by Ritter Ames
“Well, I appreciate the heads up, but we only work together when our individual projects mesh. And to be truthful, it was my boss who first assigned me to work with Jack, so it all falls back on him.”
“Head of the New York office, Max—”
“Yes, exactly.” I caught my lower lip between my teeth before I said anything troublesome. Letting him get to me was not something I could risk.
“And what project did you work together?” His smile was friendly enough, but the look in his eyes said he knew he had me. “Or has there been more than one? You’ve been seen together often the past months.”
I refused to break eye contact. “Hmm.” Raising the glass to my lips, I took another sip and pretended to think. “Must have been the seventh-century sword. Yes, that’s it.” That was the first time, and I didn’t intend to trot out any bonus information. There was no reason to keep those facts secret. Too many people had been involved in trying to authenticate the piece for us to possibly bury the information from the U.K. press. “Unfortunately, it was proven to be a very well-made fake.”
He flipped a couple of pages back in his notebook and feigned reading. “Quite right. I remember jotting a few things down about the report.”
I’ll just bet you did, I thought.
“And earlier this month,” he said, flipping back to his previous page, “the art restorer you found dead in her London flat. I believe it was the same day your office was broken into.”
I ignored his punchline and focused on the part about Nelly. “She was still alive when Cassie and I arrived. She lingered in the hospital for a day or so, but she did kill her assailant in the flat. And Hawkes wasn’t on the scene at all. He wasn’t even in the country that day.” I crossed my arms and leaned back. “Let’s cut the crap here, Lincoln, okay? Stop sounding like you’re looking for an exposé or this interview—or whatever it is—is over.” I shifted in my seat to straighten out my coat and pull it from under the crutches, preparing to leave if the conversation didn’t change immediately.
“Laurel, I—” he began. His phone started a crashing ringtone. “Damn, that’s my boss. Just a minute.”
He fished the cell from a pocket and answered, his face turning pale under the bruising as he listened. “Right. I’ll be there.” He hung up and said, “I have to go. Stay. Please.” He made a “stay” motion with one hand, as the other grabbed his coat. “Finish the chips. They’re already paid for. This isn’t the way I wanted this to go.”
I weighed my options, deciding no comment was my best response. My silence seemed to work.
“Please meet with me again.” He scooped up his notebook and shoved his hand in his coat pocket. “Please.”
“I’ll see what my schedule allows,” I finally said, but his deflated expression told me he understood what I wasn’t saying. It all depended on how I assessed the risk later of having a reporter like Lincoln still too interested in me and what my team did.
As he left, I looked at my watch. Almost thirty minutes before five o’clock. Deciding I may as well eat Linc’s chips and make notes while I waited on Jack, I reached for a napkin.
“Damn.” Ferguson took my pen.
But it was worth losing one of the only nice things Max had ever given to me to get the reporter out of my life—at least for the moment.
“Versatility, thy name is Laurel.” I pulled my phone and accessed the notes app.
“Ah, we do not need that,” a French-accented voice said, as my phone was removed from my hands. Rollie slipped into the seat Lincoln had vacated. “I thought he’d never leave. Good thing I have media connections in this city.”
“More people on your bribery payroll, Rollie?”
And who should step back through the door at that moment? Yep, Mr. Nosey himself, smiling and holding up my pen as he took a couple of steps back into the pub.
I made a grab for my phone, and Rollie reacted as I’d hoped, pulling it farther out of my reach. That allowed me to accidentally let my arm catch the chip basket and my half-filled glass, and knock them loudly to the floor. “Oh, look at what I did. I’m so sorry.” I spoke toward the barman.
As Rollie’s attention stayed directed toward the mess on the floor, I shook my head at Lincoln and held up a hand. I saw the reporter squint at Rollie’s profile. Moran’s grandson spoke to the waitress who came to our table with a towel. I hoped Lincoln didn’t recognize this nice-looking guy with the long brown hair sitting across from me. He already thought Jack was a hood. No telling how I’d be categorized if he pegged Rollie too. This was the same young man who ordered the deaths of at least three people this past weekend in Barcelona and was responsible for the bullet hole in my leg.
It wasn’t only a desire to avoid being the source to an uncomfortable fact-finding mission. I didn’t want to risk what might happen if the reporter or anyone else approached the table. When Ferguson did as I’d mimed and backed out of the door, I finally breathed again.
“See there.” I pretended to slap Rollie’s arm playfully, while I directed my words toward the waitress. “He was playing keep-away with my phone and this is what happens. Give it back now. Fun is over and you owe this nice person a very big tip.” The waitress smiled at us, and I held out my hand. Rollie frowned, but realized how it would look if he didn’t cooperate while we had an audience. I took the phone, pressed the record option, and put the device in my lap, then tried to figure my next move.
The waitress finished the cleanup and moved away. Rollie leaned over the table and said, “Let us go.”
“I haven’t rested enough since I got here,” I said, leaning closer. “News alert—I’m recovering from being shot in the leg.”
“You should stop such risky pursuits.” His dark gaze locked on mine.
“I thought I was just going to visit a friend.”
“A friend who was a thief.” He tsked. “Not so good company.”
“How did you know he was a thief?” I said, hoping he would incriminate himself further. Though I doubted the phone’s microphone was getting anything through the surrounding noise. Worth a try.
He sat back, but continued speaking softly. “I will not argue about this, Laurel Beacham. Come with me or you may not like the conséquences.”
“I don’t understand why there have to be any consequences, Rollie.”
He laughed silently. “You are much too smart for me to believe this.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want to be part of anything.”
“Ah. So you do comprendre.”
“I only know what I’ve surmised,” I said. “And I wouldn’t even know that if you hadn’t given back the things belonging to my mother. If you didn’t want me to know anything, why return the items?”
He scratched his left eyebrow with his thumbnail. “Their return was not up to me.”
I figured as much. Moran wanted me to have everything, just like he’d said in Baden-Baden. “I do want to thank you for returning them. They gave me wonderful memories of a mother I almost don’t remember. And I think I better understand now about my rocky relationship with my…my father.” I frowned. I couldn’t help it. Even knowing I had to say the words as subterfuge, I stumbled over the term.
“And you want to walk away from…” He shrugged. “Everything?”
“Why would I want to do otherwise?”
“Why indeed.” He shook his head, turning for a moment toward the bar.
I kept watch on the door while he was occupied, worried Lincoln might decide to return—and worried he wouldn’t. My options were narrowing by the second. “Look, just tell your grandfather—”
“Tell my grandfather?” He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “My grandfather does not listen.” He slid out of the booth and stood beside me. “Come along. We need to go.”
“I can’t—”
“
Come with me immédiatement, or I will make sure you recognize what an erreur you’ve made. If I don’t leave London with one blonde la demoiselle, I will leave with another.”
Cassie. He meant he would take Cassie if I didn’t cooperate.
I reached for my coat and crutches.
It was exactly like we’d talked about in the conference call. Any of us would do anything for another member of the team. Even leave with someone who likely wanted me dead.
TWENTY-TWO
The Marylebone section of London was busy with people skipping out of work before five, but not busy enough that I could use it to any advantage. We passed All Souls Church, with its brave pointy steeple fighting for prominence against the city center skyscrapers that circled it. I sent up a silent prayer I could somehow get away despite my gimpy leg, load of fatigue, and zero available options. Rollie kept a firm hold on the upper part of my right arm.
“There’s no point in holding on to me, unless you want to help me walk,” I grumbled. “It’s not like I have any chance of running away. You took care of that in Barcelona.”
He grinned. “Your escape was incroyable. I see now why so many people underestimate you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
This made him laugh. “Oh, Laurel, if only we were on the same side of things. How you say? Cousins in crime?”
“Unless you know about a paternity test I’ve never been informed about, there’s no proof we have any bond beyond a common one over art. You like to steal it, and I prefer to recover it.”
He laughed even harder. A woman walking toward us smiled at Rollie, assuming, I supposed, we were on a friendly date. But he did at least drop my arm. Not that it mattered. My flagging energy levels hovered in the danger zone.
“Why wasn’t I just killed in Barcelona?” I asked.
“Because you weren’t supposed to be. You and your friend Jack were supposed to come together. The change made for…alternative plans.”
Which meant my supposition on the plane was on target. But what constituted his end game, and how could I get him to tell me? I took the offensive. “What more do you need to hear? Unless you force a test, I certainly won’t. I want no part of anything you’re involved in.”
“A test is no longer necessary.” He gazed straight ahead, but he stayed close beside me.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged but didn’t elaborate.
I spotted a bench and headed for it. He pulled at my arm again, but I shook him off. “Let me go. I have to sit a minute. Unless you want to throw me over your shoulder like a caveman, my leg needs some rest.”
“The car is close.”
“Unless it’s parked beside that bench, it isn’t close enough.”
He put his hand into his coat pocket and I felt the barrel of a gun press into my side. I wanted to scream in frustration, but stopped walking instead and kept my voice low, saying, “Go ahead. Shoot me. Shoot me right here in the middle of central London. Great game plan, Rollie.”
“You know I can.”
Actually, I didn’t truly know if he was capable of the act. While I was positive he could order someone be killed, from the evidence collected and hypothesized, the Amazon likely did most of his wet work. I had no idea if Rollie pulled any triggers himself. Regardless, it was a sucker’s bet, but I was beyond caring as long as he didn’t go after Cassie. I resumed my hobbling trek toward the bench, just me and my risky shadow.
“So, do you know if Ermo Colle is alive? Have you heard any scuttlebutt?” I asked. Might as well try to get my own questions satisfied if my hours were numbered.
“He survived, yes. But he already looks different, and not just because of your baton prowess.”
Damn.
At the bench, I hopped on my good foot, using the two crutches for support as I turned around to seat myself. Rollie remained standing. I patted the seat. If I acted friendly, maybe I could change his mind about killing me. Or at least slow him down with my fake confidence. “Sit and rest with me. Whatever you have planned for later today can’t work without the two of us.”
He gave me a crazed look and shook his head as if in wonderment. Well, that part of my plan seemed to be working. Now to figure out what to do for the next stage.
“What is it you want, Rollie? Give me a chance to negotiate. You might find everyone comes out ahead.” For an instant, he smiled and seemed once again to be the genuinely nice guy he’d pretended to be when I first met him. Before I learned his family connections. Even after I found out about the familial ties, he’d still acted friendly all through the fall and into the start of winter. It was just this past month I kept glimpsing a hidden monster. Now this. “What happened? I thought we were friends.”
And the nice-guy mask disappeared completely. “The guns. I will offer you in trade for the guns.”
Yeah, but would he let me go if he got what he wanted? No matter, since the guns were tied up in international red tape and there was no way anyone would trade them for my life.
Then I saw a frightening sight. Lincoln Ferguson stood across the road, shooting video of us. Shit. Now I had to find a way to keep from getting him killed too.
Rollie also saw the reporter. He jerked me up by my arm. “Move.”
“I’m trying.”
“Non, you are not trying hard enough. Hurry.”
My chest felt full of tears. Not from fear, but of frustration. No way though was I going to let either of these Neanderthals see me cry—and I definitely wasn’t letting someone get it on digital high def. I didn’t look at Lincoln, but I could tell from Rollie’s curses the reporter continued to shoot video as we walked. The gun remained firmly in my side, and I received a bonus jab whenever I didn’t hobble quickly enough.
Suddenly, I heard rapid movement behind us. I kept walking, but Rollie looked back. He cursed again and turned so the gun left my ribs. I moved sideways a step, just as Jack leapt on the bench and used the seat to launch himself at Rollie. My vision tunneled, and I only saw the gun pointed at Jack.
I let one crutch drop and grabbed the other before it fell, swinging overhand to slam Rollie’s gun hand as he pulled the trigger. He fired wild. I screamed. The bullet entered the grass near the edge of the pavement. Jack’s fists took over from there. I had no idea where the gun went.
Rollie gave as good as he got. While Jack was angry, Rollie was crazy. Never a good combination in a fight. I used my remaining crutch to help me reach the fallen one.
I kept one under me for balance, then got close enough to swing with the other if I had an opportunity. Rollie gave an almost primal cry, then jerked and tried to push Jack onto his back. That’s when I saw the gun. It had been hidden under Rollie. And now he had one hand scrabbling to try to reach it.
“Jack! He’s after the gun!”
I swung the crutch, banging at his arm, trying to knock the gun away from his body. Rollie caught the crutch and it flew from my hands. He hit Jack upside his head with the metal side. As Jack fell back from the blow, Rollie turned to better see the gun.
That was when I used my best two-handed back-handed tennis return to knock Rollie in the face with the business end of my remaining crutch. The second broken nose I delivered in one week.
As he fell back, I dove for the gun. A second later I felt Jack’s strong arms helping me stand.
“You’re lucky I’m giving him the gun,” I said to Rollie, as Jack exchanged my other crutch for the weapon and trained the gun on our prisoner. “He won’t shoot you unless you try to flee. But I would. I’d shoot you for Miguel. And I’d make sure the pain was excruciating.”
Superintendent Whatley arrived then, and he and his DS took charge of Rollie and the gun. Jack winked at me and I grinned. We really did make a good team. Even if I did almost have a heart attack every time. Of course, he swore I nearly gave him heart attacks too.
“But you want a copy of the footage, right?” Linc grinned.
“Damn right, I do.”
“And don’t worry. I’ll make sure your face and Hawkes’s are pixelated.”
Better than the alternative, I guessed.
Ferguson left then, just as Jack headed my way. “Why’d he run off? I was going to thank him for calling me.”
“He called you?” I turned and watched Lincoln’s departing figure. “I’d assumed you homed in on my bracelet.”
Jack wrapped an arm around my shoulders and helped me back to the bench. “I did that as well, but I’d have never known anything was wrong if Ferguson hadn’t called me with the tip. He didn’t like a look you shot him when he went back to return something.”
“My pen.”
“Right. When he described the guy with you, I recognized it was Rollie right away and notified Superintendent Whatley. He monitored the GPS on my phone while I monitored your bracelet.”
But Jack still beat Scotland Yard. Why did that not surprise me?
“You did threaten Ferguson if he put the video on the news, right?” Jack asked.
“Our faces will be abstract pixels.”
He laughed. “Kind of like Rollie’s is right now.”
As Whatley’s car pulled away, Rollie’s battered profile appeared in the window. Amazing what a crutch could do to a nose. He turned and shot us a dark look as the car merged with traffic.
TWENTY-THREE
