Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  “How long has Lincoln Bank kept track?” Dirk asked.

  “Reports go back to two thousand eleven, which is when the Syrian uprising began. Deposits are all under ten grand, but the sudden and excessive transfers offshore are what triggered the banker’s suspicion.”

  “Sean said the warehouse he was brought to was stacked with crates. He took a photo.” Margo’s gaze flicked to the Chicago police representative. “Place isn’t owned or leased by Adyton, though.”

  “No, ma’am,” the cop said. “So far we haven’t found any in his name. This particular warehouse is owned by a Tomas Hussain. We’ll begin surveillance and send anyone entering or exiting through the facial recognition database. We’ll contact ComEd and AT&T and have them pull their records.”

  Margo nodded her approval. Jace watched her enter the facts, but underneath the table he flipped his phone frontward and backward like a casino dealer. He could so multitask this better and get the task force back out on the street with their next assignments. She was taking too long to absorb all the intel.

  “What about the rest of the eBay items?” she asked.

  “His company account is listed as WindyCityAntiques,” Dirk began.

  Jace bowed his head, listening to his buddy’s dry report as he plugged Gretch’s stalker’s phone number into the DAVID system.

  Brandon Myers, thirty-three, divorced five years ago, with a restraining order shortly thereafter that was still in effect. Lived at a high-end address in Wilmette. Hedge fund manager at Hennings, a small but aggressive company twenty minutes from here. A quick swing by there before lunch and problem solved. This is not your lucky day, Brandon Myers.

  “…we’re filtering his listings through the International Foundation for Art Research,” Dirk concluded, “and four cultural watchdog sites sponsored by INTERPOL and UNESCO.”

  Margo nodded. “That about wraps it up.”

  As the task force closed files and stood, Jace caught Margo’s eye. “Is Gretch good to go back to her apartment?” Or mine?

  “From our end, yes.” The unspoken message hung in the air. Whoever was stalking her could still be a risk.

  Jace nodded. “The other issue is taken care of too.” He looked forward to confronting the fucker, reassuring Gretch, absorbing her gratitude. Although there’d been that odd tone in Sean’s voice when he’d mentioned walking Gretch to the hotel. Jace flipped his phone back and forth faster to distract from the growing guilt. God knew he’d done enough poaching of his other brothers’ women. He didn’t need to steal from the one guy who was probably still a virgin.

  As high commander of gutless wonders, Sean waited until Gretch disappeared into Walter’s office to go refill his coffee. Finally. The morning had been a tense standoff beginning with no new sneakers and no syllable uttered about last night. Given the Vermeer and the damn Quran that took all his focus, his impasse with Gretch was beyond his energy at the moment. Thus not getting coffee until just now, so they didn’t run into each other in the break room.

  Sean reclaimed his stool, looked up the Wickham home number in the database, and dialed. It had been seven months since he’d worked in the mansion. What was the son’s name again?

  “Wickham residence,” a woman answered. “May I help you?”

  “Sean Quinn from Moore and Morrow art restoration—”

  “I’ll get Mr. Wickham for you, sir.”

  “Actually, I’d like to speak to his son.” Devon—Hannah’s sweetheart—was definitely not there, which left the son who’d bought the painting.

  “Rick?”

  That was it! “Rick, yes.”

  A pause. “You said Moore and Morrow?”

  Sean grinned at the suspicious tone. Based on the hideous painting, Rick knew nothing about art or the priceless masterpieces his father collected. “This is in regard to the painting he gave Mr. Wickham last October.”

  “One moment.”

  Sean paced his tiny cubicle, ignoring the urge to hang up and hand the problem over to the FBI. Finding the criminal was such a long shot, and his brain was eking out final synapses after zero sleep. But the mystery of how the stolen art came to be in Rick Wickham’s hands compelled him to hold.

  “Hello?” Rick’s voice was groggy from sleep.

  Sean checked his watch. After ten. “Yeah, hi.” He introduced himself and explained his role in restoring the gift. “May I ask where you bought that painting?”

  “Some place on West Milwaukee. I forgot the name.”

  “It would be on the receipt.”

  “I left without one. I was in a hurry.” The irritated tone nudged a vague memory of the man, whose natural expression even in unguarded moments screamed entitled.

  “May I ask how much you paid?” Sean asked.

  “Seventy-five bucks.”

  Gretch breezed out of Walter’s office with a stack of folders, glancing Sean’s way before he could hunker down in his cubicle. She stilled, expressionless, long enough for the moment to take an even more awkward turn.

  “Hello?” Rick said loudly.

  “Yeah.” Sean nodded to her and slowly sank onto the stool. “Did the clerk know this was a present for Harrison Wickham? Or that you were his son?”

  “No.” A pause. “Why?”

  This wasn’t useful. “It’s a question of the pigment the artist used,” Sean lied. “We were wondering whether the store had other pieces by this artist so we can research further. Maybe they’ve sold to your family before.”

  “Sorry. All I remember is it was next to a Chinese restaurant.”

  Sean bit back a laugh. “And the name of the restaurant?”

  “Dunno. It had a red-and-black awning and a Yelp poster for the best Peking duck in Chicago. I’d gone for lunch and realized it was my dad’s birthday, so I stopped by the art store after.”

  It should not be this difficult. “Nearest cross street?”

  “Kimball?” The questioning tone didn’t instill confidence, but it was a start. Sean thanked him and hung up. He pulled up three Chinese restaurants on West Milwaukee and Google Earthed the location closest to the Kimball intersection. Bingo. ShenYen Restaurant had a red-and-black striped awning. The pink brick shop to the right had a giant paintbrush above the door. Donatello’s Art and Supplies was painted in gold, although the font was chipped to the point of tacky. He Googled the store, but their website was minimal and unenlightening.

  Sean sighed. Chinese food was near the bottom of the food chain, but if he went there for lunch, he could inquire next door. Actually, he could kill three birds with one stone—neither he nor Gretch had brought in a bagged lunch. Time to stop being a coward.

  He buzzed Gretch’s interoffice line, palms damp. His name would be blazoned across her console.

  “Yes?” Her tone was guarded. He stared at his ash-gray partition because he had absolutely no comeback. She’d never answered the phone without insulting him before. Not even his first day, when any normal person would treat the new guy with kid gloves and overly bright smiles.

  Then again, he’d seen for himself last night just how abnormal she was underneath the sassy personality and killer body. He ached for an insult. Ached to go back to the way things were before his stupid idea to hang at Teenie’s last Saturday night.

  “Got lunch plans?” He winced at his high voice.

  The silence over the line went on long enough for a drop of sweat to trickle down his temple.

  “Are you asking me out?” The incredulity was more like her, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “More like inviting myself along.” He kept his tone light. “Wherever you plan to go. Personally, I’m in the mood for Chinese. There’s a place on Milwaukee I’m dying to try.”

  A muffled oath. He rose slowly, eyeing her down the hall as she thunked an elbow on the desk and slapped her forehead into her palm. Come on, Gretch. Let me have it with both barrels.

  “All right.” She sighed. “But if you start with that weird chewing, I’m ou
tta there.”

  22

  The overpowering combination of Chinese food, kitchen grease, customer perfumes, and an imminent sewage problem in the restrooms almost gagged Sean as they stepped into ShenYen. As the waitress seated them, he breathed shallowly, adopting the unawareness of Gretch and the rest of the patrons, who clearly weren’t affronted by the stench.

  As soon as the waitress took their order, Gretch sipped her iced tea and scrolled through her phone. Perfect. Sean excused himself to go to the restroom and walked out, gulping breaths of fresh air before heading into Donatello’s Art and Supplies.

  A young guy with a scruffy beard sat behind the register, leafing through a comic book and nodding in time to loud alternative rock coming from ceiling speakers. When he spotted Sean, he tipped his chair back, lowered the volume on the stereo, and slipped the comic book out of sight. “Can I help you?” His sullen tone implied the exact opposite.

  “A friend showed me a painting he bought here in October. I was hoping to find more from this artist.” As he spoke, Sean scanned the merchandise on the shelves. The brands were inferior, supplies Moore and Morrow would never use. The art on the walls was substandard. “It’s a landscape of a wheat field in winter? Face of a bleak-looking farmer. The artist signed it Salvatore.”

  The slouching clerk popped off his chair. “You know where that painting is?”

  The eagerness and recognition of such a shitty piece threw up a big, fat red alert. Sean shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Naw. He showed me a picture on his phone. I think he took the art with him to Europe.”

  “Who showed you?”

  Sean paused. This was so not the way he’d expected the conversation to go. “A college friend,” he answered, even though Rick was eight or nine years younger. “It sounds like you recognize the piece.”

  “I sold it by accident.” The clerk rounded the counter and strode forward so rapidly that Sean instinctively eased into a subtle martial arts stance. “I can’t believe you found it.” The clerk stopped in front of Sean, face flushed. He reeked of onions and BO. His nametag, Johnny, rose and fell rapidly on his chest. “I need to get it back,” he said in a higher octave. “It’s, like, crazy important I find it.”

  Sean lifted his palms and shrugged. “I can ask,” he said. “Is it valuable or something?”

  “My father painted it. He owns this place.” Johnny waved around the store. “It was part of his personal collection.”

  Sean looked around the walls again. If this place was part of a black market art ring, it was in sad shape. “Why would he put his collection on display with the rest of these?” he asked, fishing for anything.

  “It was hanging behind the register. Only two days, man.” Johnny thumbed the vacant place he’d just left. “Some guy came in and needed a gift, like, ASAP. When he pointed at it, I just made up a ridiculous price and out came this wad of cash. I never got his name or nothin’. I had no idea it was so important.”

  Sean’s skin prickled. It’s two hundred million dollars important. He had enough information to give the FBI. He needed to get back to the restaurant. Gretch had the patience of a gnat. “I’ll tell my friend to call you. You got a business card?”

  Johnny nodded eagerly and bounded to the counter, swiping one off a stack. He returned, beaming. “Thank God you came in. I need your friend to call me, today, bro. My old man’s still yellin’ at me.”

  “Sure.” Sean pocketed the card. “I’ll tell him it’s critical.” He turned on his heel while the kid still yammered over the importance of the painting. Dumbass hadn’t bothered to get Sean’s name, either. Johnny’s father was going to hit the ceiling.

  When Sean opened the restaurant door, the combination of odors hit him full in the face again. Stress or exhaustion always heightened his olfactory sensitivity, and he was a ball of both. How would he last through lunch? He swallowed his nausea and claimed his seat across from Gretch.

  She lifted a shapely eyebrow without looking up from her phone. Their steaming entrees were on the scalloped paper placemats. Despite the reek, his stomach grumbled.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, “long line in there.”

  She flipped her phone over and pursed her lips. “Why are we here?”

  “Sustenance. Also known as lunch, although the British call it dinner—”

  “Why so far from the office?” she snapped. Despite her expert makeup, dark crescents puffed under her eyes like smudged mascara.

  “I heard they have the best Peking duck in the city.”

  “You’re a vegan.”

  Sean modified the precise angle between his stinky plate and his iced tea. “I meant for you.” This shallow breathing was making him lightheaded. His comebacks weren’t up to par.

  Gretch leaned forward, pointing her finger. “Don’t bullshit me. We’ve never even eaten in the break room at the same time. What do you want?”

  The brittleness in her eyes looked like treacherous black ice. He stilled. He didn’t have the wit today. Honesty was the only option. “I want to talk about last night.”

  “It’s over. If we’re going to continue working together, you need to forget it happened.”

  A waitress holding an iced-tea pitcher approached. Sean shook his head in warning, but she smiled and bowed her head shyly, still on course. When she reached their table, Gretch waved her away with a formidable scowl. The poor woman scuttled off, shoulders hunched. It was uncalled for, and Sean sat up straighter.

  “There’s no need to bite everyone’s head off, Gretch.”

  She sighed like the weight of the world just set up camp on her shoulders. “Look, Sean, you’re a nice guy—”

  He braced for impact.

  “—and I realize you probably don’t date, so let me clue you in. It’s an unspoken rule that you move on from a one-night stand. You don’t ask the girl out for Chinese; you don’t discuss it. It’s done.”

  She toyed with her food, expressions flitting across her face like she was arguing with herself. Finally, she lowered her fork and rubbed her lips together. “You did like it, right?”

  Her vulnerable expression wiped the floor with his heart. So they were going to discuss it after all. Sean paused. How to put this precisely? “I floated up to the pearly gates and high-fived all the angels.”

  She pricked her forefinger on the prongs of the fork, still lying on her placemat. “Then why aren’t you acting like all the others do afterward?”

  Christ, how do normal guys act? He’d massaged her feet, escorted her to work, taken her to lunch… “Give me a hint,” he said, hating the helpless tone. What had he done wrong all these years with other women?

  “I don’t know.” She waved her hand. “Grovel? Gush? Propose marriage to get me to do it again?”

  He stared at her, and she stared back, chin up, lips firm. Given her reaction when he’d brushed her breast, those choices sounded abhorrent. How insensitive were these guys? Surely some, if not all, had tried to touch her before, during, or afterward. They hadn’t picked up on the damage? “I may not date a lot,” he said hesitantly, “but it seemed like you weren’t having as good a time. At all. When I accidentally touched—”

  “Check, please!”

  “Gretch.”

  She grabbed her purse and began sliding out of the booth.

  The terrified waitress appeared instantly. “You no like?”

  “We’re fine.” Sean clamped Gretch’s wrist across the table. “I’ll shut up.”

  She hesitated, head down. His breath sawed so inefficiently he grew dizzy. Before this week, their relationship had been tenuous at best: a few insults, a lot of ignoring, occasionally agreeing to do a favor if it benefitted someone else. But all that time he’d hungered for her. The larger-than-life personality, her wit, the killer body she clearly had issues with.

  The problem with last night was now he craved the real woman underneath that sparkly, prickly package. He wanted to shoulder the burden of her inner scars,
wanted to heal her wounded heart. He was a certifiable doormat, which was tragic, because her attraction leaned toward the exact opposite. Shakespeare would’ve had a field day with this.

  Gretch shifted back to the middle of the booth, and he released her wrist. With a nod of assurance to the waitress, he picked up his fork. The distraught Chinese woman slipped the little tray with the check and fortune cookies by his glass and hurried off. Patrons throughout the restaurant gawked at them. A few whispered.

  What a freaking debacle. Sean dug into his steamed rice and vegetables, ignoring the way Gretch picked at her food. How easily this tactic came back to him. Eat fast, hold as still as possible, retreat into his head so deeply that he was only physically present. This whole fiasco was a replica of restaurant meals as a kid. His older brothers and their rowdy antics used to shrivel him in his seat. Countless times he’d shoveled in food, wishing he could disappear. Eventually the horrific meal would be over, his mother apologizing to the waitress, his father cuffing the boys or adding extra to the bill to pay for broken items.

  “Do you always eat clockwise?” Gretch asked in a tone like, “Have you always had four nostrils?”

  Sean blinked down at his plate. Dread slithered along his spine. When he ate in public, he was cognizant to pick from different areas of his plate even though it gave him the heebie-jeebies. She’d wound him up so tightly he hadn’t paid attention. The precise wedge of food remaining resembled eleven to twelve on a clock.

  He laid down his fork. “I can’t believe you of all people didn’t know it’s International Eat Clockwise Day.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Sean.”

  “Google it.”

  Her unamused glare slathered on another layer to the already backbreaking tension. The contents he’d gobbled dumped into his stomach all at once. He almost moaned.

  She placed her fork on her plate and patted her mouth. “Finished?” She’d had six pieces of chicken and thirteen broccolini spears when the plate had been placed in front of her, and that was what remained.

  “Yeah. Thanks for coming all this way to sit with me.” He dug for his wallet, counting out cash when she snatched the bill.