s hands made Lacey feel oh so much like silk and femininity. His loving hands stroked over her body; his touch pulled her away from the anxiety that overwhelmed her. There was nothing that she wanted more than Deep’s hands on her. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Perhaps there was something she wanted more. And as Deep complied with her body’s request, Lacey had giggled against his neck.

  The stubble of his nighttime beard rasped past her cheek. “What?” he’d asked.

  “Nothing. I was thinking about your call name.”

  “This is not the reason I earned it,” he said, tucking his hand under her thigh and pulling it over his hip.

  But Lacey wasn’t sure she believed him.

  Lacey peeked at the clock. According to the time, the stars were already hiding behind the sun and a new day had begun. She missed waking up and looking out of a window. It was strange to contemplate all the things she’d taken for granted, she thought, as she stretched out in the bed. She was surprised she had slept so soundly this morning. She hadn’t even noticed when Deep had gotten up.

  Lacey rose to shower and get dressed, choosing a beautiful sapphire sweater that she thought Deep might like on her. Then she twirled her hair into a low-riding bun, letting her long layers frame her face. For the first time in her life, she felt pretty. People had always told her she was a beautiful girl and that she took after her mother. The pictures she had seen of her mom in her twenties, before her dad had died and before the psychotherapeutic medications left her grey and hollow-eyed, were indeed very lovely. But Lacey had never seen the resemblance, and assumed people said that about her because having a lot of money in the bank has a way of making people seem more attractive.

  As Lacey headed down the stairs, she hoped Deep hadn’t started breakfast yet. She wanted to do something for him this morning, and cooking was about all she could come up with under the circumstances. She gave Deep a finger-wave as she passed through the living room. He glanced up with a smile, but tucked right back down into his computer, where something was pulling his attention.

  Deep had hot chocolate already in the pot, and there was a little bowl of marshmallows laid out next to a quiche that he’d warmed from the freezer. He’d already eaten a slice. Lacey wasn’t hungry yet, but the cocoa smelled warm and inviting. She poured two mugs and moved to join Deep in the front room.

  “You had a rough night last night,” Deep said as she joined him.

  “I’m supposed to be dead.” Lacey handed Deep a cup of hot cocoa, then sat cross-legged with her back to the brown leather couch. Beneath her stretched hardwood floors that had been scored and stained in various shades to make it look like antique marquetry. The walls that wrapped around them were a beautiful shade of rose terracotta, at once warm and grounding, cheerful and uplifting. This was a magical jewel of a house. Even sucked into her own crisis, Lacey could appreciate the uniqueness and care that went into creating this space. And she felt deep gratitude that Lynx allowed her to be here.

  “Many times over, I’m supposed to be dead. I’m actually surprised that I’m still breathing.” Lacey’s sigh tried to sound like a chuckle.

  “How many times over?” Deep asked.

  “Three. No, wait.” Her eyes lost their focus and landed somewhere near the fringe of the rug. “Four,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she sent a tight-lipped smile Deep’s way. “Somebody wanted to shoot me the day I killed the deer, then Leo Bardman was stabbed while he was warning me to run. The FBI was there in the bar in the front on the street. Who knows who was waiting there in the back, and whether they would have caught me if the rain hadn’t been falling so hard. They jumped out of their car when I came out the door – so they must have been trying to stay dry. I would have done likewise. It was a terrible storm.”

  “Right,” Deep said. “Then the sniper. That makes three.”

  “I’m sure the only reason why I’m alive right now is that I’m hiding here in Lynx’s beautiful home and no one knows where to find me.” Lacey’s eye travelled around the room, from the skillfully rendered oil seascape over the mantelpiece signed Gavin Rheas to the thick drapes that hid their movements from the street. “I’m so lucky to be here with you. Thank you.” She brought both hands up to her heart.

  Deep offered a half-smile, but his eyes showed his mind was pinging.

  Lacey picked up the mug of cocoa resting between her bare feet and lay her head back on the sofa cushion, the mug dangling between her posted knees.
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  “I keep thinking about fake-Lacey and my clothes. There are two ways she could have worn my clothes. One, she or someone had access to my apartment, which would be fairly difficult in that I live in a high-security building that requires a thumbprint scan to access the stairs or elevators. Or, two, Steve gave her my clothes. I was thinking about that possibility. Steve was a little OCD about our laundry. It wasn’t like we had a laundry day. For Steve, every day was laundry day. He made jokes about it. I’d take off an outfit and the washable things, my hose and lingerie went right into the washing machine. They weren’t even left for the maid to handle. Every day, Steve would take my dresses to the dry-cleaners on the way to work, then he’d pick up our clothes on his way home.”

  “That’s interesting. Same dry-cleaners?”

  “Yes, it’s across the street and down the block at the Metro station. So it’s not a big deal. Steve took the Metro to work anyway.”

  “What about the shoes? Fake Lacey couldn’t possibly have had your size feet.”

  “I mostly wear neutral-colored pumps. If she had a picture of my shoes, or the brand names, it wouldn’t be hard for her to find a look-alike in her size.”

  “Interesting. I have another question about your dresses. If Steve brought a dress to the cleaners in the morning, would it be the same dress he brought home that night?”

  “No, there was a day’s lag. It says on the sign ‘Same-Day Cleaning,’ but that’s only if you get it in by a certain time.”

  “Who said that to you, Steve or the cleaners?”

  “Steve.”

  “And whose name is on the cleaning receipt, yours or Steve’s?”