Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  The Suburban turned the final corner. “So in the end,” Gretch said, arching her brow, “our blundering adventure did help your case.”

  Sean stiffened, like he didn’t appreciate her coming to his defense. Jace didn’t answer. In the rearview, Margo gave her an appraising look. “Under the circumstances, you both handled yourselves well. We’ll get through this hiccup.” She nodded to Sean. “Just carry on about your business, and keep all of this confidential.”

  As the car rolled to a stop outside Moore and Morrow, Jace stuffed his phone into his breast pocket and hopped out.

  Sean yanked on his own door handle, pinning Gretch with an icy glare. “It isn’t necessary to defend me to Jace. I can speak up for myself.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed. In fact, I wish you’d shut up once in a while.” Fucking Quinn brothers. Ignoring Margo’s quiet laugh and the hand Sean held out, Gretch stepped from the vehicle and made a show of adjusting and smoothing her skirt. Jace was by the office door, waiting for them. He’d put on his sunglasses, which made reading his expression difficult, but he held himself as stiffly as Sean. When she reached his side, Jace murmured, “What was that about pickups?”

  She batted the comment aside with a wave of her hand, Sean’s words still chapping her ass. “Pay no attention. Your brother’s acting like Chicken Little.” She ignored Sean’s grunted profanity as they trooped into the reception area.

  Hannah stood at Gretch’s desk, the phone to her ear. When she saw them, her worried features smoothed out. “I was frantic,” she said, hanging up. “Where have you two—” She stopped as Margo and Jace appeared.

  “Jason Quinn, FBI, ma’am,” Jace said, flipping open a wallet. “This is Special Agent Margo Hathaway.”

  Margo displayed her badge with less Hollywood pomp. “We’d like to speak to the owner.”

  A myriad of emotions raced across Hannah’s face, predominantly shock and alarm. Like she needed to be dealing with this, when she was so worried about Devon and his company. Before Gretch could assure her their presence had nothing to do with Moore and Morrow, Hannah turned to her. “Is this about Brandon stalking you?”

  And there it was. The stupid topic she’d have gladly kept from either Quinn brother until her dying day.

  “Stalking?” Jace muttered from behind. She didn’t turn, just shook her head and motioned Hannah away from her desk.

  “This is one of the owners, Hannah Moore. This is Sean’s brother,” she said, diffusing the mystique of an agent marching in with his tough-guy attitude. Hannah glanced in disbelief between the two men, no doubt because they looked nothing alike. As if reading her mind, Sean glowered and dropped his eyes to the carpet.

  “They have some questions about the Quran Mr. Adyton brought in yesterday.”

  If anything, Hannah looked more flustered as she ushered Jace and Margo into the conference room and asked Sean to go get Walter and the project.

  “I’ll get him,” Gretch said hastily, thumbing his office right behind her. She may as well pre-explain her lying about additional services. Walter would not take kindly to any of it. He lived by devout Christian rules and the reputation of Moore and Morrow, both of which she’d played fast and loose with this morning. Luckily, she answered all calls and would know if Adyton checked on her explanations.

  She turned and stopped short. Sean had moved with the speed of light and now leaned against the wall near Walter’s office, arms folded, lips pressed in censure. Strange how she couldn’t recall the enchantment his mouth had conjured an hour ago.

  “Chicken Little?” he bit out.

  “My social life is none of your damn business.”

  A smirk appeared, feeding her ire. “It’s enough of my damn business that I hoofed it all the way to your side of town this morning. It’s enough of my damn business that Hannah requested you take my martial arts class this eve—”

  “So much for your eternal gratitude! Let me be perfectly clear, Sean: I don’t need you to bodyguard me, and I have no intention of taking your class. Ever.”

  “Really?” he replied, the word dripping with false friendliness. “’Cause Hannah made it sound like an order.”

  Gretch folded her arms. “She would never assume that kind of authority over me, and you know it.”

  “Let’s go ask her, then.” Sean gestured at the conference room. “After you.”

  Gretch struggled to keep the panic off her face. Hannah would totally side with Sean. Even if she didn’t, having this dumb discussion in front of Jace and Margo wasn’t worth accepting Sean’s dare. “Fine,” she sputtered, “email me the details. But don’t expect me to be all Suzie Sunshine with your other students.”

  He shrugged, back to the poker face that ratcheted every nerve in her body. “I doubt they’ll care.” He knocked twice on the threshold. “See ya tonight.”

  She glared at his loping retreat until he vanished into his cubicle. She’d ace his goddamn class tonight.

  Still fuming, she opened Walter’s door. He was on the phone and stopped mid-sentence, frowning. “We have a situation,” she began, but he held up a hand.

  “I’ll be out there in a second, Gretchen.”

  She made her way back to her desk, snatched her phone out of her purse, and turned it back on. Twenty-three texts. One from Zamira about next Sunday’s shift at the hotline, the rest from Brandon. She read each dispassionately. This was a guy who got his jollies being a pest. There were no clues that he’d been stalking her around town. She sighed and muted the device. Best just to ignore him.

  13

  The tall, gray-haired, gray-suited man who placed the Quran on the small conference table had to be the other owner. Jace scrolled through the pictures of the eBay offering as introductions were made, and after shaking Walter’s hand with a quick one-two pump, Jace nodded to Margo, who’d bogarted the seat at the head of the table. “Appears to be the same Quran.”

  “I’m unclear why you’re here,” Walter said, sitting across from him. “Is there a problem with this artifact?”

  Jace drilled him with a lethal stare. “Have you dealt with Adyton or anyone from the Days of Olde shop before?”

  Walter shook his head, the cooperative mood on his face stalling as his own unanswered question hovered in the air.

  “It’s an ongoing investigation, sir,” Margo said, blinding him with her cheerful smile. “Not something we can comment on, but your company is not our focus. We just have a couple of questions about the piece.”

  Jace stiffened as she basically overrode the authority he was establishing. Even worse, Margo went into interrogations with a cheerleader’s sunniness, the tinge to her questions almost apologetic. Sorry to bother you folks, just a couple of questions. Her approach was even too nice for the good cop-bad cop routine. This was the FBI, damn it! But in the end, she was the special agent, and he was the lowly putz “learning” on the job. She pulled a legal pad out of her briefcase and clicked her pen. “How did Adyton receive your name?”

  “A referral.”

  “We’ll require that name,” Jace interrupted, pulling up the FBI’s Terrorist Screening Database.

  Walter and Hannah traded worried looks.

  “We’re only fact-finding at the moment,” Margo said gently.

  Walter fingered his collar and straightened his tie. Each fidget detonated another particle of Jace’s patience. He intensified his stare. “Sir?”

  “Saleh Talal. He lives in Park Ridge. We’ve completed extensive work for him.”

  Jace typed in the name. No hits. He glanced at Margo and shook his head.

  “What type of work are you doing for Adyton?” she asked.

  Walter’s brow puckered. “Restoring the artifact. It’s what we do.”

  “Does your company check incoming art against any databases of stolen items?”

  “That’s not the kind of clientele we have,” Hannah blurted, blushing the same crimson as the executive chairs in here. “These are millionaires and billionaires
.”

  Jace nodded. “Please answer the question.”

  “Of course not.” Walter yanked his collar again. “We build our relationships on mutual trust and our excellent service.” Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Are you implying this Quran is stolen?”

  “Not at all,” Margo said. “But if it were, do you have a system in place to identify it?”

  “Only if they asked us to verify their certificate of authenticity. It’s a service we offer right from the initial consultation. Gretch handles all provenance research.”

  Margo flashed her perky smile. High school cheers ricocheted around Jace’s head. Kick it, punt it, run it down. “Are you doing that research for Adyton?” she asked sweetly. Stop that frown, it’s a touchdown!

  “No.” Walter glanced at his watch. “I doubt we can help you further.”

  “Actually, you can.” Margo clasped her hands and rested them on the pad. “I’d like to ask Gretch a couple of questions about her provenance research.”

  Today was quintessentially a Tristan and Isolde day. Sean selected the tragic love triangle by Wagner, an opera so heavy and dramatic it initially had a reputation for killing off singers and conductors due to the exertion. He went straight to the third act, where the hero begs for relief from the torment of his love.

  Next he set up his workstation, collecting the tools and chemicals the project would require, then arranged them by frequency of use, and finally sub-grouped them by size. Each step in his routine relaxed him further. Finally, he grabbed the ugly charity painting and paused. Maybe it was this morning’s adrenalin versus the exhaustion of last night, but the canvas was too heavy. Whoever transferred this from the Wickham mansion last October should’ve picked up on the unusual weight back then. Sean closed his eyes. Who’d handled the painting? Oh yeah. Robbie, the intern. Mystery solved. He rotated the frame and traced the seam attached to the back of the canvas. Jesus.

  He ripped out his earbuds and internally dialed Hannah. “When you’re done with my brother, can you take a look at something?”

  “I’m free,” she said. “Jason left, and Margo is meeting with Gretch.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s interested in how we authenticate provenances. Be right there.”

  Now that the music wasn’t blaring, the office buzzed with distracting noise. Like Gretch touring Margo through the break room and explaining the eccentricities of the ancient coffee maker.

  Within a minute, Hannah stood at the entrance to his cubicle. “Oh my gosh,” she cried. “What are you doing?”

  Her words jolted him from his chair. “I was about to clean—”

  “You know this isn’t a priority, Sean. We’re under crazy deadlines.”

  Sean frowned at her. What the hell? Hannah never raised her voice, never confronted anyone. Besides, Gretch had been emphatic…

  Gretch. His jaw clamped. This was her idea of a practical joke? Goddamn it! What if he’d spent days cleaning this POS?

  “Sorry, Hannah,” he said in a stilted tone to cover his fury. “I really spaced it.” Now it was her turn to frown, but he’d learned long ago how unintelligent it was to tattle. He fingered the second seam under the ugly canvas. What was under here? “It’s just—I think this is hiding another painting.”

  Margo murmured something, and Gretch’s peal of laughter sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. He gritted his teeth. All he wanted was revenge. Cold, humiliating payback that would knock Gretch off her fucking throne.

  “Mr. Wickham doesn’t want it back,” Hannah said. By her tight lips, her attention was still on his idiocy and the potential loss of billable hours. “If we follow his wishes then technically we can strip the outer canvas off, clean it, reframe it, and still donate it. But not now.”

  “Got it.”

  She reached over and felt the seam’s bump. The dawning interest on her face mirrored the curiosity inside him. “What do you think is under here?”

  Sean shook his head. “How about if I finish this off the clock?”

  “All right. Keep me posted.”

  “It’s like solving a mystery,” Gretch said, logging onto the computer in the conference room, then sliding the monitor between her and Margo. “You start with the current purchase and trace who owned the art all the way back to when it was created. Hopefully the piece already comes with an original certificate of authenticity, a COA, also known as a provenance.”

  Margo began jotting notes on her pad, raptly watching the monitor. “I imagine there are lots of problems, given wartime looting or poor recordkeeping.”

  “Yeah, it happens more than you know. It’s like searching for your ancestors…one church fire and generations of people’s lives are suddenly much more difficult to prove. Here’s what I’m working on now.”

  Gretch opened a manila file with her current project’s documentation, receipt of sale, and the owner’s basic research that came with the provenance. “This is a Viviard.” She pulled out a photograph of a still life in filtered sunlight. “First, I authenticate his signature and the date of completion. See? Eighteen ninety-one.” She displayed close-up photos.

  “The present owner bought this painting on eBay. Here’s his receipt. The prior owner, who put it up for auction, is the nephew and heir of a deceased woman who owned it. Here’s a copy of the painting among her insured assets.

  “And based on this customs receipt, the woman bought it in Paris in nineteen sixty-five. See—here’s the shop’s name. My job now is to find out when and where they acquired it, and so on, back to Viviard’s decision to sell sometime after he’d painted it.”

  She grabbed her coffee mug. “So far I have the inventory lists for the Parisian shop as far back as nineteen fifty-three. I use a translation app on my phone. You just hover over the word, and it translates."

  “How easy is it to forge any of this?” Margo pointed to the shop inventory listed by the year. “Could the whole thing be a bogus paper trail?”

  “Sure. And it’s way too easy to forge a COA. Another service we offer is forensic analysis. If this was painted last month and someone forged Viviard’s signature and declared it painted in eighteen ninety-one, we can test the age of the paint and the canvas. Or compare the minutiae of his painting style, or his signature with his other works. Right now we farm that part of our service out, but one day Walter wants to have a branch here.”

  Margo sat back and tapped her pen on the pad. “So smugglers dealing with ancient artifacts know forensic testing will prove the correct age, but to get someone to fork over thousands or millions, provenances will have to be forged.”

  Gretch nodded. “There’s no question in my mind that’s being done.”

  “The gold-leaf Quran. Would you be able to trace the piece from Adyton and his eBay listing to where it came from before?”

  “I wouldn’t get far without his permission. But anyone bidding on it should be able to request and receive the provenance. If the seller says no or that he’ll only provide it to the winning bidder, that’s a huge red flag.”

  “Can we trace it through stolen inventory lists?”

  “It’ll take forever.” Gretch produced her laminated Stolen Art Alert cheat sheet. Four cultural watchdog sites were listed, sponsored by INTERPOL and UNESCO. “Even searching for a gold-leaf Quran would be a needle in a haystack.”

  “We’ll initiate a computer search on keywords. Gold leaf should narrow it down.”

  Gretch shook her head. “That’s what I mean. The haystack is millions of archive numbers, very few descriptions. You can’t believe how many museums and libraries in the Middle East have been looted.”

  “We have the manpower to try.” Margo frowned and tapped her pen on her pad. “Perhaps a two-pronged approach. Gather intelligence on the forgers who are creating the fake provenances to scam these ignorant art collectors.”

  Gretch laughed. “Don’t let the rich hear you calling them ignorant.”

  “But it’s true, right? They get
enough documentation to establish provenance and fork over millions.”

  Gretch nodded. The way Margo spoke to her on a colleague level was cool. “I’ve heard somewhere that forty percent of the art world is probably made up of forgeries. A provenance and the trust of a reputable dealer are all the wealthy clients have, unless they go through the expense of forensic testing.”

  Margo reached for her phone. “I’ll initiate a warrant to begin the forensic test on the Quran so we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  “Can you do that if it’s privately owned?”

  She nodded without ceasing the rapid typing. “If there’s suspicion that the profits pay for weapons or recruiting lone wolves, we’ll have no problem under the PATRIOT Act.”

  Kicking ass and taking names. The nervous energy from this morning’s success gripped Gretch again. “I’ve already established a rapport with Mr. Adyton. I can see if he’d answer questions on the provenance.”

  Margo shook her head. “We’ll do that from our end, but thanks for all this information.” She shook Gretch’s hand. “I meant what I said in the car. You’ve got a knack for this.”

  After she left, Gretch tapped her fingernails on the ceramic mug, staring at the Paris inventory list. The FBI. That would be such a cool career. She brought up Adyton’s Quran on eBay. How great would it be to use her research skills to authenticate him as a legitimate art dealer or out him as a smuggler? That would really knock Margo’s socks off. Just place a bid for the Quran and request verification of the provenance. After that, it only took one thread to unravel deception.

  14

  The karate studio’s tinkling chimes announced Gretch’s late arrival. “Sonofabitch,” she whispered, horror flashing through her. Had less advertising covered the broad windows, she’d have seen the trap before bursting in like this. She pressed against the door to slip back out, but Sean, in black-belted pajamas, swiveled from modeling a stance and grinned broadly. Any other time she’d have melted at how it lit his face. But not here, with five little boys staring wide-eyed at her.