by Fiona Quinn
“Something like what?”
Lacey searched the ceiling, thinking it through. “Couldn’t be the normal things that might cause damage: smoke, water, vandals. That’s why the damage insurance isn’t as much—there’s a slim chance things like that would happen.”
“I don’t know about smoke, but fire would certainly take care of the problem.”
“It would if they could get it to burn enough to destroy the canvases, but you’d have to do it in such a way that no one could accuse you of arson. So, like, you couldn’t pour gasoline everywhere and pitch a match. But yes, that would work.”
“Alright, so let’s run that scenario. We’ve burned up the fake paintings. Nothing left but the nail they were hung from. We’d still have the original paintings.”
“Yes, that’s the really interesting part. See, if the corporations own – No, that might not work if they got insurance money.”
“Go on with that thought.” Deep leaned in.
Lacey stalled while she took a sip of water. No, she couldn’t see how that would work. “Nothing. I was going to say, if the paintings had a contract and had been paid in full, they wouldn’t have been stolen. They could hang them in their offices or living rooms without any danger of Interpol getting involved – or whomever.”
“What if they’d already shipped the authentic paintings to the buyers, and it was your uncle who had signed the insurance contracts?”
“Then the companies would be fine—they could enjoy their art. My uncle would be the one who committed insurance fraud. If he paid the artist and agents, he’d be out a little over half a million in commissions and another million and a half in insurance claims. He’d walk away with about two million dollars, as long as no one was the wiser. If somehow the foreign buyer was involved, and really, I can’t imagine all of these pieces being sold the way they were unless they were pre-selected. And that’s what I’m imagining happened here, since my uncle handed me a list of art that he wanted me to gather.” Lacey shook her head. “It seems so unlike him. I shouldn’t say that, because he did steal the Iniquus art. To tell you the truth, I still don’t understand how that happened, either. Do you think he became mentally unstable? Do you think maybe something was going on with his finances that I might not know about? Why would he sign those contracts?”
“A million and a half is a good pay day.”
“But my uncle doesn’t need the money. He lives luxuriously on his interest. He doesn’t even need to tap into his principal. So why in the world would he do something so criminal?”
“He was being blackmailed.”
“Over his homosexuality? That can’t be all.” Lacey considered Deep for a long moment. He’d braced himself and his eyes had lost all traces of the merriment that she usually found there. “You know why he was being blackmailed, don’t you?”
“He was a pedophile, and he had sex with pubescent boys.” Deep said it so softly that Lacey thought she had to be mistaken.
She jutted her head forward. “What?”
“Lacey, one of the thumb drives is full of photographs that includes your uncle involved in some very disturbing contact with teenaged boys.”
Lacey jumped up to race forward. Her only thought was that she needed to protect those children. As she left her seat, her hand reaching out for the doorknob, her vision dimmed. The next thing she knew, she was looking through a long tube, listening to a distorted voice from far far away.
It got closer each time the call went out. “Lacey. Lacey. Lacey, sweetheart, open your eyes.”
Lacey reached up a rubbery arm and hooked it around Deep’s neck. “I’m going to be sick.”
Deep immediately propped her up and leaned her over a trash can. He supported her weight with one arm and scooped her hair from her face with the other. It seemed he had a lot of practice with puking girls. Lacey’s stomach heaved, and she made horrible gagging sounds, but nothing came up. Finally, she was simply dangling there, panting. Deep eased her back over to her chair and handed her a glass of water.
“You have to eat under stress or this happens.”
Lacey looked at him incredulously. “Are you crazy?” Her voice was a hoarse rasp. “Seriously, are you completely off your rocker? You mean if I had eaten a sandwich earlier, I wouldn’t have fainted when I found out my uncle, my only living relative, is a monster who attacks children and rapes them? What?”
“No. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry. It’s how my family deals with stress. Something bad happens, then you make a meal and the family gathers and somehow, somehow that makes things better.” Deep crouched beside her chair. His hands covered his face; his head tilted toward the ceiling. “Those images were sickening, Lacey. I’m trying to deal with what I saw.”
Lacey moved her mouth to say something to comfort him, but all of her words were lost in the sobs that rolled up her throat. She felt dirty and horrible. No wonder Deep looked that way when she came down the stairs. No wonder Deep had closed the lid and protected her from actually getting those images into her head. He had seen them, though. He had gone through them so she wouldn’t have to. He’d been the warrior, though it was her war. It was hurting him. That was plain as day. It kept getting worse. Everything kept getting worse.
“Come on, up you go,” Deep whispered in her ear. He pulled her arm around his shoulder and walked her up the stairs. “You need warm water and a dark room.”
Deep sat her on the toilet while he started the bath water. He went out of the room and came back in with lavender jar candles and rose-scented bath oil. The room softened around her, becoming an island of calm. She pulled off her clothes—he wasn’t going to undress her like a baby, not again—and climbed into the tub. She was only mildly surprised when he undressed too, picked up a hairbrush, and climbed in behind her. She leaned into him while he brushed her hair in long strokes.
She closed her eyes. Slowly Lacey felt some of the revulsion and shock from downstairs ebb. She turned her head to rest her ear on his chest and listen to his heart beat. If only they could stay this way wrapped in the warm cocoon of scents, the world shut away by the door. “Is this what you’ve done for your other girlfriends when they were freaking out?”
He paused. “I don’t know what to do, Lacey. I’ve never been in a situation like this before. I’ve never had to grapple with all the feelings I’m going through. Right now, I’m trying to guess what might soothe you. I’m doing my best.”
She turned up her chin to offer him a kiss and whispered, “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Lacey
Tuesday Night
Lacey lay under the covers, her naked body tangled with Deep’s. She wanted every bit of her skin to be in contact with his. In a world that suddenly seemed filthy, Deep was pristine. To her, he felt like the strength of goodness personified. Her heart was filled to overflowing knowing that he was there with her. Yet gratitude and shame made strange bedfellows. The shine and warmth of her feelings for him juxtaposed with the cold ash of dishonor. If she were an artist, she’d try to catch the starkness of the contrast in some medium. To get the thoughts and sensations out of her body and onto a canvas, so it no longer hurt her.
They lay there, whispering in the dark.
“You said Higgins was on an FBI task force for Violent Gangs. Do they protect minors?” Lacey asked.
“The case I worked on with Higgins had to do with human trafficking. Running girls—especially under-aged girls—is one way that gangs have diversified.”
“I thought you said you didn’t think this was a gang. You thought it was a family.”
“Gangs usually find girls here in America. Runaways. Kids who’ve gotten caught up with drugs. But, yeah, this seems like a family deal. Sometimes they’re involved in human trafficking. After seeing the pictures with your uncle, I think that’s why Higgins is involved.”
“Where do criminal families find these children?”
“Asia, India, Eastern Europe. I w
orked a case once involving a girl from the Czech Republic. She was lured over to the US and held as a sex slave. Strike Force rescued her. We know that there are families out there who specialize in hiring girls as maids or nannies—sometimes even as models—to lure them to the United States. When they get here, their handlers take their papers and threaten the women and children who have fallen into the con. They tell them the horrible things that the US government would do to them if they were found by the authorities. Or worse, they threaten to kill their family back in their home country – their moms and dads, their sisters or brothers. It’s a hell of a shackle. And they’ll do whatever they’re told to do.”
“Do you think that’s what happened to the boys in the photos?”
“Maybe.” He squeezed her tightly against him and kissed her hair. “We can’t sit on this. We need to take this to Iniquus. There are children being exploited. We have to get them help.”
“Yes, absolutely. Yes. The children are our priority.”
“Good. Okay. I’ve been thinking about this since I saw the photos. I’m really not sure what to do. So I’m going to lay out my thoughts and ask you to weigh in.”
“Alright.” Lacey untucked herself from his arms and sat upright with her legs crisscrossed. She wanted to be able to study his face, even if it was only illuminated by the dim light put off by the digital clock.
Deep reached down to the end of the bed and dragged the throw cover up, tucking it around her, protecting her from the chill in the January air. “When dealing with criminals, sometimes you have to be creative. Do you remember Al Capone?”
“The mobster?”
“Yes. They couldn’t get him for his mob crimes, so the feds went after him for tax evasion. The judge gave him eleven years in prison. It got him off the streets, which was their only real goal.”
Lacey wrinkled her brow. She didn’t understand where Deep was heading with this. “Okay.”
“There are only sixteen special agents assigned to art. And this operation looks like it’s getting a lot of attention. We’re going to assume Higgins was in the bar sitting near you on purpose, because from the YouTube videos of him moving you out of the bar, it looked like he was leading you to a car outside with two other agents in it. Those agents knew who you were—you can see it in their faces.”
Lacey nodded. She completely agreed with that assessment.
“Higgins is on Violent Gangs. That’s the thing catching me. Gangs aren’t going to play with arts cons. Families would, but still, there are too many resources in place for an arts con. I’m going to assume that Steve is FBI, too. Call that a gut feeling. We’ve been back and forth about his role, but I think he is. He was deep undercover if he was living with you. Again, that’s a hell of an expenditure of resources for him to be in place for an arts con.”
“Do you think they were going after my uncle? But he’s been in Bali since November. Over two months ago.”
“I think they’re going after the family. I think this has more to do with the children than the art. The art would be a good means to catch them and get them off the streets.”
“Like Al Capone.”
“Exactly. Now, let’s walk through some other ideas. And remember, we are speculating. Based on a small amount of evidence, true. But speculation isn’t fact.”
Lacey nodded.
“Your uncle is sexually gratified with teenaged boys. He seeks them out through some service. The service provider takes the pictures, planning to use them somehow in the future. What are your uncle’s assets? His reputation, his affiliation with the Assembly, his wealth, and his gallery. So they wait to figure out how best to use their photos. And somehow, this art con comes up. And then you get involved. It’s a hell of a lot more than just a matter of your uncle handing over the collection to you. Because right afterward, he sends you fake correspondence claiming that the show is off. When did he hand you the show—before or after your accident?”
“As soon as I got back to work after the accident, he gave me the acquisitions list. And he sent me the letters claiming the show was off from Bali. He wanted me to keep the gallery open and running, but the show was a no-go. Our plan was for him to resume running the gallery as soon as his lawyer arranged for the charges to go away. But from my perspective, I had no hand in the show.”
“You never communicated with any of the artists or their people?”
“No, I’d made absolutely zero progress. I never actually made contact with anyone. I did some research in preparation, but Uncle Bartholomew said not to move forward yet. He said he had to get some things organized first.”
“And when did he email you, in relation to the Iniquus art incident?”
“Uhm, he had flown to the islands to play golf, he said. And then I emailed him letting him know someone had stolen the Iniquus art from our warehouse. Then, hmm. I’ll have to look it up, but I’d guess it was a week or so later.”
“He was in Bali? And it was about the time that the hacked Assembly files were released to the press and the members were getting arrested?”
“Yes.”
“So if he were in Bali, perhaps he didn’t realize that such a huge shakeup was happening to the Assembly here in the States. He probably still thought that he had connections that would make all of his problems go away.”
“Or perhaps he knew his goose was cooked, and he was never planning to come home. Maybe he sent me the email saying the show was over because he didn’t want me to assume that because I was in charge of the gallery, that I was now authorized to develop the show. I’d start making inquiries that could derail their plans, and confuse the people who had been interacting with the impostor. But who really cares about the art? How does this affect the children?”
“Here’s the thing. If this is FBI, and this is their sting, they already know what’s going on. We’d accomplish nothing by taking these photos to them. And if we take them to the wrong person, perhaps the one-in-a-million special agent who’s got his head screwed on wrong, then we could warn them off and blow the arrest. If we hand it to Iniquus, well, same outcome in that Iniquus would be required to move forward and present what evidence we have in hand to agencies that might be involved. I don’t know who the bad guys are here, and that makes me worried about moving forward.”
“So what do we do?”
“Exactly. What do we do?”
Lacey pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She sat in the dark and silence and prayed. God, help us to make the right decision. Help us to help those children. And though she hoped for it, as she had so many times in the past, there was no aha moment. No cosmic voice whispering in her ear.
Finally, Deep said, “I think for now—at least for tomorrow—we need to keep investigating on our own. See what we can turn up. That might be absolutely the wrong thing to do. That’s why I need your opinion. We don’t have the benefit of a crystal ball.”
“I am so out of my league. I’m really not the person to talk to. Maybe Lynx? She might be able to sort this out with you.”
“She’s asked me not to call her unless I want Iniquus involved. So that call would put wheels in motion.”
“Why were you asking me so many timing questions?” Lacey asked.
“I’m trying to figure out how and when they placed the lookalike Lacey. And it seems to me that everything centers on your car accident.”
Lacey’s blood turned to ice.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lacey
Wednesday Morning
Once again, Deep was first out of bed. Once again, Lacey followed the scent of coffee down the stairs. Once again, Lacey found Deep in the living room with his brow furrowed as he stared at his laptop. Lacey’s stomach tightened. What new horror would today bring?
When her foot left the last stair, Deep turned toward her. “Have you ever heard the name Zoric?”
“Is that a first name or last name?”
“Last name. Bogdan Zoric.”
; Lacey shook her head. “Can you give me a context?”
“Maybe from the gallery? Maybe from your uncle’s social circles?”
“Bogdan Zoric? No, it’s a unique name, so I think I’d remember it. Why are you asking?” She balanced her elbows on the back of the sofa and leaned her weight forward to give Deep a kiss.
“According to this article in the Washington Post, Leo Bardman’s name was a fake. His driver’s license was a counterfeit. The Washington PD turned to fingerprints and came up with a picture from Zoric’s Slovakian passport and visa; it was a match.”
“Huh.” Lacey made her way through the living room, moving toward the kitchen and some coffee. She desperately needed a shot of caffeine to rev her brain. Deep looked more like himself this morning, she thought, as she pulled the gallon of milk from the fridge to doctor her coffee. She was glad. That cloud in his eyes yesterday had unnerved her. Lacey realized how much she depended on Deep being the solid one. It gave her space to be the emotional mess. Someone had to be the adult, and Lacey had been glad to hand that role to Deep. “Can I bring you a fresh cup of coffee?” she called from the kitchen.
“Yes, thanks.”
Lacey moved back into the room, balancing the mugs on salad plates. She was sure there were coasters somewhere around, but she didn’t care enough to go looking for them. As the dishes rattled against each other, Deep watched her progress.
“Bogdan. Bardman,” Lacey said, handing over the mug with the black coffee. “They sound similar. Bardman sounds like an English surname, but the guy didn’t look English. You’ve seen him. He was tall, with wide, high cheekbones. I would have guessed Eastern European rather than English. Slovakia? He did have a heavy accent.”
