Fatal Forgeries

by Ritter Ames

  Folding my hands in front of my face, I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. “Okay, here’s what we have. If Nico is still on our side—as I continue believing—” I might have sent a glare Jack’s way, “—he left to protect someone on the team.”

  “Likely you,” Cassie said. Jack crossed his arms and looked annoyed. I kind of got that annoyed vibe myself.

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is he didn’t take the painting, but someone immediately tried to kidnap me after I picked it up. Which points to me being followed. Why would I be followed by anyone but Colle if Nico is working with Rollie to insure my safety?”

  “If that’s why he’s with Rollie,” Jack said.

  I held up my hands, palms out. “Let’s stick with one theory for a moment. Extending the hypothesis points to Colle knowing I was there to pick up the painting. If that’s the case, his group sent the two copies, which means he has nothing to do with the illegal auction. But if that assumption is correct, it means—”

  Cassie cut in, “Moran’s group is running the auction and wants Nico to help him retrieve the painting. Rollie doesn’t realize it was Laurel in the video.”

  “That’s another option,” Jack said, picking up the phone and walking toward me.

  “But you don’t believe it,” she replied.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your tone did,” she said.

  I put fingers to my right temple. My abated headache was returning.

  “Don’t start arguing, we don’t have the time. And, no, what Cassie said isn’t exactly what I was thinking. I had been saying we need to either find out something about the auction, or we need to get to Barcelona and find Miguel and determine if there’s a way we can attend the auction ourselves.”

  “That’s completely out of the question. Your picture will be with every member of Colle’s security team,” Jack said.

  “Why would he be there if he planned to swap out the painting before it was sent to the auction? The copies are gone, confiscated, and we took the original. He has no reason to attend. It could be the safest place in the world for me, and it lets us see what other players might be a part of this.”

  “We were tossing out theories. We can’t risk your life on what-ifs.”

  I stopped pacing again and faced him, resting hands on my hips. Cassie’s voice spluttered over the phone, and it was almost comical the way he held out the cell so I could hear.

  “Cass, quit trying to find words to convince me,” I said, then looked at Jack and smiled. “Moran did not try to kidnap me or send a man to knock me down and steal my luggage. The logical assumption is both assaults were from Colle’s group. We don’t know why Nico went off with Rollie in what seems to be an agreeable manner, but why did he need a three-man escort if he was a willing participant? And why did he send the messages he did if he switched sides? He could have disappeared much easier than Simon ever did.”

  “And take the painting and sell it to whoever wanted it,” Cassie’s voice added.

  I nodded. Jack frowned.

  “Which brings us back to our only lead on this thing,” I said. “We know two copies of the painting were confiscated in Calais. But around the same time, the Caravaggio painting was to be sent to the auction. We need to make sure a Caravaggio gets onto that auction block.”

  “Give up the painting?” Jack and Cassie said simultaneously.

  I shook my head. “I said ‘a’ Caravaggio. Not ‘the’ Caravaggio. I want to take one of the copies with us to Barcelona. Can you get one, Jack?”

  “Let me make some calls,” he said. “I can try. But what about the original?”

  “I’m going with the initial plan Nico and I were following, to send the masterpiece back to New York with Max. All our theories point to Nico not being held in trade for the painting, and his messages didn’t say anything suggesting it either. For that reason, I don’t want the true Caravaggio anywhere near me. All the clues point to it not being the way to get Nico released, but it could be a Colle magnet. The faster it gets out of my proximity, the better.”

  “But I should stress secrecy, right?” Cassie asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Standard spin. Risk to the source. That sort of thing.”

  “Got it,” she replied. “There is another thing you do need to check on, Laurel. When I tried to use the corporate credit card to pay for my room last night, the clerk couldn’t get it to process. He just tacked my room charges onto Max’s. I didn’t mention it earlier because I was going to call the bank myself, but this is really the first private moment I’ve had and I need to get back—”

  “Yeah, I’ll call our account manager myself. Don’t mention it to Max until we know something. His first thought would be I blew the budget again, and it’s likely just an accounting error,” I said, speaking calmly and decisively. Inside, however, I felt my trust foundations start shaking again. I worried that Nico took something more liquid than a Caravaggio painting.

  THIRTEEN

  The next hour was comprised of a lot of phone calls and juggled schedules. I speed-dialed the bank and within minutes learned the money allocated to the London Beacham Foundation office for operations and physical repairs to our previous premises now totaled a lovely one-pound-eight. That’s right, less than a couple of American dollars. The only saving grace was that the authorization code used for the transfer was Max’s instead of mine.

  “Okay, great,” I said to the helpful bank manager. Then I lied like a dog. “I’m sorry we let the balance get so low. I’ll order another deposit be made shortly.”

  I hung up and dropped my face into my hands.

  Jack was still talking to customs. “The copies have already been sent on to London? Yes. Who’s the contact at Scotland Yard? Brilliant. Thank you.” He hung up and asked, “Bad news?”

  I dropped cross-legged to the floor and leaned back against one of the table’s thick legs. “The office is broke, and according to the bank, the money was transferred by Max to an account in Italy. Though we both know who really has the cash. Between this transfer and the video, I have to admit it; you and Cassie were right. As hard as it is to say out loud.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “God, no! Give me one shred of dignity.”

  Jack joined me on the floor. “I know this has to be difficult.”

  My laugh was weak. “Yeah, difficult. That’s a good word for it. Next we’re going to find out Cassie is my father’s longtime girlfriend.”

  “I thought you had Melody holding that dishonor,” Jack said. “Outside the casino at Baden-Baden—”

  “I know, I know. Yes.” As I’d escaped in a borrowed BMW to run back to our hotel and wait for Rollie’s guys to rescue Jack—it all still sounded crazy to me—I saw one of my staunchest enemies, Melody Weeks, director of The Browning, disembarking from the back of a long limousine to enter the casino where Ermo Colle was supposed to be. Except when he pulled a gun on me, I’d knocked him out with a weapon Moran gave me, then ran. Thinking about all of it again didn’t make it sound any less crazy. “Have you located a trace of Melody yet?”

  “Only that she tendered her resignation via email to The Browning’s board the day after we were in Baden-Baden,” Jack said. “I’ve left messages for someone to call me if they hear from her, but my checks through customs connections have her only appearing in Germany. Nowhere else since. The open borders via the European Union can make tracking somewhat difficult, but I thought we’d have better luck with her being American.”

  “Unless Colle has provided her with a second identity too.”

  “There’s always that,” he said. “Are you going to get the records emailed from the bank?”

  I sighed. “Not yet. But I have to call the construction firms and try to buy some time. Since today is the end of the month, all the invoices should be
hitting here soon. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m not sure if I’m more devastated by the loss of the money and the stress that will entail, or getting scammed by Nico.”

  He caught my hand and gave it a squeeze. I was so glad he didn’t try to hold me, as I would have probably started crying and that would have only made me angrier about everything. Especially Nico’s betrayal. This one hurt worse than Simon. Or my father. And a tiny part of me continued whispering not to give up yet. I was such a putz.

  “How much are we talking?” he asked.

  “All of the money pegged for the construction repairs, and you’ve seen for yourself the destruction Simon left behind when he and his crew blew through. Our February operating funds were deposited a couple of days ago, so the totals include my salary and Cassie’s, as well as utility bills, funds for upcoming travel, rent…” I shrugged. “You get the picture.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “And Max will totally blame me because…well, it was Nico, and Nico never respected authority. Maybe Max will give Cassie my job and I can work for her. He likes Cassie.”

  “Stop beating yourself up. Let’s—”

  “Let’s talk copies.” I took my hand away and pushed up from the floor. “You’re right. Beating myself up does no good. Catching a bad guy does.” But try as I might, I couldn’t force myself to add Nico to that side of the balance sheet. I’d have to work on it, after I wiped the apologetic look off Jack’s face. “Don’t look at me like that. Tell me what customs said.”

  “Since this shipment was confiscated in a French port, it’s a lucky thing I said copies all along instead of forgeries,” he began.

  Under French law, if Calais learned the works were created as forgeries, the paintings would have been destroyed.

  I said, “True. The ruthlessly quick turnaround of French confiscation and destruction of forgeries might be why the paintings we’ve found were all listed as copies. So far, the snuffbox that started this chase is the only thing trying to ride in as a legitimate work of art. And the ruse worked until Nico examined it in Miami.”

  “Our customs officials took possession of the substitute Caravaggio works, and I talked to the agent,” he told me. “A letter was sent to the address listed on the manifest requesting the copies be picked up at Scotland Yard. He checked and no one has come to collect the shipment. Yesterday, they sent an officer to the address. The report back listed an empty storefront and a ‘for let’ sign in the window.”

  “Leading anyone to presume the person who was meant to pick up the dodgy copies never will.”

  “Scotland Yard is operating under that presumption and it matches my thinking as well.”

  “They will let us have at least one copy, right?” I asked.

  “I’m working on it. I have a couple of calls in, and the agent was running interference for us as well, but the outlook is good. I may be letting certain people assume it ties to a current case I’m working.”

  “The gun connection?”

  He reiterated, “I’m just saying a current case.”

  Alrighty then. I recognized an Official Secrets Act warning when I almost heard it.

  A minute later my phone dinged with a text. Cassie had returned to her Paris meeting and pulled Max away to speak with him in private. Per our plan, she revealed the “wonderful news” of how I’d been tasked with returning the missing Caravaggio to its true owner. She explained my source wouldn’t say where the painting had been but was aware it was on stolen lists and trusted the foundation to deliver it to the rightful family and take full credit for the recovery. My assistant, bless her, knew the drill when I wanted secrets kept. Max, of course, had to call and try to weasel additional details, but I was ready for him.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” I said. “If word gets out how this painting came to me, it would put my source in grave danger.”

  “Ah, yes,” Max said, his voice practically normal volume. Other people’s normal volume, that is. “He’s undertaken a great risk. Absolutely. But to get the okay to remove it from English soil, I’m going to need Scotland Yard’s help, and I may be asked—”

  “I understand your dilemma, Max.” Inwardly, I laughed at how he assumed the person who returned the work was a man. “But it simply cannot be helped. My source delivered the work to me and gave no additional details other than it should be returned and is known for being on our lookout list. I have no idea who stole the painting originally, and I can’t even be sure of all the places it may have been in the interim years. You’re going to have to call in some favors if necessary, but I have nothing to offer law enforcement.”

  Jack smirked and shook his head as I said the last phrase.

  Now came the hard part. “This really must stay quiet, Max. If the family decides to make the recovery public, we can’t do anything about that. But until the work leaves the hands of foundation personnel, we need to make sure the thieves, or any others who might be interested in the painting, do not find out where it is. Otherwise, we risk losing it again.” I added extra insurance. “And that wouldn’t look good on your watch.”

  “Oh, right, right. Agree absolutely,” Max said.

  After a few minutes of discussion, him talking and me listening, he put Cassie back on the line.

  “He sounds like he’s forgiven me for being out of pocket when he wanted me there,” I said softly.

  “Correct, let me get those papers,” she said, ad-libbing while Max remained within earshot. I waited for her to get far enough away to speak privately, and she came back on the line. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Laurel, the man is positively preening he’s so excited. He’s raced away to tell the donor about this coup for the foundation.”

  “He just agreed—”

  “Don’t worry,” Cassie cut in. “He promised not to give specifics. Your line about it being on his watch was inspired, by the way. He’s excited, but he understands the risk.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. I felt a burn in my stomach just the same. “When are you and Max coming to London?”

  “Sometime tomorrow. Will you and Jack be around?”

  “I don’t know, but my first guess would be no. If we get any idea how to proceed, we’re going to take it, which at this point looks to mean heading for Barcelona. The painting is currently in a safe, so if I leave I’ll try to fill out paperwork to get the hotel to let you—”

  “No, I have a better idea,” she said. “Remember the special wall I showed you that I discovered in my flat?”

  Cassie had been renovating her floor in a historic mid-nineteenth century townhouse just off Portobello Road. When it was originally built, the room that became her lounge had a secret hiding space. The cache either was not discovered during previous maintenance and renovations, or had been left abandoned and papered over. Once she’d removed the wallpaper and found the spring to release the locking mechanism, Cassie re-camouflaged the hidey-hole with period faux wallboard instead.

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe the size will be about perfect. Good thinking.” We said our goodbyes, and I recapped everything for Jack. “My hotel is a definite stop anyway, to see if they have photos of the tall thin man who asked for me ahead of the mugging. While we’re there, we can go into the safe room and clear out the box. Then I can go upstairs and pack.”

  “Might be better to get you packed first, so we can leave directly after we pick up the other things,” Jack suggested as we put on coats.

  “Shouldn’t we make plane reservations before we leave here?” I pointed at the ceiling and made a circle with my finger. “This wi-fi is probably more secure than my hotel’s.”

  He nodded. “Undoubtedly. But I don’t know for sure if we’ll have the Caravaggio copy this evening. My conversation sounded hopeful, but…”

  “You’re right. W
e need to do this in the best order.”

  “Besides,” he added, as he checked the outside cameras then opened the door, “I think we’re going to do all travel booking in person this trip. If Rollie makes Nico hack into my credit card, he’ll be able to see the booking, but if we’re already in the air and halfway to Spain it won’t give him much time to plan any reception committee.”

  I swallowed hard when I heard the reference to his credit card. He was trying to make things easier on me, I knew that, but it still felt like another blow to the instincts I’d always counted on.

  “We’ll take my car and leave it with your hotel’s valet parking,” he said as we reached ground level. “Be safer that way, and we can use cabs wherever we need to go.”

  “Okay.”

  On the way to my hotel, however, Jack suddenly decided on a detour by the Ritz.

  “I should have thought of going by there before,” he said. “I can get Halborn’s mugshot sent to me from the Met Police, but I didn’t think about the two men you saw in the lobby.”

  “Fine with me. But if the desk clerk kept his word, we should have a decent shot of the younger man from my hotel’s security footage.”

  At the Ritz, it didn’t take Jack long to get the right person to help with our request. I checked my phone’s call log to be sure when the call came from Cassie that had sent me out into the lobby from the bar less than twenty-four hours earlier. A few keystrokes later, we were viewing the men in question on the security monitors, seeing them from several angles. Security printed off copies of the two men leaving and the younger man returning, but all the shots either showed the men’s heads turned away from the cameras, hands to their faces as they left the building, or with their heads together talking so it was hard to see all the features of either person.

  “Suspicious,” the Ritz security guy said.

  Jack and I agreed, thanking him for the pictures.

  It was another short drive to my hotel. Jack and I left the car with the valet and headed to my room. The call we’d been waiting on came as I packed. After Jack hung up, he said, “The Caravaggio copy will be packaged up for us and waiting at Scotland Yard. We can pick it up while we share our photos with Whatley.”