Fatal Forgeries

by Ritter Ames

  “So Aubertine is Moran’s real name?”

  “No way yet to be positive, but it’s a good supposition.”

  I looked away. “And my mother had what was likely a decade-long affair with Moran’s brother. Who may have been a good guy in a family of criminals, or…not. But my mother chose to have a long-term affair with him.”

  Jack took hold of my shoulders and made me look at him. “Again, too much is conjecture at this point. We have two photographs taken years apart. They could have just met up again when the second snap was taken.”

  My mind cast back to the look shared between my mother and Aubertine in the later picture. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Don’t candy coat the story, Jack. I need to be able to trust you on this. Besides, Moran had her jewelry and jewelry case. How could he have gotten that kind of personal property unless my mother left it with her lover, his brother? And the compact I was given first. It was the kind of keepsake treasured by someone who wanted a sensory reminder until the loved one returned. A means to catch the scent of my mother’s powder while she was away from him.”

  Pressure built behind my eyes, and I couldn’t keep my voice from cracking. I needed a moment to process and pushed away from the wall to resume climbing the stairs. Jack followed silently.

  We hit the next landing and started up the last flight. I figured if I was going to ask what truly needed to be brought up, I should do so. Given this new information, if we wanted to get a jumpstart on my mother’s case, and how it might in some way relate to our current tasks, the time had come for me to talk to the one person most likely able to tell me about her and the liaison with this particular member of Moran’s family. “Let’s switch to a somewhat related subject and talk about getting me an opportunity to connect with Margarite. Maybe sometime next week if possible?”

  Margarite was someone I’d met through Jack and this case. From evidence in the first photograph I’d received, she was also someone who knew my mother in the years related to at least one time my mother was with Paul-Henri. I explained my reasoning, “I think she could fill in holes about what kind of relationship my mother had with Paul-Henri, and whether she was…affiliated with…Moran’s family in the intervening years. As well as give me possible ideas about…uh…”

  “Ermo Colle,” Jack finished.

  He knew I hated to make any reference to my father. The pseudonym was more palatable. “Right. So, can you give me a way to get in touch with Margarite?”

  “No.”

  I stopped and turned. “Why not? She could have key information. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you to talk with her.” His eyes were soft, and I wanted to fall in. “Unfortunately, I can’t find her at present. I’ve made several attempts, but all my normal avenues to communicate with her are dead ends.”

  “Could she be in danger?”

  “I’m not getting worried yet. She has a habit of running off a couple of times a year, often when she has a new lover.” He shrugged. “I left a voicemail for Dylan, but he’s in a series of banking conferences in Milan. If I don’t hear from him soon I’ll find out which hotel he’s staying in and try that route.

  “Dylan?” Now I was confused. I’d first met Dylan when he and a friend’s proximity helped me escape from two of Moran’s men, and he’d called Cassie a couple of times recently. But he’d been nowhere around when I’d met Margarite on the yacht in Miami with Jack. “Why call him to find her?”

  “Because Margarite is his mother.”

  Finally, it made sense why Dylan’s eyes reminded me of someone else when I saw him on New Year’s Day. That was the first time I’d seen him since meeting Margarite a few months earlier. But there was no time for musing. “Something else occurred to me while I was huddled in my coat this morning on the train.”

  “Um-hmm?”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I figured it was best not to find out in case he revisited his irritation about my going AWOL. I plowed ahead. “When my father faked his death, there was a body found. A body with a dental history close enough to his to fool authorities and the insurance company. The payout money went to settle debts, but he could be pursued for fraud…or…I could be.”

  Jack squeezed my arm. “You can’t be charged with fraud if you weren’t part of the deception. But you bring up a good point. I’ll make some calls. See who could have been involved in the fake identification, if the evidence was compromised, or if the dead guy’s teeth were made to match before he was buried in the snow. Following the money usually helps too.”

  “If we can follow the insurance money at all,” I said. “I was a sophomore in college then. Running as much on anger as intellect. The money went out as fast as it came in to get people to stop hounding me. But how do we know part of those wolves snapping at my hands weren’t agents of…”

  “Good point. I get it, and I’ll follow up to see if any incarnation of Ermo Colle was around then to receive insurance proceeds from his own demise. To law enforcement, the man in the snow was your father. Still is. I’ll call Swiss authorities and get people working on the very cold case of who was actually buried in that avalanche.”

  I didn’t want to risk my voice cracking again from emotion. I simply nodded.

  We’d reached the landing for our floor. As we neared the dark red steel door Jack’s hand left my back to punch in the code, but he stopped when I asked, “Is anyone else on this floor with us?”

  “We have the floor. If you think we need extra space—”

  “Sorry, no.” I shook my head. “But before we go in there are a couple of things I want to discuss.”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Originally, we assumed PA Designs was Philippe Aubertine, but your new information implies the name stood for Paul-Henri instead.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So should we operate under the premise Moran’s true birth name is Philippe Aubertine?”

  “That’s my theory,” Jack said. “The history tied to the name has been around long enough to correlate to what we believe is Moran’s age. It doesn’t give us much intel to use, but there are some current references, especially with the wine industry. Enough to make it appear he may be planning to resume his original name when he retires to that vineyard Rollie told you about.”

  The first time we met, Rollie—before I learned he was Moran’s grandson and heir apparent to the art crime empire—told me his grandfather wanted to retire and turn over the criminal enterprise to him. This was also before I knew I’d actually run into his grandfather in his rustic vineyard owner disguise earlier that same day. We hadn’t yet located the vineyard in particular, but I had no doubt there was one somewhere around Puy de Dôme, France, and probably completely on the level. Somewhere near where I was shot at by a phantom motorcyclist, just before the man I now knew was Moran burst onto the scene and made the gunman roar off in escape. I met Rollie in Le Puy-en-Velay that afternoon, supposedly by accident, but I later realized no one in the Moran organization left anything to chance. At first, I’d thought Rollie was a friend, just a nice guy. Now, I knew first impressions could be terribly wrong, and I’d glimpsed the darker sides to his character.

  “Given that Moran has never let himself be tagged back to that name before, why did he use it when he rescued me in the French countryside from the motorcyclist with the gun?” I asked. “If he’d used any other name, we would never have connected those points of evidence.”

  “Again, this is only a guess, but it’s likely the way people in that area around Puy de Dôme know him. His way of disappearing in plain sight, despite the fact the mansion in nearby Le Puy was listed as a holding by the Moran persona. Maybe also his attempt at seeing if you’d recognize the family name? A test perhaps?”

  “To see if my mother mentioned the name of her lover to her four-year-old daughter before dying in
a car crash that is looking more and more like it was caused by her husband?” I took a second to compose myself before continuing. “Yeah, I guess he could have wondered. But everything we found on PA Designs said they were legit, and you repeated that again a few minutes ago. Obviously, nothing new has cropped up in this arena. Except for the fact Rollie used the firm as a blind for his employment when I met him.”

  “My theory is Paul-Henri was never a part of Moran’s criminal enterprise, and when he died Moran kept the business operating as a clean entity.”

  “In case he needed its legitimacy?”

  Jack shrugged. But it was really an “I’m sorry” look, as if to say he wasn’t sure. When he spoke, I understood. “Or to turn it over to someone he wanted to keep safe and out of the eyes of the law and criminals.”

  I gave him a side-eyed look. “He was turning it over to Rollie. He wants to turn everything over to Rollie. Moran confirmed it when he and I talked in Germany a few weeks ago.”

  “Does he? Only Rollie said he was gaining the design business. Just like Rollie said his grandfather didn’t want him away from the country so much while there was work to be done at the architectural firm. At least, that’s what you told me last fall. In reviewing your conversation with Moran at Baden-Baden, I also find it interesting he never directly told you that he wanted to turn the organization over to his grandson—just mentioned he wanted to retire.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Yes, I’m thinking Moran considers turning everything over to you. At least the design firm in its entirety. Every executive’s name on the firm’s masthead is clean and respectable. Has been since the firm’s inception. And the CEO is still listed as Paul-Henri, despite his being dead nearly a quarter century.”

  “Wow.” I leaned against the wall for support. “You believe I’m really the result of my mother’s and Paul-Henri Aubertine’s affair?”

  He reached out and took my hand. “I don’t know. Though, considering the possibility would not only explain Moran’s actions regarding you and your safety, but it—”

  “Explains why Rollie can smile at me, but have a look in his eyes saying my safety isn’t his biggest concern.”

  “Yeah.” Jack pulled me into a hug and stoked my hair with his free hand. “You okay? This has been a lot to digest in one big chunk.”

  “It’s better to know than to keep guessing at everything.” But even the scent of him and the musky sandalwood cologne he wore didn’t calm me like usual.

  “Do you ever remember someone in your family doing anything that seemed like it was for a paternity test? Drawing blood or swabbing—”

  “No.” I closed my eyes. “I had my tonsils out when I was ten. It could have been done then, but I don’t remember any other time. Grandmamma was with me the entire time I was awake before and after the surgery. My father was in Florida, as I recall. The way my father treated me didn’t change afterward. If he did get a test done then, the outcome didn’t please him.”

  I pushed away, but he kept hold of my hand.

  “I’m okay, Jack,” I said. “You have people waiting. You need to go.”

  He handed me the bag of crab rangoons and keyed in the long code to open the door.

  “Be sure and put your key and code in your purse,” he reminded. “It’s still on the table where you left it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Observant.” I smiled.

  “Anytime.”

  He leaned down and brushed lips over mine, then wrapped his arms around me and kissed me like he meant it. I felt things were finally right again between us, after the rocky way our day started. Maybe this big revelation he’d been waiting to tell me contributed to his crossness at our early morning encounter.

  I stepped away and he reached out and grasped the doorknob. But before the door opened, Jack stopped.

  “Will you be here all day?”

  “Probably,” I whispered. We were still in close proximity. I took another small step back. “Until it’s time to meet Nico at my hotel.”

  “I’ll come back and drive you.” He ran a hand down my arm, then clasped my hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “Or Cass and I can share a cab. I’ll be fine. Don’t fret.” My fingers returned the squeeze.

  He laughed quietly and shook his head. “You don’t make it easy.”

  “I’ll try. I promise.” Standing on tiptoes, I tried to steal another quick kiss, but he caught me around the waist and held on. As we broke for air, I asked, “Can you do another favor for me before you go?”

  He raised a dark brow.

  “Open the door and take a quick look. Check if I can get inside without Max seeing me via the Skype connection.”

  “Sure.” He held a finger to his lips and turned the knob, pushing the door just enough to look in. A quick nod to Cassie and he let it almost close again, holding the knob to keep the latch from engaging. He leaned close and spoke low. “She’s talking on the tablet, but she moved so he won’t see if you stay along the wall.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stay alert. And remember, I’ll pick you up tonight.”

  Another kiss to my forehead, and he ushered me through the doorway.

  FIVE

  I kept to the left, hugging the wall as Jack suggested. Cassie didn’t look at me, but flashed an OK sign with her fingers behind the tablet so Max wouldn’t realize I was anywhere nearby.

  Working in silence was difficult, but I was committed to the subterfuge. I pulled my phone from the Prada and put it to silent so the device wouldn’t rat me out if someone called. Then I texted Nico to see what he was really up to. No response. That was annoying, but it wasn’t remarkable. I’d hoped he’d disconnected earlier because Jack was in on the conference call, but apparently I was persona non grata at the moment as well.

  My mind strayed from the task at hand to what I could send as an engagement gift to Marci. I forgot to ask the name of her fiancé and couldn’t look at anything personalized. No way I’d be able to get away this weekend no matter how fun it sounded, so I needed to send a present that came off as special. I didn’t just like Marci; I needed to stay in her circle of friends. In our line of business, one could never tell when a social contact was the difference between getting out of a tight mess…or not.

  At the same time, we had too much to do if we wanted to narrow this thing down, and no present ability to find my source—who was likely picking pockets in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona. Which made me remember I needed to contact Clara Ochoa, “the waif” as Jack called her, to see if she could help us at all with information. I doubted the last name she gave was her real one, but Clara was probably true enough.

  I looked at the time, almost noon, and ran my finger along my phone screen to flip through the directory until I reached the number for Maybelle, the administrator of the homeless shelter where I’d sent the girl. I couldn’t risk calling and have Max hear, and Maybelle was usually too busy during this time of day to take a call anyway. My thumbs dashed around the small keyboard, asking if Clara still lived at the shelter. I received a quick message back: Later. I hoped it meant Maybelle was busy, not that Clara was in jail somewhere. Given I’d met the girl on Oxford Street at Christmastime when she picked the pocket of a Member of Parliament, my fears were well founded. I’d kept her out of trouble then by picking her pocket and returning the cash-laden wallet to the MP, without either of them knowing anything had happened. Until I confronted her. I’d been working to build a rapport with her since then as a means of gaining a possible new source for street intel.

  Leaving me with another stalemate in a day filled with them. Patience, Beacham, patience.

  I kept one ear tuned to the conversation going between Cassie and her tablet, but I got bored quickly at the kind of funder talk I always turned over to Max. My boss was speaking at an almost tolerable level. I usually got either the loud voice
or the louder one. I presumed the concession was due to the funder, whose French accent was easily recognized and made me doubly glad I’d cut and run earlier with Jack. The Gallic money man was uncomfortably attracted to me, and I didn’t relish the thought of having to tactfully thwart his verbal advances while my boss was on the same call.

  My mind wandered back to Marci’s engagement party, and I had a sudden epiphany. I pulled up a website of an up-and-coming artist I knew and paged through her current inventory. What I wanted was already sold. Damn.

  Xanda, I texted, do you have any signature-designed champagne flutes that aren’t on your website right now?

  A second later, she responded, I’m working on a pair of wedding toast flutes with a gold peacock feather design. Would that be appropriate? They’ll be done this evening.

  Thank goodness. One task I could cross from my list. Perfect, I texted back. Then she quoted the price and I nearly swallowed my tongue. Still, this was Marci, and anything from Xanda would be exquisite. I told her to consider them sold and deliver them to my hotel. I would get a shipping address sometime tomorrow from Marci and send them by courier.

  In the next instant, my ears pricked at the conversation I overheard.

  “I’ll talk to Laurel about your request, Max,” Cassie said. She kept her gaze firmly directed toward the tablet. “But we have a lot going on. Several open commitments. And it takes both of us to get the foundation work done and supervise the construction schedule for making our regular office space habitable again.”

  “What open commitments?” Max’s voice rose in volume. I chewed my lower lip.

  We purposely left our boss out of the loop on most of the heist information. He knew, of course, about forgeries getting swapped out for originals. An age-old truth that came firmly home to the foundation earlier this month when a priceless tapestry was exchanged during a restoration job spearheaded by yours truly. It was only after the artist was murdered we learned she was somehow tied to the art heist players we were working to stop and apprehend. Her death was ordered by Simon Babbage, traitor and former head of the London Beacham office, who was killed on Rollie’s orders after it was proved he was a triple agent and working for Ermo Colle in addition to Moran.