Desiree threw off her blanket and stood. “You’re searching my property?”
Whatever lines of communication the interview had begun to form between he and Ms. Jacobs evaporated like water on a hot skillet. He felt the sizzle.
“Desi—girl! Oh, hon!” A stocky woman with a mop of bright red hair barged past Crane and made a beeline for Ms. Jacobs. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t find me earlier. I should have been here. I …” She folded the smaller woman in an embrace.
Desiree melted into the offered shoulder. The women rocked together.
Tony slid off the stool. He recognized Maxine Webb from his background check photos on everyone at HJ Securities. His interview with the intriguing Ms. Jacobs would have to continue later.
He took his partner on a tour of the scene in the living room but kept his ears tuned to the murmur of feminine voices in the kitchen. Little reached his ears outside of his own conversation with his partner. They went back into the kitchen. The women glared at them.
Tony tapped Crane’s arm. “I’ll supervise the search here. You take a team and head over to the business.”
“Wait!” Desiree stepped in front of them.
Her eyes blazed in a tear-stained face. “I’m not having you break down another door.” She looked toward her friend. “Max, please go to the office with the agent. Don’t let him take a step outside the parameters of his warrant.” She fixed Tony with a hard look. “I’ll defend our rights here.”
Tony motioned toward his partner. “This is Agent Steve Crane. If you provide him with a key, as any innocent citizen would be happy to do, your door will be safe.” He arched his eyebrows at Desiree.
Her face flamed, and those glaring eyes narrowed.
Maxine Webb stalked over to Crane and looked him up and down, as if sizing him for a casket. “C’mon, big boy. And watch your step, like the li’l lady said. You people have made an unholy mess in here. Don’t even think about doing the same to our office.” She swept toward the door.
Crane stomped off in her wake.
Desiree stuck her hands on her hips and looked around the room. “Where do we start?”
Tony pointed a finger at her. “This is outside protocol, but if you must, you can follow me around. You touch nothing, and you do not interfere with agents performing their duties. Including me. Got that?”
Her lips compressed, but she jerked a nod. “Whether you believe it or not, I want to catch these people twice as much as you do. Dad must have had something that Bocca creep wanted. I’d like to find it and get it out of my home, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, all right then.” What was she up to now? Genuine cooperation, or would he get a few clues from her body language about where illegal items might be hidden as they searched? Either way, his little step outside the regs might pay off.
Two hours later, they were still combing the house. They’d been upstairs in Desiree’s apartment, all through the main floor, and even poked around in the musty half cellar under the house. Desiree hadn’t kicked up a fuss about anything until he appropriated her father’s laptop computer for evaluation at the FBI office. After reading the fine print in the search warrant, she had to give in on that one, too. He’d be sure to tell the lab people to pay special attention to the laptop.
From the gray cast to her skin and dark circles under her eyes, Tony half expected her to drop. He didn’t feel far from it himself, though that was more out of frustration than anything else. Whatever Bocca had been looking for didn’t seem to be here. Desiree had been a great help in the search. Her behavior seemed open and genuine, but she hadn’t been able to identify a single thing out of place or unusual. Certainly nothing an international art smuggler would want.
They returned to the trashed living room. Agents had taped clear plastic over the broken picture window, and the sun’s rays shone through the cover, bathing the room in hazy light. Tony picked the lamp shade up off the floor and set it on the side table. “Are you sure your father didn’t have any secret hiding places around the house?”
“I grew up here. I know every nook and cranny.” Desiree flopped her arms.
“Just keep your eyes open then. I don’t think Bocca will be back, but we’ve got surveillance on the house from next door.”
Desiree frowned but didn’t protest. She’d better not. FBI presence last night had saved her life. Not that she’d offered a word of thanks.
Tony glanced at his watch. 9:00 a.m., and the day had already been more eventful than most. “I need to leave now. You should get some rest.”
“Are you going over to my office?”
“One of my first stops.”
“I’ll grab a shower and be right behind you.” She started to turn away, then gasped, her gaze fixed on the mantelpiece.
Tony tensed. “What is it?”
Desiree hurried over and cradled the bull in both hands. She moaned. “It’s been damaged. See?”
Tony looked over her shoulder. A deep gash ran the length of the animal’s body where a stray bullet had creased the stone. Desiree turned the sculpture around and over. A strip of white under the base caught Tony’s eye.
“Wait. What’s that?”
She turned the sculpture bottom up. Her brow furrowed. “Just Dad’s record-keeping system. He put a tag on the bottom of each acquisition, telling when and where he bought it and the provenance of the piece. ‘Bang’ stands for Bangkok, Thailand, which is the place of purchase. Then comes the date of purchase. The next two lines, ‘Sung Dynasty, circa A.D. 1200, Hunan Province, China,’ tell where the sculpture was made or found. That’s its background—or provenance.”
He eyed her. “I know what a provenance is. But what are those numbers in the fourth line?”
She frowned, peering at them, and the barest hesitation preceded her casual response. “I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe a general ledger code. You know, for bookkeeping. Dad was meticulous that way.”
Tony shifted in stance to catch her attention, but she didn’t make eye contact. Instead, she set the bull back on the mantel, then gazed up at him, features composed. “How did Dad die?” Her voice throbbed.
Tony laid a hand on her arm, and she didn’t flinch like she might have done a few hours ago. “He was found in bed in his hotel room, two bullets in his chest, one in his forehead. It was a professional job. From all indications, he was asleep and never woke up.”
Air whooshed from her lungs. Muscles in her throat pulsed. After a few seconds, she nodded. “Thank you. I needed to know. And tell that SWAT team thanks for showing up when they did.”
“Will do. Is there anything else you need?”
She gave him a strained smile. “No, I’ll be fine.”
Tony walked out to his car, a slow burn in his gut. Desiree Jacobs had lied to him about the numbers on the jade figure—and about being fine. Yet everything else she’d said to him today had struck him as the truth. Either she was the most calculating criminal he’d ever met, or she was a courageous innocent.
His heart leaped. He wanted her to be innocent. But that wouldn’t make her safe. Far from it.
Lord, I hope You can get her to tell the truth before it’s too late. I can’t seem to make a dent in that independent front.
Ms. Jacobs had better decide to come clean with every detail pretty soon, or things were not going to turn out well for her. People like Bocca and his faceless boss weren’t inclined to mercy.
Not even when their victim had hair as soft as a mink coat and a heart-shaped face that haunted a man’s dreams.
As soon as she was alone, Desi lifted the bull down from the mantel. She stared at the label on the bottom. She hadn’t lied to Tony … Agent Lucano. But she refused to let those kill-me-or-kiss-me brown eyes lure her into saying more than she should.
She really didn’t know what the numbers meant but doubted they were a general ledger code for use in the company’s books. This was a private purchase. Desi fingered the label. The configuration of numerals seemed
familiar, but the application escaped her. She frowned.
Dad never did anything without a reason. The numbers meant something …
Letting out a pent-up breath, she set the figure back on the mantel. She didn’t have time to decipher her father’s personal notes right now. She needed to call Officer Gaetano in Rome. He’d better be in, or she’d give new definition to the term Ugly American. Nothing was more important than getting her dad’s body home.
Mysteries, no matter how intriguing, were on hold until she buried her father.
Desi stood by the checkout counter and glanced around the video store at people browsing the shelves. Last Thursday, Max and I were in here wrangling in the classics section like our lives depended on picking between James Dean and Jimmy Stewart. Who would have guessed she’d feel nostalgic for a time less than a week ago?
“Hi, Ms. J.”
Desi turned to see a pimply-faced teenager grinning at her from behind the counter.
“Sorry these are late, Decker.” She handed him the stack of overdue DVDs and turned to go.
“Want to pick out some new ones?” Decker’s voice followed her. “We just got a set of remastered Katharine Hepburn movies.”
“Not today.” She didn’t look back as she took a step. “I really don’t care.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped to clear her throat, then swiveled to face him. She didn’t owe this kid an explanation, but she’d done business here long enough that even the part-time help knew her taste in movies.
“My dad was k—my father died three days ago. I’m not doing so great at the moment.”
Nothing like baring one’s wounds to a casual acquaintance. Of course, with Dad gone, besides Max what other sort of contacts did she have? How had she become so isolated? Barrenness settled in her heart like an endless desert.
Decker’s grin faded. “Aw, Ms. J. That’s tough. How about I let you take a few freebies. I can fix it right up on the computer.”
A smile snuck up on Desi and touched her mouth. What an absurd condolence offer! But cute and from the heart. Dad always did say she had an odd sense of humor. “Thank you, Decker.” She waved and headed for the door.
“Wait, Ms. J! I almost forgot. Something came for you yesterday.”
Desi came back to the desk, and the young man held out a VHS video. A gift card was taped to the case with her full first name spelled out in large, dark letters.
“Where did that come from?”
Decker shrugged. “Some dude phoned in the request. Then he sent money order payment and this card to attach. Said it was a surprise and to give it to you next time you stopped in. Guess he wanted to remain anonymous. Unless he signed the card. But I sure didn’t open it to find out.”
Desi took the package and clutched the video to her chest as she walked to her car. The hot sun on the tarmac sent waves of heat up her body. Or maybe it was nerves. She slipped into the driver’s seat and turned on the car and the air-conditioning.
Who would send her a mysterious gift? Her money was on the bad guys.
With fingers not quite steady, she flipped up the envelope to see what she held: a copy of Orson Welles’s 1946 release The Stranger, still in its shrink-wrap. She’d seen it before. The movie was about a man who lives a quiet, respectable life as a New England prep school teacher … until he’s exposed as a Nazi war criminal and commits murder to keep his secret safe.
Dad, what did you know that got you killed? Who is protecting himself? And from what?
Desi shook her head. She was jumping to conclusions, reading into the choice of video a message that might not be there. The card was the important thing. She set the tape on the passenger seat and then paused. Some unseen menace knew she was a classic movie buff and where she rented them? Tiny ants crawled across her scalp.
She glanced around the parking lot, then up and down the street. There. A dark sedan with two men sitting inside. Her FBI tail. They must be wondering why she didn’t drive away from the store. Let them.
Desi ripped open the envelope and drew out a square of stiff vellum card stock. The message looked like it had been run on an ordinary computer printer.
One can never be too sure of those closest to them. When you find what Hiram left behind, keep quiet. You will receive instructions. Disaster would follow a chat with the authorities.
The word disaster hit Desi between the eyes. Her fingers tightened on the envelope—and she realized there was something more inside. Her throat squeezed as she pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. The scrap of newsprint was yellowed with age. She unfolded it and found a photograph of a burned-out office building. The caption spoke of a tragic explosion and fire that claimed the lives of many employees. The date and the name of the business had been cut out, leaving little square holes where that information should have been.
Horror and fury ripped Desi into equal parts. She flung the offending card and news clipping away from her. They fluttered to the floor on the passenger side.
No mistaking this message. The threat wasn’t even subtle. Play this my way or your office may go up in flames. Innocent people—her staff, herself—could die, just like in this tragedy recorded in an unknown newspaper. She slammed her fist against the armrest. The slimy killer had threatened her where she was the most vulnerable. He thought he could control her.
Not!
Desi jerked her car into gear and peeled out of the parking lot. She headed for downtown Boston and the FBI office building. Never mind the agents assigned as her tail. She didn’t even care if they kept up with her. This demanded a certain man’s attention.
Special Agent Tony Lucano was going to get an earful from her.
He could put the full power of his agency into finding out who sent her this vile note. She was not going to be held hostage at the whim of a murderer, even if she had to close down her offices to keep the staff safe.
Yes, that’s what she’d do. A lot of them could work from their homes. She’d keep the business going that way and spit in the killer’s face at the same time. It might not work as well in their foreign branch offices, but she’d think of something.
She plotted and planned through twenty minutes of hectic Boston traffic. The FBI office loomed close. She cruised past and then circled Scollay Square. Again, she went by the building. Her rebellious foot never let up on the gas pedal.
What was she doing?
The answer was immediate.
The FBI had brought her nothing but grief and more grief, with little or nothing to show for it. As much as she wanted to spite the mysterious messenger, as much as she longed to see him brought to justice, sharing the note with Lucano would be a waste of time. Whoever had sent it was too smart to leave fingerprints. From what she could tell, there was nothing unique about the paper or the print or the envelope. The newspaper clipping was gutted of clues as to its origin. The bravado of rushing to the “authorities,” as this jerk put it, might even reap more death. No, she needed to be smart.
If she hadn’t blown it already.
Desi drove home at a sedate pace. A strange calm enfolded her. Somewhere along the route, she noticed that her FBI tail had stuck with her like the proverbial burr. They were good. After her erratic behavior, no doubt Agent Lucano would come around with searching questions. Fine. She’d give him a nugget of truth. Tell him she had wanted to know the latest on the investigation—which as far as she could see was going nowhere—but couldn’t bring herself to drop by his office and face more disappointment. That ought to rattle his cage.
She smiled without humor.
Lucano had nothing to worry about with her. Same went for Mr. Murderer. She didn’t know anything that could help either of them.
Her father’s remains would arrive in Boston tomorrow. She was due at the funeral home after lunch today to plan the service. She needed to keep her focus on what was within her scope of responsibility. Anything else she’d have to leave with God.
Desi bit her lower lip. Yeah, right! She wasn’t very
good at “letting go and letting God.” Action was in her blood. It drove her nuts not to be able to right a wrong. Just give her the tiniest bit of opportunity and she’d jump in and mess up some lowlife’s devious plan with a few head games of her own.
A small voice in the back of her mind mocked her. Big talk for a woman without a plan … or even a clue.
Scents closed in on Desiree—freshly turned earth, wet spring grass, roses from the casket bouquet, perfumed bodies packed under the funeral canopy She inhaled but couldn’t fill her lungs. The chair under her was as hard as the lump beneath her breastbone. She looked outside, seeking a glimmer of sunlight, but found only knots of mourners huddled under umbrellas in the sullen drizzle.
She ran a hand under the collar of her black suit. Max squeezed her other hand.
Pastor Grange stood a few feet away, Bible open. He read her father’s favorite Scripture. “… giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”
The pastor’s gaze rested on Desi, and he gave her a gentle smile. “Hiram Jacobs knew the truth of these words from Colossians chapter 1. In my frequent conversations with him, his words were salted with grace and thanksgiving …”
Desi shifted her weight.
Dad’s faith was always more solid than mine. Kinder, too.
Shouldn’t such goodness come with some reward? Yes, he was in a peaceful place now, safe and surrounded by love. United with his wife, the mother Desi couldn’t remember. Yet here his name was still being dragged in the mud. The newspaper accounts stopped short of outright accusation, but word got around in the art community. Several clients had given notice to terminate their contracts with HJ Securities. No grace for a man not yet buried.
God, where are You? She ached in the place where her sense of His presence used to be. Had He taken His business elsewhere, too?
An elbow nudged her ribs. Desi turned her head toward Max, who nodded toward the grave. Expectant silence had fallen. Time to stand up and take a rose from the casket before it was lowered into the ground. Desi went through the motions, and the service ended.
Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Page 4
