Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  Lost Angel

  Louisa Trent

  Published 2004

  ISBN 1-931761-91-4

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2004, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

  Email: raven@liquidsilverbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  Steven Gallagher of Gallagher Investigative Services fondled a pair of female attributes, the jutting proportions of which just about blew his mind. Not for the life of him could he recall the last time he'd had the pleasure of a bare naked lady's company, much less had his hand on her...

  "Teetzees," supplied Maurice Pentegrine, of the Raleigh, North Carolina Fortune 500 Pentegrines.

  Well, hell, yeah. Juggle a few letters, and that pretty much said it all. But how come a straight-up guy like Maury had zeroed in on Steve's fantasizing?

  "Yes, indeed," his client droned on. "Teetzees is worth a small fortune."

  "You don't say," Steve replied, whimsically juggling the diminutive jade figurine in his palm to the slow beat of his client's snooze-producing monotone.

  For the past thirty minutes Steve had listened to the history behind each and every invaluable object d'art in Maury's library, all one hundred forty-five pieces, and he was zoning out from sheer boredom. If not for the distraction of Teetzees' amazing green chest he would've snored his way to dreamland a half-hour ago. And who'da thunk a fly-right sort of fella like Maury for collecting the smutty stuff, anyway?

  You just never knew in this business, Steve mused, blocking a yawn with the back of one hand while bouncing Teetzees in the other.

  "Uh ... uh ... careful there." Maury looked a little worried. "That statuette is the centerpiece of my fifteenth-century erotica collection. Rub her ... uh ... bosom and your love life is certain to improve."

  "No kidding?" Steve replied, rubbing away. But casually.

  "Oh, my. I would never joke about a fertility goddess. The Mesopotamians believed that he who rubs Teetzees ... er ... um ... breasts will produce progeny within the next year."

  Who was Steve to argue with the Mesopotamians?

  Off came his thumb from Teetzees' fine rack. And then, before he did something seriously dumb, like accidentally dropping the voluptuous little beauty on her well-worn hooters-Maury wouldn't like that-the three-inch statue went back on the shelf where she belonged.

  As the saying goes, beauty is all in the eye of the beholder. One man's idea of invaluable art is another man's idea of the kind of hard-core porn you wouldn't want your mama to discover should she happen to drop by for a sneak visit. But hey, to each his own kink. And what did he know anyway? Married to his childhood sweetheart at the tender age of nineteen, Steve had no need for naughty knick-knacks to get his motor running; his engine had been fully cranked, morning, noon, and night...

  For one idyllic year.

  Twelve months, that's how long the honeymoon lasted. Widowed at twenty, in a sad mood ever since.

  'Time heals all wounds,' the well-meaning told him.

  Nice sentiment.

  No dice. Almost two decades later, his wife's death still ached like a raw wound. Steve didn't like to think about that ache, much less talk about it. After Jen's death, he went a little crazy...

  A little crazy?

  Shit, he went berserk. Almost tore himself apart. Booze. Broads. Bad habits. If not for his family's quiet support, for always being there for him, he probably would have succeeded in ripping out his own heart.

  Right there and then, as Maury continued his never-ending monologue, Steve decided not to return to his New York City office. He would fly into Logan instead. No point keeping a vacation house on Cape Cod if he never took a vacation. He'd snag some R&R in his Falmouth retreat, that's what he'd do. Spend some time with his family. He missed them...

  Maury's soliloquy cut into Steve's plan making. "Now, over here, we have some fine, albeit eclectic, examples of pre-Columbian phalluses. Notice the intricate leather tooling."

  Aw, man. He was not admiring a bunch of ancient dildos! In his line of work, he came face to face with plenty enough phony old pricks as it was.

  Before those ten-inch examples of wishful thinking got thrust at him, Steve interrupted Maury's spiel. "Your erotica collection is just nifty, but could we maybe get back to the business at hand? You know, the robbery? You say you heard nothing during the break-in?"

  "Not a sound. The wife and I were upstairs in our bedroom. We slept through the entire incident."

  Steve stuffed the pockets of his trench coat with his hands. "And you first noticed The Cuzin was missing, when?"

  "We didn't realize the house had been burglarized until the following morning. None of the alarms sounded."

  Steve nodded. "This job has all the markings of a professional art ring. The thieves came over the roof, then down and in through that bay window."

  "H-how do you know?" Maury stammered.

  Steve gestured to a gargantuan rubber tree on the sill. "The bottom leaf on that plant is crushed."

  Maury rushed to the clay pot. "They stepped on the Ficus elastica?"

  "Looks like it. Note the caked mud." Steve's crime scene analysis took a detour out the window. "Your lawn is real thick and green. You must have one of those underground sprinkler systems, huh?"

  "It's on a timer," said the dazed Maury. "Rain or shine, the lawns are automatically watered every night between the hours of two and four."

  "A sprinkler serves as a noise barrier. You know, like the sound of a shower running. A steady spray of water will muffle unfamiliar sounds. Could be why you didn't hear the break-in. These thieves knew exactly what they were doing, all right." Steve frowned. "And you're sure nothing else is missing?"

  "Only Cuzin's Study in Light." Maury turned to the rectangular faded spot on the wallpaper. "My wife is devastated. She loved that painting. The blue background exactly matched the fabric on the curtains."

  "Tough break about the décor," Steve said dryly. Wandering to a corner curio cabinet, he glanced at the display behind the glass. "You collect antique car memorabilia?"

  "Yes." Maury's half-smile was sheepish.

  Steve faced his client. "Did you recently remove something from this rear shelf?"

  "W-why no."

  "Sure about that? There's a small oval area free of dust."

  Maury raced to the cabinet. "My angel! She's gone!"

  "Angel?"

  "A brass hood ornament," Maury explained. "The angel once graced a Dusenberg."

  Now they were getting somewhere. Unless Steve was very much mistaken, this was his first lead on the case. "Circa 1930, Model J?"

  "Why, yes. How did you know?"

  "Lucky guess."

  In Steve's humble opinion, the Dusenberg was one of the grand dames of the road. For good luck, the original owner of one of the cars-a notorious bootlegger during prohibition-commissioned an artist to create a sculptural interpretation of a Botticelli angel. That angel hood ornament was something else!

  But the angel was worthless without the car. So ... why'd the thief bother snatching her? There were valuable things in this house, in this room-why swipe the angel?

  Because this was no
ordinary thief, Steve concluded. This thief had a soft spot for antique cars, probably owned one or two, maybe even a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. Trace the current ownership of that bootlegger's car, and he just might find a brass angel...

  And maybe someone who knew a little something more than he should have about Cuzin's Study in Light.

  Solid.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The meeting was good to go for ten PM sharp.

  Though an easy hour commute from his condo in Boston, Steve allowed himself plenty of extra time for some pre-appointment snooping, arriving gauchely early at the posh Chestnut Hill address of internationally respected art dealer, Bernard Fritz.

  A ten-foot fence surrounded Fritz's upscale property, the wrought-iron spires Neoclassic in style, the decorative points hard-wired with some fairly nasty electrodes. Since a similar fence had once turned him blue in the face, Steve made a mental note to avoid the voltage that evening.

  Steve's trained glance took in the premises before him in one panoramic swoop, and he didn't like what he saw. His glamorous security expert, Ronnie Thomas, had brought him up to speed on the various hi-tech surveillance devices he should expect to encounter on the estate, so he knew going in that maneuverability would be tight. But Fritz's security wasn't tight; the art dealer's security hinted of guilty paranoia...

  Case in point: A pair of butt-ugly stone lions flanking the estate's front gate. Slowing the 'Vette to a crawl, Steve took a closer peek at the roaring kitty on the driver's side.

  Just like he thought, a video cam had been stuffed down the cat's throat. Tacky. Tacky. Tacky.

  Still ... since Steve had never yet met a pussy he didn't like, he smiled as he drove past.

  "The name's Gallagher," he told the guard at a quaint ivy-covered carriage house.

  The sentry, an efficient sort, first checked his name off the guest roster, then checked him over.

  Steve showed some teeth. For the effort, the gatekeeper waved him ahead, no questions asked. So far, so good.

  Not that Steve had expected to be given a hard time at the gate. If the reason for his visit was a stretch of the truth, the invitation itself was strictly legit.

  And not that Steve was overly concerned with legalese, anyway, his philosophy being to operate within the spirit of the law, if not exactly the paperwork.

  Steve had chatted a long time on the phone with Fritz's assistant, Emily Parker. About antique cars, mostly. For a girl, she knew her automotive stuff. During the course of the conversation, he hadn't exactly screamed his occupation at her and, at least to his way of thinking, this made them even because she hadn't exactly asked. He led her to believe he was just another run-of-the-mill wealthy car buff, which he was-when not investigating stolen artwork. So he didn't have to lie to her to get his foot in the door, something he found himself remarkably reluctant to do. Hard to lie to a fellow grease monkey with a voice suited to phone sex.

  Of her own accord, Emily breathily confirmed that Bernard Fritz owned a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. She also volunteered that the antique was housed in the estate's Chestnut Hill garage. As soon as that information was nailed, Steve made his ten o'clock appointment to talk cars with Fritz during his birthday celebration-at Emily's suggestion. 'Course, with a suggestive voice like hers, provocative vocal cords that almost had him coming at the mention of lube, he would have agreed to just about anything...

  And probably would have, but for this case he was working on.

  If Steve's hunch was correct, and he was pretty damn sure it was, he would find a certain brass angel with her celestial wings spread over the Dusenberg's hood. This little coup would tie Fritz, at least circumstantially, to a multi-billion dollar thievery ring that had plagued police organizations on both sides of the Atlantic for decades. Cool.

  In front of the white-pillared mansion-Tara with a New England sensibility-Steve stepped out of the 'Vette, stuck his hands in the pockets of his tux jacket, and took a lazy look around.

  While casing the joint up close, sounds of party merriment spilled out the mansion's open patio doors-clinking glasses, a near feverish pitch of witty conversation, rising bubbles of champagne-induced laughter. Party guests schmoozed outside on the rolling green lawns, meeting and greeting others, generally getting themselves noticed at the society event of the year. Whoa, yeah. Fritz's birthday party was the happ'ning place to be. And wasn't Steve just lovin' spending his evening rubbing shoulders with the rich and the famous ... and the crooked as hell. As soon as opportunity introduced itself, he would ditch the party scene and head for Fritz's garage.

  Opportunity came a'knocking when up at the house a mean jazz pianist started thumping out a 1940's Big Band classic. Through the open patio doors, Steve saw a Black dude join the ivory tickler. Stepping up to the mike, the trumpeter put his beautiful full lips on his horn and blew his soul out through the mouthpiece. Like the annual wedding-gown-sale-dash at Filene's basement-the one his marriage-minded sisters always ragged on about-the schmoozing guests out on the lawns raced for the house, everybody wanting to big-ear the set. Time to hustle.

  "Wait a minute, sir!"

  Damn!

  Turning his back around, Steve encountered a burly valet, a holstered shoulder weapon ruining the smooth line of one heck of a snazzy red car-parking jacket.

  "Yeah, pal?" Steve inquired, keeping things friendly.

  "Your car keys, sir," his new amigo said, nose in the air like he had just caught the whiff of a very bad smell.

  As the guy in the cheesy red threads was sniffing in his direction, Steve took offense. But, like any law-abiding citizen, he tunneled his tux pocket for said car key. Once found, he dangled the ring from the end of his muscled fisherman's arm; he wasn't turning over the keys to his particular kingdom ... just ... yet.

  "Careful with the wheels," Steve apprised the attendant. "I don't give two shits how you treat your baby, but mine's the temperamental type. She doesn't like rough handling. Use a gentle hand on the gears, capeche?"

  The valet's reply was a surly sneer and an upwardly mobile reach for the bulge in his bolero.

  Here we go...

  On the one hand, Steve wasn't looking for trouble. Not to mention that nothing but nothing stains satin tux lapels worse than oozing valet blood. Besides which, a mangled valet body would prove embarrassing, as well as unprofessional, and a real drag at a birthday party.

  On the other hand, Steve loved that '69 Corvette. And if his honey's side pipes came back dented, or heaven forbid, the finish got scratched or pitted, or even smudged by a careless set of paws, oh boy, guaranteed, there would be some unpleasant consequences...

  Steve took a deep breath to mellow-out. He tended to be a hothead when it came to things he cared about.

  His mother, bless her heart, had an old-fashioned adage to meet just about every social situation. She would drag them suckers out of mothballs from time to time whenever the occasion called for it, and sometimes even when it didn't. The one that covered the faux pas he had almost committed had something to with catching flies with honey, not vinegar. That was his mom. God, he loved that woman. Now him, he stepped on bugs.

  But he always listened to his mama. "Dude, you any relation to Stallone?" Mrs. Gallagher's eldest son asked sweetly.

  The valet's upper lip curled into a cocky grin. "So happens, I've been told there's a slight resemblance."

  Gotcha! Move in with the swatter.

  "You've been told right, my man."

  Steve handed over the keys, his own cocky grin cold enough to freeze Seagram's. "Treat the 'Vette right, Sly. No sense us both bawling our eyes out come pickup time, right?"

  "Yes, sir," the valet replied, bad attitude gone bye-bye. Smooth as butter, he keyed the ignition and cruised the Daytona-yellow roadster nice and easy to the back of the estate.

  Manly pissin' contest thus concluded, all nonchalant-like, Steve tooled across the manicured lawns for the garage. He had an angel to locate.

  Steve's nonchalance ended upo
n spying the 1930 Dusenberg Model J. Just like he thought, the car, a shiny fire-engine-red beauty, sported a one-of-a-kind brass hood ornament. Removing his matchbook-sized camera from his pocket, Steve aimed the telescopic lens at the evidence...

  Just as someone entered the garage.

  Always but always, Steve went for earthy, statuesque brunettes. Dark-haired ladies with chests out to there and legs that didn't know when to quit. Ballsy chicks not afraid to flaunt their assets. This woman had the legs, all right. But she was...

  What was that snobby word his sisters used all the time?

  Ethereal?

  Yeah, ethereal. This woman was all that. Head to foot delicate. Fine-boned, despite her taller than average height. Pale skin. Light blond hair, done up in a braid in back. Dressed in a little black number that showed absolutely nothing. No T&A, whatsoever. Nope, the lady was definitely not his type. Plus, she was crying and looking kind of lost. Steve avoided lost-looking, tearful ladies like he avoided the clap.

  But when she sniffed back the tears, popped the Dusenberg's hood, and hefted a wrench, his heart started pounding. And then when she said aloud "Chill, Emily. Get a grip." and began diddling around underneath, what could he say? She had him at the first calibration.

  Steve started snapping pictures of Emily Parker, the soft-spoken lady he had spoken to on the phone about cars. Positively, he had found himself a lost angel and it was not the brass ornament riding the Dusenberg's hood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emily Parker smoothed a hand over the Dusenberg's rear bumper. The antique needed work, but she was still drivable. In fact, as a special treat, Mr. Fritz had promised to chauffeur her to Logan Airport in the car tonight.

  Herself, she couldn't drive, but thanks to time served in a girl's residential school-sent there compliments of the juvenile justice system-she could overhaul a transmission with her eyes closed. Her best thinking was done with a wrench in her hand.