by Ritter Ames
My spoon was halfway to my mouth, and I finished the motion before I said, “Look, I’m sorry, but cut me some slack about this, okay?” I picked up the pot and filled each of our cups with warm green tea. “I had no idea the sale we were trying to short circuit had anything to do with what our group’s been working on. I realize it looks like I acted rashly—”
“You got that, huh?”
I set down the pot before speaking, afraid I might otherwise pour tea in Jack’s lap. “You’re unattractive when you’re an ass, Hawkes.” Actually, he’d looked really good the entire morning with that whole anger vibe going, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“So you could try to talk me out of it?”
“You know I probably wouldn’t have.”
I lifted my cup and stared at the liquid to keep from meeting his gaze. “The fact you said ‘probably’ gives the answer better than any argument I could make.”
“It was dangerous.”
“I’ve done dangerous before. And Nico was my wingman.”
He spoke softly. “You could have had extra help.”
“Are you mad at me for messing up the potential break in the case, or because I didn’t let you tag along?”
“I never ‘tag along.’”
My cup hit the table too hard, making for a louder than average sound in the nearly empty space. I took a breath before speaking. “Don’t do this, Jack. Don’t make me change everything I do just because…just because. Damn.” My jaw clenched, and I knew the smart thing was to quit talking. Instead, I bumbled on. “I haven’t had anyone who loved me and worked to keep me out of trouble since Grandfather died, and I’m not looking for that aspect in our relationship.”
He jerked back like I’d slapped him. Something told me a slap would have been less painful. I was trying to figure out a response to anything he might say, but he surprised me by changing strategies.
“Let’s contact your source. See what else we can learn to tie to the copies.”
I shook my head. “We can’t. He was leaving for Barcelona. He runs a thriving pickpocket trade down there after the new year.”
Jack nodded. “Okay, then why did he even know about the painting? And why did he give the information to you?”
“I told you.” My rangoons were getting cold and that would never do. I picked two from the plate and handed one to Jack. “The painting has been on the foundation’s list for a long time.” I bit into one succulent lotus petal and almost swooned. Exactly what I needed. “At some point in the past I’d mentioned it to this source. I don’t remember when, but it’s something I do anytime I talk to grifters and pickpockets who work a large area. Especially if they work multiple countries. They’re extremely observant about things beyond just their mark. He recently heard about the painting from one of his stringers and learned it was heading for the auction. He contacted me yesterday and told me I had to move fast. Since I already knew the location of the Caravaggio, and had an idea how to successfully retrieve the piece, Nico and I went to France.”
“You don’t think that could in any way tie in with the reason Max is in Paris?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Could your avenues of inquiry since we saw the painting be a reason they decided to get rid of it?”
I shook my head. “My guess is no. I’m not saying that to be defensive either. All the inquiries I’d made were on the facility and the personnel, especially the director. I did seek out architectural information on the place in case I needed it later, and I received rudimentary plans from a British source on historic European homes and landmarks a few days ago. Getting those plans felt serendipitous once the auction information came in.”
“You never mentioned seeing the painting to anyone?”
“Of course not. I didn’t mention it in any of my inquiries. My standard procedure in this type of situation is to first get data on the players holding the piece.”
Lea and another girl who could have been her younger sister, and probably was, had been placing soy sauce and salt and pepper at the other tables. As they neared ours, she asked, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” Jack said, letting his expression relax to a quick smile.
I brightened my tone. “Perfect. Thanks so much.”
She smiled and motioned for the other girl to follow her to the kitchen. I resumed using the deep plastic spoon to eat my soup, and Jack did the same. When we were once again alone in the space, he asked, “And this auction is?”
I grabbed another rangoon. “Sometime within the week. The only information I received pointed to the painting being moved in less than twenty-four hours from when the source notified me. We had to hustle.”
His expression darkened again, but he continued eating his soup and didn’t lecture me. Finally, he set his empty soup bowl aside and mused, “So we have no way to contact this source. You don’t know when the auction is being held, or—”
“And we don’t even know if the auction is connected to the copies flagged by customs,” I interrupted. Then I put my left hand over his right. “I know in the office I jumped to the conclusion Nico and I had messed up an opportunity with this job, but it could be a leap of logic for us to continue that path. I’m not saying this to make excuses. Since the panic passed, I’ve been reasoning things out, and it seems likely these could be two separate heist opportunities. One, an auction with items lacking provenance. And two, a play by the thieves in our original heist mission to steal the stolen painting from the French facility and replace it with a copy. With it a coincidence they’re both happening at the same time.”
We’d first discovered the forgery angle when a stolen art object resurfaced, only to have a mark showing it was made by a master forger—who was dead. That led to finding the Florence palazzo, and we soon learned as many as five copies were made of any masterwork we presumed was part of the heist. This was the first time we’d only seen two copies of a work.
Jack stayed silent. I waited as long as my patience lasted, which wasn’t long, then I said, “Well? Any ideas?”
“It still bothers me there are only two copies confiscated. An anomaly.”
“Good point.”
He stretched, but didn’t put an arm across the back of the booth behind me. I wondered which transgression of the morning had him still ticked.
“We could go to Barcelona, find your pickpocket and question him,” he said finally. “See if he knows anything else he didn’t tell you or has learned additional details since you talked.”
“Which you know as well as I do would be a waste of time and lead to frustration on both our parts.” I grabbed another rangoon. There were only three left, and I wanted to make sure I got my share. Jack took another. And then there was one.
“So we blow off the auction?” he asked, pulling a petal from his flower.
I let out a long breath. “I can’t tell you how much I hate time/space dilemmas like this. If we could clone ourselves, I’d say, yeah, go after both. But…” I popped the second half of my rangoon in my mouth. “My moral compass doesn’t allow me to possibly give up on grabbing the other stolen works we’d find if we pressured the auction angle.” I licked crab and cream cheese from my finger and noticed Jack watching me. “On the other hand,” I continued, “while we can’t prove a connection between the auction and our current assignment, I say we need to give it up as the maneuver would stretch our resources too thin.”
“You wouldn’t want to send Cassie and Nico down to Spain to ask around?”
“Nico maybe, but not Cassie. She’d be out of her element in Barcelona but helpful to us here. Though I don’t want to send Nico alone to ask questions either. He needs backup that knows the city and the players if he’s going to have any success finding my source in Barcelona.”
Jack nodded, but
frowned. I thought for a moment. There was an idea hovering on the edges of my subconscious—
I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got an idea. Let me see if I can reach her.”
“Her?”
“Clara Ochoa. You saw her at Christmas when you and I met on Oxford Street before we flew to Ireland.”
His eyes widened, and his dark brows shot toward his hairline. “You don’t mean the waif.”
“I positively do.” Clara was a young new recruit in my list of—hopefully—reformed petty thieves who could provide information. She was also originally from Barcelona. I said, “I don’t know that I’ll send her with Nico, because I don’t want to mess up anything the shelter has done to make her an honest London resident. But I do want to see if she’ll tell me anything to help him once he gets there.”
“Then?”
I did not relish what his reaction would be to what I was going to say next, but I plowed forward like a trouper. “If we do feel a need to pursue the auction angle, it would be a good idea for me to head down there with Nico. Then you and Cassie can follow up on the copies here.”
“Cassie and me? Why not Cassie and Nico?”
“Because Nico can’t talk to law enforcement and customs with the same authority you can. However, he’s a pro at talking to pickpockets and assorted thieves.”
The silence again, but I expected it and waited. My argument was sound and he knew it.
“Speaking of law enforcement,” he said, changing the subject, “I may have an interview date firming up with the retired detective on your mother’s case. The file info on her accident investigation was as good as I expected, but I’m hoping a face-to-face interview will help jog the detective’s memory. Want to come along?”
Like I needed to be hit with further surprises today. I hedged. “To New York?”
“Yes.”
No. Yes. I don’t know. I wanted to say all those things aloud but didn’t. Because I did know, really. I wanted answers, but I didn’t want to have to think about what those answers might tell me. About how the story of my mother’s death might change to talk of murder. And I definitely didn’t want to sit near a retired cop whose words might open emotional wounds I’d worked to keep closed and buried since I was four years old. “I…uh…maybe. Let’s see how busy we are when the time comes.”
The look he gave me was kind. I didn’t want kind—it felt too much like sympathy. Tears pricked my eyes.
“I need to use the restroom,” I said, scooting out of the booth. “I saw it in the hallway as we came in.”
“Okay, I’ll pay and we can sneak back upstairs and see how the meeting is going.”
I slung the strap of my Prada onto my shoulder. “Get Cassie some rangoons. I’ll be right back.”
FOUR
As I entered the small one-person bathroom and locked the door, my phone trilled. I took a couple of deep breaths to control the tears and dug through the Prada. Caller ID said Marci. Ah, the breath of fresh air I needed. She was one of my favorite friends from a decadent summer abroad during college. The one directly after my father supposedly skied to his death. I knew Marci from a few finishing school adventures years earlier, and we met up in London that summer and partied everywhere her credit card would take us. She probably got me into as much trouble as we each got the other out of, but she saved my life. Definitely. Let’s just say I hadn’t handled the new grief and disappointment well.
In the years since, we’d met for dinner and parties and filled out guest rosters in similar circles, but they were just quick connections. A reunion was long overdue.
“Girl, how are you?” I smiled into the mirror as I answered the call, using my free hand to run a corner of a paper towel under my lower lashes and catch any moisture. Just seeing the name on the screen was enough to help stop the tears.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Are you still a badass?”
“The baddest.” We both laughed at the inside joke and favorite greeting that tied back to a rather obnoxious—turned frightening—admirer of Marci’s, who learned what a girlfriend’s wing-woman could do. The guy probably still walked funny.
“What’s going on?” I asked and tossed the paper towel. “Last I heard you were in the Far East.”
“Macau, yeah. I did my stint for the family investment holdings, but tour of duty is over and I’m back. I’m getting married!” Her voice rose on the last two words and we squealed a little when she added, “He’s an Italian prince.”
She added, “And I won’t even make you bow before me. Well, maybe one curtsy.”
“All your dreams are coming true,” I said, with just a hint of sarcasm. I really liked her, but Marci had always had a princess-diva complex.
“Anyway, I’m having a fabulous engagement tea for all my girlfriends at Mummy’s and Daddy’s this weekend,” she continued. “Just a bunch of my besties on Saturday. When I heard you’re back in London, I had to call—”
I chewed my lower lip. “Look, I’ll try, but—”
“Don’t say no, Laurel. I’ll send a car to fetch you. You can bring a friend if you like, and you don’t even need to pack. I just returned from Paris and I’ll let you pick favorites to wear. Please come. We’ll have fun, I promise. Try telling me you don’t need some fun.”
No, I couldn’t tell her I didn’t need some fun in my life. But it was Thursday, and I had no idea where I’d be in a couple of days. “I’ll see what I can do. Can I reach you later at this number? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Of course. But I only want to hear a yes when you call back. Please, please, please.”
I laughed. “I’ll do what I can. I promise.”
We said goodbye. I tossed the phone back into my purse, washed my hands, and took a good look at my eyes. If I smiled a lot I could hide everything, but I needed to dive back into work or those tears would make a return visit in the first quiet moment.
As I exited the restroom, Jack stood in the hallway outside the door. He was reading the screen of his own phone, and his cell hand also held a white bag with grease spots showing through. I could smell the warm rangoons inside.
“Something interesting?” I asked, motioning toward the phone.
“Huh?” He looked up, then back down as he shoved his cell into a pocket. He almost acted guilty. “Work. I need to go talk to someone.”
“Should I go too?”
He put a hand at the small of my back and steered me toward the stairs. “No, sorry. It’s not foundation work.”
Ah, another dig at our early-morning rendezvous. I wanted to say “smart-ass,” but instead I replied, “Oh, I get it. Q and C duties.”
“Q and C?”
I stopped on the step above him and leaned close to whisper, “My personal code for Queen and country.”
He chuckled. “Precisely.”
As we resumed our climb, he asked, “Who were you talking to in the bathroom?”
“Old friend. Called to ask me to come to some girls’ weekend tea at her family’s place in the English countryside. What is it you Brits always call big old houses? A pile?”
“Usually an old pile. Unless it’s Windsor Castle—then it’s a noble pile.”
“Well, it’s not Windsor, but house is kind of a misnomer for something so impressive. I’ve only seen pictures…” This was getting to be too much information, so I cut to, “I tried to let her down easy, but she made it practically impossible. I’ll call back tomorrow and tell her no again.”
“A problem?”
“Not really…Some misgivings on my part. It’s hard to sound like I’m anything but wistful as I’m turning down the invite since it would be great to see her. She also said she’d send a car, and I could bring a friend.”
“I don’t think I—”
“Don’t worry. If I took anyone it would be Cassie. You aren’t equipped for a girls’ weeken
d.”
“Thank god. You do realize you’re nearly thirty. I think you and your little friend are a tad old to be known as girls.”
“I have a couple of years as yet, thank you.” I grinned and gave his cheek a sharp pat. He flashed a half grin. “She’s already past thirty. You get a bunch of us together in a room, however, and the girl tag fits like no other. You would definitely be uncomfortable and want to flee.”
“No argument.”
“But kind of a rite of passage thing,” I added. “And it’s so much fun to find out what everyone else is doing.”
On the first landing, he pulled me to one of the corners and spoke in a quiet voice. “I do have another bit of news you need to know. Something you probably want to hear without an audience.”
Cassie. He’s talking about not wanting Cassie to know, I thought. This had to be about my family. I looked up when he paused.
“The man in the photos with your mother…” His voice trailed off. Moran had recently sent me items that belonged to my mother. Items the old thief apparently had in his possession for nearly twenty-five years, since she died when I was four. Each time I’d received one of the “gifts,” a photo was included—different scenes, different decades on the calendar, but both photos featured my mother and a man who resembled Moran’s grandson.
I was almost afraid to hear anything else, but I did want to know. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“I have confirmation his name was Paul-Henri Aubertine. A man we now believe was Moran’s much younger brother.”
“Was?”
“He died later the same year as your mother. In a car crash in France. A few miles down the road from his home. Single-vehicle accident.”
“In a car crash. Near his home. Just like my mother’s death.” I spoke mechanically but couldn’t stop myself. “Aubertine was the name used for the architectural firm I learned designed Moran’s chateau in Le Puy-en-Velay.”
“Yes, from what I’ve confirmed, the brother started PA Designs as a legitimate business, then Moran kept it in operation after his death. Likely for ulterior motives, but quite possibly to honor his brother too. The extensive measures used to distance Moran’s criminal activities from the architectural firm are telling.”
