Fatal Forgeries

by Ritter Ames

  “That’s what you meant by being someone you were before?”

  “Yes, I’ll definitely not be me,” he said and laughed. His voice went quieter when he added, “It will just be forty-eight hours at the most, but I’ll be out of touch throughout. I don’t like it, but—”

  “Stop. You need your brain in the right place to do something like this. Quit thinking about my well-being and keep yourself safe.” Inside, I didn’t like it. At all. Every time we’d been separated lately something went sideways and people got hurt. But so far it hadn’t been me, and he needed to remember that fact. “We have safeguards in place. And I can call Superintendent Whatley if Cassie and I need protection from Scotland Yard.”

  “I can send a b—”

  An epiphany hit me. My self-defense coach. “I’ll call Leif if I think I’m in any danger. I can pay him extra to cancel his classes until you get back.”

  Jack didn’t answer at first, and I was afraid we were cut off. “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking,” he replied. “Okay, with Cassie, Nico, and Leif, I guess you’re covered.”

  “I should hope so.” To distract him from his concerns, I said, “Cassie and I have some new theories to pursue about the New York lead, and Maybelle is going to get with me later about Clara. We’ll have good new intel to run by the time you return, so come back ready to work.”

  “Sounds like an order.”

  “You bet it is.”

  He sighed. “They’re calling me. I have to go.”

  Things suddenly felt very heavy. “Be careful.”

  “That’s my line,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  “See you soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  I hurried and tapped the screen to end the call so he wouldn’t think I was one of those moony girls who waited for the guy to hang up.

  The waitress came around with our salads a second later, but I’d lost my appetite. After doing little more than picking at the bacon bits and bleu cheese crumbles for five minutes, Cassie said, “He’ll be fine.”

  “What?” I looked at her. “Of course he will.”

  “Then would you please eat that salad like the real Laurel eats?”

  Before I could humor her, my phone alerted me to a text from Maybelle.

  “Well, it looks like Clara has a job. Good for her.” I memorized the address of the commercial laundry service employing the girl and her schedule before texting back my thanks. “Maybelle doesn’t want us contacting her at work unless it’s necessary. But Clara has a new cell phone and Maybelle gave me that number too. Since we’re at a standstill with Jack gone, I’ll call later and see if I can set up a time for the three of us to meet.”

  I’d barely set my phone onto the tabletop when it began ringing again. “Oh, hell, it’s Max.”

  Cassie put down her fork. “Want me to talk to him?”

  “No, remember, I’m trying to be a grown up today. Even if just periodically.” I tapped the screen. “Hello, Max, Cassie said your meeting went well.”

  “Did she also tell you I need her here in Paris?”

  He was in bluster mode—and loud, as usual. I stood and motioned I was going outside to talk. Not that it offered any further privacy, but at least I wouldn’t annoy the few patrons still left in the café.

  “Yes, Max, she did.” Traffic noises provided new background sounds. I pulled my coat around me as the late-January wind raced down the street. “Unfortunately, there are only the two of us—”

  “Only for a couple of days. You had no problem with her absence when she was in New York.”

  “She was in New York working under my instruction, Max. To get information I needed. Remember?”

  “And you work under my instruction, Laurel. If Cassie is too valuable an employee to send here to assist me, then I need you to come as the funder originally requested.”

  “You and I both know he simply wants to flirt with a blonde American before he commits to his newest pledge amount. You should have thought of that ahead of time.”

  “I need an assistant.”

  “Then call Doris to book herself a flight across the pond.” I almost chuckled when I thought of Max’s middle-aged schoolmarm-like assistant wining and dining the French funder.

  “Laurel, I’m telling you—”

  “Stop.” In that instant everything felt way…too much. “Max, I can’t take your yelling at me anymore. Give me five minutes to talk to Cassie and I’ll call you back.”

  “But I want—”

  “I know what you want, Max, but the Rolling Stones got rich telling us you can’t always get what you want.” I tapped the screen to end the call with him in mid-splutter.

  Cassie had pushed her empty salad bowl aside and was again working on the bread when I returned to the table.

  “He hasn’t given up, huh?” she asked.

  “No. Unless I want to tell him everything that’s going on, which I don’t, one of us has to go to Paris.” I stabbed at the salad with my fork.

  “Or we could both go and have a great long weekend on Max.”

  “Ha! You could get by with it, but he’d grab me by the hand and pull me on the plane when he leaves. Probably make them open the hatch and drop me out over London as he continues on to New York.”

  “Stop exaggerating.” Cassie laughed. “He simply wants some support.”

  “He wants a pretty blonde to flirt with his funder and make the money guy happy.” I set my fork down and took a sip of water. I sighed. “You wouldn’t think I was an awful boss if I made you go, would you?”

  “You’re not an awful boss. And a trip to Paris is such a hardship.” She laughed. “But you told Jack you’d have me here while he was gone.”

  “I forgot about what Max said while you were on the Skype call. Nico will be around. I’ll make him play personal assistant to me until you get back.”

  Cassie laughed again. “He’ll only do what he wants to do.”

  “I can work with those restrictions.” I took another sip. “But I need to stress this is short term so Max doesn’t get any ideas.”

  “Would it help if I called my friend Monique and asked if I could stay with her while I’m in Paris?” Cassie asked. “She’s been wanting me to come visit.”

  “Perfect. Max won’t be able to argue since you’ll be saving him money by skipping the hotel, and you’ll be able to duck out when you need to.”

  My phone rang, and I didn’t even have to look to know it was Max.

  “I said I’d call you back.”

  “I thought you forgot,” he said.

  Did I truly want to make working with this man my life’s career? Oh, yeah, I liked saving art. “Well, I think we’ve figured out a way for Cassie to come and help you for a day—”

  “I need her through the weekend at least.”

  Glancing Cassie’s way, I gave a wink.

  “No way I can do without her until next week, Max. Unless you want me to hire extra help.”

  “No, let’s play it by ear. Get her over here, and then if you need her back sooner, call and we’ll work something out.”

  “Alright, she has the corporate credit card and can put all her travel and lodging expenses onto it.”

  He spluttered a moment, then said, “Let me talk to her.”

  I handed her the phone and finished my salad as she gave monosyllabic responses to the rapid-fire requests and information he passed her way. I could hear him clearly, as could the last two diners on the far wall. Everyone else had left within the last few minutes. The waitress came and collected our empty bowls. Cassie hung up and handed back my cell.

  “You didn’t mention Monique. You’re getting good at this need-to-know stuff,” I said.

  She grinned. “Thanks, boss. I’ve learned from the master.” Push
ing her bread plate aside, she continued, “I’ll call Monique en route. If she has no scheduling conflicts and I can stay with her, I’ll give Max the news when I arrive in Paris.”

  “And I’m guessing he wants you to leave like an hour ago.”

  “Pretty much.” She rifled through her small bag and pulled out her own phone to check plane schedules. “If I hurry, looks like I can make it home to pack a bag and get a shuttle from Heathrow that will have me in Paris before five.”

  Half an hour later, I was back in the new office, alone, proud of myself for getting past the code box without any difficulty. Before I dove into files, I sent a text to Nico. No reply—no surprise there. I tried to check his GPS, but no luck. There wasn’t any reason I could think of for shrouding himself electronically, but Nico always kept to his own counsel.

  I called Clive to thank him for his help in getting Nico home.

  “Sure, no trouble,” Clive said. “But when is he coming by to pick up his stuff?”

  My grip on the phone tightened. “What time did the two of you set?”

  “An hour ago. He seemed antsy to get the things. I thought it might take me longer. Said I’d call him otherwise. But got it all through okay, and now the stuff’s sitting here looking at me.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Clive, how about if I come and get it?”

  “Perfect. I’m staying at the Ritz. Meet me in the bar.”

  “It’s kind of early…”

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said.

  Yes, it was. But I was worried the clock might be ticking louder for Nico.

  SEVEN

  I used my taxi app to call a cab, then again tried to reach Nico, phoning as I turned everything off and locked the door. When his voicemail kicked on I left a message. Mentally counting stairs as I went, I hit redial. By the time my feet landed in the back foyer of the building, I’d heard his voicemail message three times. Normally robo-calling irritated him enough to answer. The question was, why go incommunicado and blow off the meeting with Clive too?

  Times like this I needed someone to bounce ideas around with, but Jack and Cassie were out of touch. I didn’t know yet if I should worry about Nico, or if he was deliberately ignoring my calls. Yes, the meet-up at my hotel was at six, but it wasn’t like him to miss the earlier appointment with Clive. One part of me wanted to worry. A lot. But my rational side said I needed to wait until I knew there was a problem. Which meant I would wait until six o’clock to decide if I could panic. I added panic to my mental to-do list.

  While I waited for the cab, I ducked into the florist shop next door, thinking I might send a congratulations bouquet to Marci along with the champagne flutes. Opening the door set off chimes.

  “Hello.” A pleasant-faced woman in a green canvas apron greeted me through the doorway to the back of the store. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I’m trying to get ideas for a friend’s engagement event. Thought I might send flowers as part of my gift.” As she neared the counter, I held out a hand and added, “Want to introduce myself, too. I’m Laurel Beacham, and my group and I have taken an office on the top floor of the restaurant next door.”

  “I’m Sandy Duncan.” She hesitated a moment before she took my hand, but gave it a good shake in the end. “The owners are nice people. Handy to be able to grab takeaway during working hours too.”

  “Your accent is American,” I said, then guessed, “California?”

  She laughed. “Guilty. And days like this I miss the sunshine.”

  I nodded. “Completely understand.” Then I pointed to a large bouquet on one shelf of the cooler. “Does that travel well?”

  “Yes, absolutely. We can ship anything across the U.K. without difficulty or harm to flowers.” She quoted me a price for the bouquet and asked where it was going to figure shipping.

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “It’s up north, but I don’t have an address yet. I should have one tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll come back then.” My taxi pulled into the alley. I said goodbye and made my way to the Ritz.

  Clive was at the bar as promised, his hand wrapped around a glass holding amber liquid and the now infamous protective tube lying perpendicular to the top of the bar. The small locked case with my electronic gizmos sat nearby. I slid onto the stool next to him and pulled the tube and case closer.

  “Hey,” he greeted me through the mirror behind the bar. “What’ll ya have? The band’s buying.”

  “They’re all staying upstairs?” I asked. The band in question was the heavy metal rockers Whyte Noyse. I’d met Clive and the musicians in October when I hitched a ride on their private jet.

  He shook his head. “Nah, London’s a pit stop on our way to the American tour, so any personal business can be taken care of. Too many interruptions during a tour. Everyone else has a place close by, but I stay here.”

  “You make such a sacrifice for the team.”

  He grinned and finished off the rest of his drink. “You don’t know the half of it. I need rest before taking those boys on the road.”

  Those “boys” were in their forties and fifties, but I had little doubt he had a big job ahead of him as the band’s chief roadie. I’d seen him in action, watched how effortlessly he made all problems go away. He looked scruffy on the outside, but it wouldn’t have surprised me to find a Mensa card in the man’s wallet.

  “So where’s your guy?” Clive asked. “I called Patricia and she couldn’t reach Nico either.”

  This was so not good. “I’m really not sure. Nico has his own way of doing things, but he usually shows up wherever he’s promised. I’ll do some checking. I’m waiting to see if he shows up at my hotel tonight as planned.”

  A couple of boisterous businessmen entered the bar, and Clive leaned close to ask, “It’s not something like that guy we picked up in Florence for you?”

  That guy was Jack, hurt in a rescue mission to help me. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.” Then I changed the subject. “But, wow, an American tour. You must have a lot of work ahead of you.”

  He shrugged. “Learned the ropes already over the years, so it’s just become adjusting to new PR people in the same old cities. The fact the boys only play like they party these days, instead of getting wasted and busting up themselves and the rooms like they used to, really helps make my job easier.” He leaned back. “Hey, you gonna be over there anytime soon? We’re starting in New York and LA, then crisscrossing the States for the next couple of months.”

  “Sounds great, but my schedule tends to stay in flux.”

  “Well, let me know if you get to that side of the Atlantic and I’ll leave a couple of backstage passes for you to any of the shows. Just ring me up and they’re yours.”

  “Thanks.” I tapped the tube. “And thanks for this too. Going to make someone very happy to see it after all these years.”

  “Figured it was art. Wanted to look but didn’t take the chance.” He grinned. “I didn’t tell Gordon either.”

  Gordon Silvers was the band’s oldest member and bass guitarist extraordinaire. He was also an avid art collector—and as Clive put it, “a bit focused, if you know what I mean.” Substitute focused with obsessive about English artists and the true picture emerges.

  “Well, this is an Italian painting, so he wouldn’t have been interested anyway,” I said.

  “Natch.”

  I bussed his bearded cheek and thanked him again, wondering how I was ever going to pay the guy back for all the help he’d given us in the past few months. The small case went into my purse, and one end of the tube followed. I used a small carabiner clip to attach the loop at the end of the tube to the strap of the Prada. I zipped the purse closed until the zip reached the round obstacle. Not a perfect mode of transport, but enough to keep my hands free.

  Minutes later I waited as the Ritz doorman signaled
a taxi for me and stepped up to open the back door.

  Then a dark hood was slipped over my head, and my arms were pinned to my body. The hood was short, but someone tugged a drawstring to tighten the covering under my chin.

  I screamed and kicked, and I heard people rushing toward us. But my attacker pressed something cold and sharp to my throat and said, “Back off, or I’ll kill her.” His accent sounded Cockney.

  He started dragging me. No matter how much I fought, my Jimmy Choos couldn’t get any traction on him or the ground to make a getaway. I heard running feet, but the sound seemed to be going away from us. Surely someone was calling the cops.

  I couldn’t risk screaming with the knife at my skin. I’d already felt it prick me during his excitable delivery and didn’t want to risk making him antsier. The only thing left to do was wait for a chance to react. My senses heightened, and I counted steps, worked to try to see if I could smell anything of the attacker, felt his clothing to try to spark any memory. Nothing.

  When we got to the curb and he started shoving me into the back of a car, I countered his attack. I wasn’t going anywhere with him—knife or no knife. He pushed me toward the seat, letting go of my arms long enough for me to brace against the upholstery and kick back like a mule. The stilettos didn’t provide the impact I’d wanted. I connected, and the thin heels had to hurt, but it wasn’t enough. He roared and pushed hard, bashing me into the other side door. I saw stars under the dark hood. He slammed the door, and I felt blindly for the handle to open the street-side door. Found it, but the lever rocked in my hand, useless. I ripped at the hood and squeezed over the top of the front seat.

  Able to see again, I checked the ignition. No keys. And I had no idea how to start a car without them.

  I looked back to see where my attacker was and if I recognized him, but had another surprise. A hipster with light brown hair stood on the sidewalk holding the knife and looking at me through the windows. Then he opened the driver side door and offered me a hand out.

  This was my attacker?