by Ritter Ames
Praise for the Bodies of Art Mystery Series
“Once again I have to hold on to my hat while we zip around Europe and land in lovely Florence where author Ritter Ames lures me in with her delightful vignette of Italian life seen through the eyes of an art expert.”
– Maria Grazia Swan,
Author of the Lella York Mysteries
“Ames, with her great writing and brilliant story, has created a masterpiece of her own in Marked Masters. She leaves her readers doing their own research between the pages. Like Laurel, Ritter keeps the story with its rightful owner—the reader.”
– Crimespree Magazine
“Boasting a great cast of characters, good conversations and the global background, this was a very enjoyable read and I look forward to the third book in this exciting series.”
– Dru’s Book Musing
“An intricately woven tale with plenty of action and suspense. The story is crafted in such a way to keep readers guessing…characters are well-written with smart and witty dialogue. An enjoyable read.”
– A Cozy Book Nook
“Funny, fast paced and just a smidge of romance. What more could you ask for? Bring on the next one!”
– T. Sue Versteeg,
Author of My Ex-Boyfriend’s Wedding
“A high-octane, fast-paced thrill ride of a mystery adventure that will definitely leave you anxious for the next installment.”
– Girl with Book Lungs
“This fast-paced mystery had me reading far past my usual time for bed. I simply couldn’t put it down because I was so drawn into the story. It’s simply wonderful!”
– Dianne Harman,
Author of the Cedar Bay Cozy Mysteries
“The book takes you on car chases, shooting, great locations around the world all in the hopes of finding a missing friend and lost artifact. I read the book three times enjoying each time.”
– Book Him Danno
“To save the day, Laurel takes you with her every step of the way on subways, planes, fast cars, and motorcycles all while being in danger. This book is truly a keeper, jump in and go for a ride!”
– Destiny’s Book Reviews
“Incredible attention to detail. The author creates a world that you truly can get lost in. The book is also a fast-paced, fun read. I’m looking forward to reading book two.”
– A Girl and Her ebook
“This fast-paced, action-filled whodunit was enjoyable and hard to put down…it was fun to watch the pieces come together in this well-written drama. I’m looking forward to the next book in this series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“Takes off as fast as a speeding locomotive…The twists in this story will keep you reading until the amazing end…Have a great deal of fun while delving into the art trade filled with betrayal, old secrets, greed, and some extremely strange gifts.”
– Suspense Magazine
“This third book in the Bodies of Art Mystery series is as engaging and entertaining a worldwide romp as the first two books, and I highly recommend the entire series. Ritter Ames has penned a marvelous story with Laurel Beacham continuing to show her cleverness and intuition portraying a strong character…I was thrilled!”
– King’s River Life Magazine
Books in the Bodies of Art Mystery Series
by Ritter Ames
COUNTERFEIT CONSPIRACIES (#1)
MARKED MASTERS (#2)
ABSTRACT ALIASES (#3)
FATAL FORGERIES (#4)
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Copyright
FATAL FORGERIES
A Bodies of Art Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | June 2017
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2017 by Ritter Ames
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-219-1
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-220-7
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-221-4
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-222-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband, who realized pretty quickly that
being married to a writer often means eating alone while
she finishes up “just one more scene.” And to my lovely dog, Honey, who didn’t mind the fact that I had to change
her name to Sugar to put her into this story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every author needs a tribe as backup in all facets of the publishing game. From fans, friends, and the free advice that flows from other authors who’ve already walked the path I’m currently navigating, the number of people I could list here would be an entire book unto itself. Thank you, thank you, everyone!
I also have the greatest street team out there—Thanks, Readers—and several went above and beyond this time to help me proof this manuscript. A big thank you to Jeanie Jackson, Gail Sroelov, Andrea Stoeckel, and Eleanor Cawood Jones (in particular, thanks for the pictures, Ellie, so we could all travel vicariously to Hawaii with you while deadlines kept me chained to my chair). And thanks to all the reviewers and bloggers who give every author the visibility we truly need—in particular I’d like to recognize Jenna Czaplewski and Dru Ann Love who’ve been there for me since the very beginning.
I’d like to give a big round of applause to the Henery Press team. Laurel Beacham may climb buildings and mountains in my books like a pro, but the Henery editing and marketing teams leap tall obstacles in a single bound every day and always offer me a rope when I need one.
And reviewers…All you lovely readers out there who write even a short review for every book you love. As a collective group, you all are a key reason for every author’s success. Thanks so much for each review—short or long—that shows readers see why they should try new series.
On behalf of myself and my characters, thank you, everyone.
ONE
The mid-January air was cold enough that I saw my breath, but I was too focused on my task to feel chilled. My uniform was a Lycra cat suit. A black hood covered my blonde hair. A coat would have created an extra obstacle I couldn’t afford. Minutes ticked down, faster and faster. No time for anything that didn’t contribute to the job at hand.
The narrow cable lay coiled beside the rooftop A/C unit. A quarter moon hung bravely in the night sky, casting little light for me to see—or be seen from my perch so high above the ground. I felt more invisible than I truly was. Excessive self-confidence was always the greatest danger in this kind of game. Still, I took advantage and leaned over the five-hundred-year-old golden-stone balustrade, stealing a second to re-gauge the distance between me and the darkened edge of the forest several hundred feet away. In the semi-darkness, I couldn’t distinguish individual trees.
I pulled the night-vision goggles down to hide my blue eyes and double checked on the due diligence I’d accomplished with subterfuge the week before. All to make my mental map see the targeted objective. I only had one shot. No time for mistakes.
My right hand freed the collapsed crossbow from the holster on my thigh. My left dragged the arrow from a long pocket I’d fashioned into the Lycra on the corresponding leg. Connecting the cable to the arrow was easy. The hard part came in trusting that every other piece of this last phase would go as planned.
I pulled at the sides of the crossbow, opening it to full size. Although I’d oiled the mechanism to keep it quiet, a rogue snick sounded when the parts snapped into sequence. A pause to see if the unexpected sound caught the attention of security personnel. Nothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, realized I’d been holding my breath, and forced the air slowly from my lungs.
One more risk. I removed a glove to run sensitive fingertips along the cool top of the balustrade, at the point where I’d carefully worked indentations into the stone. I located the first indentation, then the second barely there scrape. Easily confused with earlier battles the fortifications withstood since its medieval architects pulled artistic ideals together with security specifications. At least I hoped so. Too late to worry.
In a heartbeat, I’d lined up the crossbow, placing the mechanism atop the stone and triple-checking my marks with the base of the device. I squinted at the tree line, then spent another minute unfurling the cord from its coil so it fell haphazardly across the paved roof. Working almost on instinct at this point, one end went into a metal loop cemented into the wall that I’d discovered earlier. The loop had been the final detail to seal my decision on where to run this phase of the operation.
The moon broke fleetingly through the gathered clouds, but it was dim and small and basically useless for any needed illumination. Exactly as I needed.
I risked the seconds to put my right glove back on—before I closed my eyes to pray, to wish, or to will everything and everyone to perform correctly in the next few minutes. Then I pulled the trigger and let the arrow fly.
A distant gratifying thunk told me my calculations for weight and distance remained spot on. I gave the cord a tug, satisfied the arrow point was wedged deeply enough into the tree’s trunk. Both ends now secure, I attached a silver carabiner to the loop of the black cylinder and then the metal clip to the cord. I let the “package” sail down the line and kept hold near the loop to feel the vibration en route.
Now came the waiting. My focus stayed intent on the objective. Suddenly, the vibration in the line stopped. I felt the cord move again, up and down this time. A sharp tug on the line told me Nico had it at the other end. I felt the line jerk hard and go slack. My turn again. I grasped the line with both gloves. Hand over hand, I pulled back the once-used cord. It still had yards to go and escapes to make before it slept.
My black leather gloves never lost their grip on the steel line. Less than a minute and I heard the arrow slap against the side of the stone far below, as it began its ascent back to the roof. I didn’t slow down. The sharp fiberglass arrow rode easily up this windowless side of the chateau. It was all a matter of timing at this stage. Things were going almost too perfectly. Unless I heard a shout of alarm, I was past the first round of danger. The next security patrol wasn’t due for another three minutes. I rubbed at the top of the stone to smudge any fingerprints I may have left behind.
My objective—what flew down the line in the large black tube—was the Caravaggio masterwork the facility’s director had not meant for us to see. When Jack and I visited days ago, a panel that should have been closed wasn’t. The director was waylaid by an assistant and let us enter his office on our own. A glimpse of the visible drapery in the painting, though I could only see an inch width, lured me like a siren’s call. Jack was busy looking at the bookshelf and neighboring awards, but he turned when I gasped and pushed the panel open farther. The sharp light and dark contrasting technique was Caravaggio’s bold statement and trademark, known by the Italian term “chiaroscuro.” And the incomparable realism of key images like that drapery told me this was a find. Five men in the work, and the expected illuminated cameo of the artist. A knife covered in blood shone like Chinese lacquer. Typical Caravaggio genius.
Then the director came in and uttered a soft oath. He’d quickly moved around the desk to close the panel. “Only a copy,” he’d said, his French accent heavy in his anxiety. “Made from a new secret digital technology using oils.” Even without reading his body language I knew he was lying.
This painting had been on the Beacham Foundation’s “lookout” list for years. I needed no research to tell me who was the true owner of the painting. In that instant, I made plans to reclaim it.
Startling news about how the painting would be picked up in a few hours had moved things up. I stepped up my plans and recruited Nico for assistance.
Then, as the reclamation was in play, while I scouted the painting’s security parameters in the darkened director’s office, looking for the best way to safely remove the masterpiece, I noticed a figurine in a locked case. Another stolen work on our list. It was small and I operated on impulse, letting it ride piggyback in the cylinder with the painting.
A chorus of barks from the direction of the kennels reminded me how everything must work perfectly from this point outward. If the guard made his last solo round too late or too soon, I’d be discovered. However, if anyone noticed the empty frame in the director’s study or the lonely case without the tiny figurine, it wouldn’t much matter that I no longer had the items on me. Laurel Beacham in the inky black cat suit would get hauled off by the local gendarmes.
I had one chance to get down and get away. One chance after the guard made his rounds and before the dogs were turned out to roam the estate as residents and staff slept. One chance.
We’d taken every possible precaution. Some pre-work was already completed, so we weren’t flying blind: we had preliminary blueprints and schedules. Nothing giving us complete details, but enough to provide a framework.
Charcoal darkened my face, and I’d pulled up my collar and bottom part of the hood to cover my mouth and most of my nose. I hid by the stone wall and risked a peek around and down, watching for the guard’s approach. The wind picked up, and I shivered. A strand of blonde hair was teased free from cover. I poked it back in, then shifted the elasticized black hood for better coverage. I pushed my left sleeve away from my glove to sneak a glance at my watch and swallowed hard.
As I waited, I disconnected the cord from the loop and ran the loose end through the ring instead, so the line was doubled with the metal loop as its apex. I slapped the arrow back into the ready position on the crossbow, then slipped the strap over my head and one arm to lay in cross-body fashion. Everything was now hands free, but the weapon stayed open on my back and ready to shoot if needed. I didn’t want to have to use the device in defensive mode, but I was ready all the same.
In the next instant, I saw a flash of light cut the darkness and round the corner of the chateau near ground level. Just in time.
The guard swept his beam in a relaxed manner. Most of his shift was over, and his gait told me he was probably a shade self-satisfied by this point. I was counting on that complacency.
I switched sides as he passed below, and I braced against the other side of the stone impediment to barely keep him in sight. The task required me to lean out slightly to see him disappear around the next corner. As he vanished, I leapt into the next task.
Grabbing the doubled lines together in my right gloved grip, I used my other hand to drop the bulk of the line over the side. The loop got another preparatory tug to check it still held fast in the ancient mortar, and I prayed its load limit met the average weight of a healthy five-foot-nine female without popping free of the mortar.
“Final curtain, folks,” I muttered, jumping up to lever myself
on the stone block that offered an opening at the crenelated end of the balustrade.
With my first leap, I began my descent, rappelling down the side of the building. I’d dropped about a story when I heard two hoots of an owl. It was our warning signal. I looked toward the direction the guard had disappeared and saw the beam of light bobbing back, quicker than when he’d passed. He was returning for some reason. Why?
I grasped the cord above and below me to hang in midair, then used the doubled line and the wall to maintain height as I walked sideways, meeting the oversized chimney several feet away. My black Lycra could bleed into shadows, but no way could I hide openly against golden-brown stone. Cowering in the crook next to the four-story stack was my only option, and I pressed in close to the architectural crevasse. I pulled the cord along with me, running most of it down the shadowed corner. I tried to make myself as small as possible while dangling next to a medieval stone chimney several stories above the ground. If he looked up and shined the light he couldn’t help but see me. At least the steel line no longer ran down the middle of the blank wall.
For the second time in almost as many minutes, I held my breath, trying not to panic. When he passed the chimney, I didn’t risk exhaling and making any noise, but his steps slowed. Time was getting close for the dogs to take up patrol. I chewed my lip, worrying over the fleeting minutes.
A gunshot sounded back the other way, and the guard reversed direction. He vanished again around the other side of the facility’s mansion house.
