Fatal Forgeries

by Ritter Ames

  I left it there; I didn’t want to tell an out-and-out lie, and anything I said beyond might dislodge the kernel of truth I clung to so fiercely. Yet, this gave me new concerns about using civilians in any phase of our operations. Assuming the man who knocked me down and took my garment bag did so in hopes of gaining the Caravaggio.

  I’d made this assumption because the bag was the only thing I carried which was large enough to completely hide the painting. But if he was a follow-up to the guy in the afternoon who got conked on the head by Ferguson, why was I thrown into the car along with the painting? Instead of just having my Prada stolen with the tube sticking out of it? And how did they know I had the Caravaggio?

  Maybe I was looking at this all wrong. Or maybe we had two different teams in play again. Just once I’d have liked for something to make sense.

  Pulling up my email, I grabbed the link Cassie forwarded so I could find Nico’s message. This was a popular board for geeks and nerds, hence what Cass had called the “whimsical stuff” that got posted. As usual, Nico was smart in choosing where to post. Beyond his GorgeousGeek moniker, I recognized another username as a friend of Nico’s from emails I received a couple of times a year. The friend asked, Hey, old man, you losing your coding mind? Which shored up my belief Nico used this board posting to send messages to us, rather than because he needed info he should already know.

  Still, the requested coding data was given. Which meant if Nico had used this fake knowledge gap to kill time before he did something to aid his captors, asking for coding info he already knew, he needed to find another method to stall in the future. Other than a thx by Nico, there wasn’t anything else, but I continued scanning the board.

  After tagging along at one of Nico’s gamer conventions and smiling at the sweet techy guys who fawned over me there, I knew many of the usernames they posted under. I also knew the email addresses of several of these nice nerds, since they liked to keep in touch on the off chance I’d come to another such event, and they regularly asked if I would attend as their arm candy. If Nico sent anything to them, I hoped they would think to forward it along to me. I couldn’t count on it, but I didn’t want to risk emailing the individuals directly with the request either. One of them might think he could play James Bond and send something back to Nico that would blow up the whole thing.

  I needed to be patient until Nico set whatever plan in play. But patience had never been one of my virtues.

  About halfway to Yorkshire, the driver made a courtesy stop for me, and when we got on the road again I opened the container the cook sent. I could get used to being taken care of. I had missed such attention desperately through the years, but often found myself amazed at how far I’d come in the self-sufficiency range since Daddy’s fall from grace and wealth. I wondered again how many of those millions he’d presumably “lost” before his faked death had actually been squirrelled away in a Swiss bank account until he came back to life with a new name and face. The pittance left in the estate went to pay down on the bills and loan sharks. The only way I’d gotten through college was to sell the Jaguar Grandfather left me and live on the small trust Grandmamma bequeathed with a note that it came only to me on my nineteenth birthday so my father couldn’t touch it. She might have loved her son, but she obviously had few illusions about him.

  There were so many times in college when I’d raged about the fact my grandparents hadn’t put up safeguards to stop my father from gutting the family legacy. No one wants to think their offspring might do something so reckless, and Grandfather said a couple of times just before he died that what my father needed was greater responsibility. So maybe he thought the inheritance would make my father grow up. Instead, it made him even more duplicitous. He took away every familiar thing in my life. I’d lost my family, my status in our economic circle of friends, the only home I’d ever known, and, of course, the money. Basically, every shred of security. I was completely on my own.

  According to Moran, my father was afraid of me. Thinking back to the night in Baden-Baden, when my not-so-late father pulled a gun on me after I recognized him through his new fake name and face, I had to believe Moran was right. Angry as I too often stayed the last decade over what had transpired, my father was probably right to fear me as well. And that wasn’t even counting the fact I now knew he was the criminal mastermind I’d been pursuing for months.

  Once we exited the A1, the roads were dark and the night truly felt as if the midnight hour was near. Dalton talked the canned tourist bureau speech about the few landmarks we passed along the way. I hadn’t been in the area in years, it was such a trek from London, but I recognized the lights of York as we drew close then bypassed to head to the north side of the county. I was barely awake when we finally turned onto the lane that morphed into the drive to Robbsham, the estate Marci’s family had lived at for about a dozen generations.

  Lights still glowed in several windows of the Jacobean façade, and the butler met the car as Dalton pulled into the front circle. For a moment, I felt like I was living an episode of Downton Abbey, except then all the servants would have lined up to greet us. A blond Labrador retriever sat by the front door, the apparent stand-in for the rest of the sleeping house staff. The butler, Barnes, introduced himself and carried my one small carryon and the shopping bag with the flutes inside as he escorted me through the two-story grand entrance. The dog trailed alongside Barnes.

  “Nice dog,” I said.

  “She belongs to his lordship,” Barnes replied.

  We entered the hall under the upstairs balcony and continued until we came to the media room, where Marci laid curled up on one of the six royal blue settees as the Sex and the City movie streamed on the wide screen.

  Marci, or Lady Marcella Menton, was the only child of John and Cissy Lambsley, who were also Lord and Lady Menton. We first met when Grandmamma sent me to finishing school in Switzerland the summer between ninth and tenth grades. I learned enough to pass the social tests, via Marci’s whispered prompts. But I spent most of my evenings opening windows to sneak the two of us back into the facility long past curfew. Our bond grew stronger when I returned to Europe a few years later, broke this time, to spend that fateful summer trying to forget my troubles after Daddy Dearest skied off the side of the Alp. Allegedly, of course.

  I touched her shoulder, and her eyes opened when I said, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  The butler took his leave. The dog walked over to Marci. My friend gave a languid, beautiful stretch, then ruffled the dog’s fur affectionately and jumped up to hug me hello. I worried about how thin she felt under my hands.

  She pulled back and brushed away the curls that fell in my eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I was going to stay awake until you got here, but I zonked out.” Marci still looked like a grownup Alice in Wonderland with her straight, naturally white-blonde hair. All she needed was a velvet hair ribbon and a large white rabbit by her side. She had the large nearly white dog instead.

  “This is Sugar.” She waggled the dog’s ears. “She lives for Daddy, and when he’s out of town she’s a little lost. She won’t bite or anything.”

  “I love big dogs,” I said. “No worries.”

  “I have wine.” She waved me toward the back counter. “Fancy some? Did Cook fix you something to eat on the drive? Just ask if you want anything at all.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed, and that made Marci laugh along with me. “It’s so good to see you, Mars.”

  “No one calls me that but you.” She hugged me again. “God, I’ve missed hearing you say it. Can you stay all weekend? Please?”

  “Let’s take this a day at a time, okay? Remember, some of us aren’t marrying princes and have to work for a living.” I caught up her hands, then raised up her left. “Omigod, how many carats? Fifteen?”

  “And a half.” She gazed at the rock on her ring finger. “It’s decadent, I know, but it
’s a family heirloom, and I really love him, Laurel. I’d proudly wear a glass chip if he put it on my finger.” She smiled and her face lit up as brightly as the diamond. “Prince Giovanni. But I call him Van.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. “Dammit, Marci, I can’t decide if I’m thrilled for you or jealous as hell. Let’s just go with thrilled. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I yawned and she followed suit.

  “Oh, heavens,” she said, waving a hand once the yawn ended. “We both need to go to bed. Come on. We’ll get you settled for the night. All safe and warm. Amazing to believe you could get mugged in front of your hotel, with the doorman and Dalton standing right there.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought. Same kind of riff raff attacked me in front of the posh Ritz. But aloud, I said, “It happens. One bag, a few favorite outfits. I got off lucky.”

  She put an arm around my shoulders and steered me back the way I’d come with Barnes. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Slightly battered, but I’ll soldier on.”

  “Of course you will,” she said. “The man’s lucky he got away before you could kick the hell out of him. He did steal your clothes. You should at least report it.”

  “It was just a crime of opportunity. I’ll deal with it later.” Besides, I thought, I’m getting used to arriving at destinations without my luggage.

  Sugar kept pace with us, and Marci gave me the mini-tour along the route. When we reached a room near the staircase, she switched on the light. The room was decorated for a man’s tastes with oak paneling and leather furnishings. She turned to the dog. “Go to bed, girl. Time to go night-night.”

  The Lab entered the room and settled into a large padded dog bed beside a huge oak desk. Marci turned off the light but left the door open. “Daddy’s study. She’ll be waiting for us in the morning, trust me.”

  When we got upstairs, she turned right and led me down the wide hallway. The suite near the end of the hall was hers, and as promised I had the one next door. She turned on the lights to mine and showed me the bathroom and the extra towels and blankets. I tried not to ooh and ahh too much at the lovely white and powder green décor, with a carved mahogany bed and matching furniture. The room glowed in the lamplight, and I knew I’d adore it even more in early sunshine.

  On the pale green bedspread lay a delicate silk and lace charmeuse nightgown in light rose, with a matching robe.

  “Is this okay?” Marci asked, waving toward the nightclothes. “Or would you prefer pajamas?”

  “Perfect choice. Thanks so much.”

  She yawned again. I mirrored her.

  “Oh, I want to talk to you all night, but I’m so tired. And I think we’re making each other yawn,” she said, squeezing my hands. “I never knew planning a wedding over a year’s time took so much out of a person.”

  “But it’s going well?”

  She waggled a hand back and forth. “Some days, yes. Others? Eh.”

  “Will you have it here or in Italy?”

  She frowned. “Location is part of what makes it all exhausting—getting Mother to let us have the wedding we want instead of what she mandates.”

  “It will be beautiful in the end,” I said.

  “I keep telling myself that.” She grinned. “On the positive side, it gives me so many excuses for parties. Now that I know you’re working in London, I’ll be able to invite you to all the festivities.”

  Oh, what had I gotten myself into? I smiled anyway.

  TEN

  After Marci left my room I took another look at the online bulletin board and found nothing resembling a new coded message from Nico. I even checked some of the other boards I knew he used periodically to see if he’d posted on any of them with a different username. My eyes were gritty and my body was starting to feel the effects of fighting off both a kidnapper and a mugger in the same day. I shut down my electronics and grabbed the quick shower my aching body needed, letting the hot jets pound on every muscle group. My shoulder was already showing hints of all the colors it would wear by morning, but the heat from the water did its magic and the fabulous silk gown did the rest. I crawled between the pair of heavenly Egyptian cotton sheets, snuggled under the covers, and my over-stressed brain shut down from utter exhaustion.

  I slept about five hours before I woke up in a cold sweat and hearing the little voice in my head chant, Nico is gone and there’s nothing you can do.

  For about the fifteenth time, I reread the cryptic lines on my tablet that Cassie had relayed to me over the phone the previous evening. Still nothing there I hadn’t known the first time. I pulled up information on Basel and went into a couple of real estate databases I knew about, looking for any ideas about where he could be held. I even went as far as to check flights to Switzerland. Then common sense took over and I wanted to hit something. As much as I hated to admit it, going to Basel alone without any information was stupid and dangerous. For all the good I’d do, I might as well sit at a sidewalk café and drink hot chocolate, watching who walked by. I’d be just as close to finding Nico that way.

  A one-cup coffeemaker and a china cup sat on a side table with a selection of individual coffee flavors. No way I was going back to sleep, even if the sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon. I found a pod with a strong blend, made a cup, and then dressed in the same outfit I’d arrived in. The windows in my suite faced east. I pulled back both sets of drapes to open the French doors and watched the morning settle over the York countryside.

  I stood on the small balcony in the semi-darkness and wondered what my next move should be. It wasn’t like I hadn’t run operations alone before, but at that moment I wasn’t completely sure what the operation was. I had a missing tech wizard, a forgery ring—or two—a painting I was afraid to get rid of and afraid to keep, and I was hiding out in rural north England without any backup. A part of me wanted to call Max and say I was bringing the painting to Paris for him to take back to New York. But the part of me that was terrified for Nico’s well-being reminded me I might have to produce it to set him free.

  And really, what would set him free was the biggest question to solve: was Nico taken because he played a part in the theft, or because he was the right hand I couldn’t work without? The art heist might be bigger in worldview, but I had to consider what I could personally impact short-term. Instinct continued making me think he was taken for his talents, but yesterday’s thwarted kidnapping attempt and mugging left me undecided.

  At least Halborn was behind bars, but two additional thugs—that I knew of—were still loose. I assumed last night’s mugging was by the young man from the Ritz who tried, unsuccessfully, to get information from my hotel’s desk clerk. The clerk had promised to get security to print me a photo of the man. While they were checking that security camera feed, they might as well check the one outside for about a half-hour later. I texted my hotel’s front desk while I was thinking about it, asking for security to see if the outside cameras captured a clear shot of my assailant and to print me a copy. As much as I hated to admit it even to myself, I was starting to agree with Jack about the bodyguard, for the extra set of eyes if nothing else.

  “Maybe I need a dog. A purse-sized yappy one I can keep around who’ll go into barking fits if someone comes near me,” I mused, finishing off the last of my coffee as the first rays of light spread across the landscape.

  But that wouldn’t work either. I’d get attached to the little thing, and if someone attacking me hurt the dog… My memories of Bruno surfaced, the German shepherd Grandfather brought in to protect me soon after my mother’s death. Knowing what duplicity my father was capable of now, something I didn’t know then, I had to wonder who Bruno was actually protecting me from—kidnappers or someone much closer to me. It wasn’t just the dog either. I had a new nanny then, Kelly…Kelly Hobbs. Kelly didn’t just help me dress and teach me games, she had a black
belt as well. Something I found out accidentally when she subdued a paparazzo who was too keen on getting my photograph. Once I started kindergarten she always took me to school and stood waiting at the door when I got out each day. I often caught glimpses of her in the halls, though when I brought the instances up she told me she volunteered her help whenever someone needed it. Again, with all I’d learned the last few months, I wondered about the complete veracity of her statement.

  Yet, my father couldn’t have been a threat then, or they would have built better safeguards for the family fortune in the will. Wouldn’t they?

  “Grandmamma did.” I spoke my thoughts aloud. “She tied up the trust she left to me so my father could never touch it.”

  She passed away two years ahead of Grandfather. He was the one who didn’t tighten the conditions and left easy access to his son.

  I carried the cup back to the side table, just as my phone signaled a text. It was from Cassie.

  When you’re awake look at this link.

  She’d been luckier than me or had better timing. When the link went live, I immediately knew it came from Nico, because the feed was security footage of me slipping away with the painting.

  I’d had the bottom of the hood pulled up to cover my mouth and nose. Only my eyes and part of one brow showed around the black material. Was this the kidnappers’ way of saying they’d swap him for the painting? Or Nico’s attempt to warn me? I checked my email and didn’t see an entry. One should appear if the kidnappers made a demand. No, I decided, the video wasn’t a demand. Nico sent me a warning. Took a chance. I just hoped it wasn’t a last chance.