by Ritter Ames
“Have you connected with Superintendent Whatley yet?”
“Just by text. Guess it would be best to ring him.”
While Jack called Scotland Yard, I added toiletries to my load. I packed light for a change. Though I did add a little black dress to cover all bases, and a wig and my cat suit. Just in case I needed alternative methods to get in somewhere people already knew me—and wouldn’t let me in looking like myself.
Everything else stayed casual, but could be dressed up for dinner. We weren’t planning nights out, but with my personal career track I knew to always be prepared for every eventuality.
The phone conversation ended. Jack pocketed his cell phone and roamed the room. I stepped into my closet and assessed what I needed from my locked gadget bag. Two of the electronic wonders went into the Prada, because they’d always gotten through security without any issues. I slid the other two into a couple of shoe bags protecting a pair of black and silver Louboutins, and I worked the stilettos with their bonus cargo into an interior spot in my bag.
“Why don’t you have anything to snack on in your refrigerator?” Jack stood peering into the tiny fridge by the desk.
“Because I eat out all of the time.”
“So do I, but I still have snacks. You have iced coffee, a yogurt, and a sad apple.”
“The sad apple shows why I don’t keep food in my hotel room fridge.” I pulled out a sweater I’d changed my mind about taking. “I’m not here enough. It goes bad. What do you have in yours?”
“I don’t know. Grapes. Kiwi. Hummus—”
“Hummus?”
“Hummus. It’s good for you. Has chickpeas. Chickpeas have melatonin. Helps you sleep,” he said.
“You have problems sleeping?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I can always use more sleep.”
“What do you do when you can’t sleep?” I reset the bags with the stilettos so the clothes fit better in the suitcase.
“I eat hummus and kiwis.”
“Weird combo.”
“They both help induce sleep in a few hours.”
“Good to know.” I tried to zip the bag, but one of the corners was still too high.
He continued his refrigerator stare-down. “You don’t even have a takeaway carton in here. Everyone has takeaway in the fridge.”
“What’s your favorite takeout food?”
“Curry.”
“That doesn’t help you sleep.”
“Which is why I keep hummus and kiwi. What’s your favorite takeaway?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“No, I won’t,” he coaxed, walking over to help hold down the corner of the bag.
“Bet you will.”
“Try me.”
I shrugged. “McDonald’s Happy Meals.”
He snorted.
“Stop. You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry.” But he continued to chortle. “Small hamburger and chips?”
“No, I’ve gone healthy and take the fruit. Remember the sad apple.” The zipper finally made it all the way around the bag.
“You like the prize?”
“Sometimes. Most I give away to children acting nicely on the train.”
“Bet you had all the tiny Beanie Babies.”
“Of course.” I put my hands on my hips and pivoted to take in the room and check if I’d forgotten anything. “I was still in elementary school then—primary school to you, of course—and our chauffeur had a Happy Meal and a different teeny stuffed animal for me every time he picked me up in town.”
“Your chauffeur.”
“Yes. He’s the one who introduced me to Mad Magazine too. I loved the back cover with the secret message fold.”
“Happy Meal and a prize.”
“But that’s not what I love about them.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I love the cookies. The tiny chocolate chip cookies. Knowing I always have a dessert.” I went back into the closet.
Through the wall I heard, “Those are pretty dry biscuits.”
“Ah, so you have eaten Happy Meals.”
“No, I used to buy the chocolate chip biscuits.”
“That’s unbelievably wrong.”
“Why?” He’d moved to stand by the door.
Deciding I had everything I needed, I came out again. “I don’t know. It just is.” I rubbed a hand against his cheek and felt the beginnings of what would become a sexy five o’clock shadow. “Obviously, I have some things to teach you.”
A couple of strides took me back to the bed and the roller bag. In a row, I lined up that suitcase and my big purse by the door.
“Is that it?” he asked, a surprised look on his face.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“One bag. I’m impressed.”
“Me too. But I’ve already lost my garment bag this week with my favorite outfits of the moment. I want to keep what I take to a minimum and try to not catch any additional bad juju.”
“I don’t think luck has anything to do with it,” he said. “Good, bad, or otherwise. You fell prey to someone else’s agenda.”
I shrugged. He could say what he wanted, but it was my closet that continually emptied of clothing and accessories which too often didn’t return. “Before we leave the room, I want to call Clara.”
When I dialed her number I immediately got voicemail. I left a message, but called Maybelle and counted my good fortune when she answered.
“I have a minute. Did you connect with Clara?” she asked. Her Brussels accent came through strong.
“Yes, she called me.” I explained the earlier conversation and how the sharp-thinking young hustler wanted me to get her promoted out of the laundry job as payment for any help she managed to provide.
“Oh, these girls, these girls,” Maybelle said. “I’ll see what I can do to make sure she gets the information you need. But I’m not in favor of letting her coerce people into giving her better job opportunities.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, but if she’s truly miserable—”
“She’s as happy or unhappy as she wants to be,” Maybelle stopped me. “But I will talk to her and see if there are any changes that can be made. Can I say the three of us will meet about this when you return?”
“Fabulous way to word it. I don’t want her to think I’m taking advantage of her.”
She laughed. “Clara should be kissing your feet. If you hadn’t sent her here she’d likely be in jail. The girl is smart. She knows. But spending so much of her life picking pockets and operating under her own counsel makes it difficult for her to be happy about schedules and managers.”
We promised to meet for lunch soon, though it was simply talk since neither of us ever found the time. We hung up, and I took another second to scan the room and review my mental checklist before we left. Jack grabbed my bag. I turned off the light and we headed for the elevators.
At the front desk the clerk was the same one who helped me the previous evening, so I didn’t have to explain why we stopped by.
“Security found a couple of good likenesses,” he said, pulling a large envelope from below the counter. “We were going to report it to the police, but the doorman thought you wanted to take care of it yourself.”
I thanked him and nodded. “We’re heading to Scotland Yard now, and we’ll share these prints. I’ve no doubt my belongings are long gone, but at least they’ll have a record of the thief. I never thought about him hanging around to steal my things after he acted like he’d left.”
“Oh, no,” the clerk said. “The man who knocked you down was much older. Here, take a look.”
He opened the envelope and pulled out several photos that not only showed a clear, full-faced shot of the tall, thin young man asking for me at the front
desk, but images with a timestamp that showed it was the older beefy man from the hallway at the Ritz who barreled into me and swiped my bag. Jack and I looked at each other and smiled. They might have avoided the Ritz’s cameras, but the ones at this hotel captured their faces beautifully.
“Still, it’s good to have the Ritz pictures, too,” Jack said a short time later, as our cab sped toward Cassie’s flat. The tube with the art sat on the seat beside us. “The men’s body language in those first camera shots showed they were up to something.”
“Definitely,” I said. “At this point, every new fact has to help somehow. We’re due a break.”
“Overdue.”
We could have made it to our destination quicker via the Underground, but neither of us was keen on carrying a priceless masterpiece into such a public venue. I’d kept it under my coat as we’d moved from the hotel to the cab, but I felt like a neon sign flashed overhead shouting Here it is! London traffic was stop and go and irritating as hell, but we used the time to trade ideas and bring each other up to date on any points we hadn’t covered already.
The plan was to head to Jack’s flat after we secreted the painting at Cassie’s, then go straight to Scotland Yard. Superintendent Whatley promised to stay in his office until we made it by with the photos. After we picked up the Caravaggio copy, the next phase was to head directly to Heathrow.
Jack asked the cabbie to wait when we reached Cassie’s flat, and I slid the tube under my long coat before exiting the vehicle. It wasn’t late, but the days were shorter and dusk had already fallen. The tall bushes along the side of the property blocked the streetlights in the area directly around the door, but I knew from experience where the lock was positioned, and we weren’t having to break in. I had the key ready when we got to the outer door.
The building was unlit, but the automatic light in the stairway came on as we hit the first tread. Too early for most people to be home yet from work. Each flat took an entire floor, and we climbed the stairs to reach Cassie’s on the first floor.
The automatic light came on in her short hall when I approached the door with the flat key. When I got inside, however, I left off the flat lights and stopped Jack before he flipped a switch.
“Let’s just be safe, okay?” I punched in the code to turn off the alarm. “I think I can do this with the ambient light in the room.
The curtains were drawn. I moved over to the relative area of the hidden wall. A remote light on the television and the small green light shining from the surge suppressor bar gave off more light than one might expect. After doing so much of my non-foundation work in low light like this, I felt comfortable feeling my way through the exercise. Seconds later, I’d found the spring-loaded mechanism and removed the tube from where my coat had been shielding it from sight. The fit was perfect if I put the tube in diagonally. But to make sure Cassie couldn’t accidentally forget to only send the painting, I first withdrew the small statuary and wrapped it in a knitted scarf she’d left across the back of a chair.
“Don’t let me forget to text her about this,” I said. “She hasn’t seen the piece, so she won’t recognize it. Plus, I’d hate for her to drop it as she pulls out the scarf.”
“Will do.”
I placed the wrapped figurine on the floor of the compartment in one corner, then angled the protected painting in the fat leather tube across the space above it. The locking mechanism slipped back easily into place, and we were ready to go.
“One question,” Jack whispered. “Does Nico know about this hidden spot?”
“I don’t think so. Cassie showed it to me one night when I stopped in for a cup of coffee after we saw a show. Should I ask her? Or are you just trying to anticipate pitfalls?”
“Good choice of word, pitfall,” he said. “They seem to come from nowhere.”
“Hopefully we’re getting the jump on the next two or three,” I said, leading the way back through the shadowy flat. I rekeyed the alarm and we left.
But when we got back on the front stoop, our cab was nowhere to be seen.
“Hell. I paid him extra to wait.” Jack swore.
I wasn’t surprised. This was my curse, of course. My carefully packed bag was tucked away in the boot of the missing cab.
FOURTEEN
I stood on the stoop, staring past the property’s tall shrubbery to look as far as I could up and down the street.
“Maybe he had to park down a bit,” I said. As I moved to the steps, the sound of footfalls and panting came from around the side of the building. Jack pulled me back and behind him. He leaned out and checked around the corner. “It’s our cab driver,” he whispered.
The cabbie stayed half-hidden by the corner of the house, but waved us to follow him back through the side alley and signaled to stay close to the building. When I started down the first riser, a bullet zinged past my ear.
Jack picked me up and tossed me over the side of the railing, then vaulted it himself. The three of us tore off down the narrow drive, staying in the shadows as much as possible. The cab sat waiting on the next street. We heard sirens in the distance.
Our driver got us inside and racing down the street before he would answer any of our questions. “Lived ’round here for a time, so I knew about that lane going clear through,” he said of our escape route. “Car pulled up as you went inside, then backed a length and parked across the way. I’m ex-military. Caught my eye. Then I saw the passenger raise what appeared to be a gun and attach a silencer. Knew things could get dicey then. Phoned the police as I drove. You know the rest.”
Jack said, “They likely escaped before the—”
“Here.” The cabbie ripped the top sheet from a notepad suction-cupped to the windshield. “Got the plate number.”
Ohmigod. I looked at the man’s posted name and taxi license number, committing both to memory. Thomas Banks could become my regular driver.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Yes. Grateful for this,” Jack said, raising the paper as a kind of mini salute. He glanced at the writing, then slipped it into his pocket.
At his flat, he told me to stay in the cab. “Scoot down below the windows. I have a go-bag packed. Be back in a tick.”
He disappeared and I followed orders. Thomas kept his eyes roving throughout.
“Afghanistan?” I asked.
The cabbie nodded. He looked about forty, and from the little streetlight that hit inside the cab, I could see the start of gray at his temples and sideburns.
“Our shared countries appreciate you for your service.”
He ducked his head a fraction.
“Thank you, miss.”
True to his word, Jack yanked open the door right then and tossed in his bag. We reentered traffic and were on our way to Scotland Yard.
Superintendent Whatley slipped the sheet of paper Jack had given him into a file folder. “We will definitely follow up on this,” he said.
Before the page disappeared, I saw the shooter’s plate number and the street Cassie lived on written in Jack’s strong hand. He obviously did more than grab his go-bag in the flat, and that meant he still had the number to follow up on via other channels. I just hoped the plates weren’t stolen or fake.
Whatley pulled a small thin art crate from where it leaned between his desk and the wall. “I have this for you, along with documentation saying you’re our representatives of the copy. I had them add your name as well, Miss Beacham, in case the two of you need to separate. This should cover any difficulties along the way, but don’t hesitate to give my name if necessary. Not sure that paperwork will suit whatever purposes you have for this piece, but it should keep you both out of trouble with foreign authorities.”
I noticed Whatley simply assumed we were going out of the country with the painting. A change from the quiet rebuke he once gave for our not sharing travel plans with him during a
n investigation. This made me wonder if Jack and I were subjects of discussions wider than we preferred. The superintendent raised a questioning eyebrow at the end of his statement, but neither of us voluntarily offered additional information. Jack’s face remained firm as he responded, “That will do, thank you. Anything else we need…we’ll handle.”
“Very good,” Whatley said. But he shrugged, so I imagined he was disappointed we weren’t more forthcoming.
Couldn’t be helped. Despite having let Whatley know a good part of what had gone on the last twenty-four hours, we still needed to keep anything secret about the job that we possibly could. Despite the fact our public targets status grew by the day.
“Do be careful, as I can no longer offer you a replacement on the print,” Whatley said. “Officers are investigating, but it seems the second copy is no longer in the evidence lockup.”
“Just one was taken?” Jack asked.
“I’m aware it sounds puzzling, especially since you’ve needed a copy as well.” Whatley’s face held an expression devoid of interest, but I recognized a fishing expedition when I saw one. “Apparently, sometime yesterday the other copy disappeared. I would have had difficulty getting this released to you, since it’s the only one left, but word came down from upstairs with the okay.”
I looked at my lap and whispered, “Cecil?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jack give a quick nod. His boss was as annoying as Max when it came to signing off on some of the expenses Jack required in the field, but when we needed help cutting British red tape, Cecil came through.
“We have no connection to anyone wanting the other reproduction, Superintendent,” I said, smiling as I delivered my statement with a direct gaze. Then I risked adding to the information to shore up our façade of honesty. “But we will return this one as soon as possible. We are currently in receipt of the original of this work. The foundation I work for will be returning it to the true owner very soon. Our hope in having this copy is to learn who may have originally stolen the painting, and what plans may have been in operation for the Caravaggio in the near term. When we learned about the copies coming through Calais, it seemed a fortunate coincidence. Especially since the prospective owner of the copies appears to be nonexistent. We decided to pursue a few angles with a copy as bait.”
