Standing under the canopy, she accepted a steady stream of condolences. Teary-eyed company employees hugged her. Sober-faced clients and business associates patted her hand. The same murmurs and replies over and over again.
And there’s a bull’s-eye on my back, too.
With FBI surveillance ongoing, unseen eyes watched her from a distance. At such a public event as the funeral, it’d be Lucano, no doubt, and probably his thug of a partner. They would be watching for Leone Bocca or someone connected with him, and Bocca could be watching her. Desi’s spine prickled, and she stiffened.
Just let him try to approach me. He’ll be so busted!
Her breath hitched. Perhaps her father’s killer was here. Gooseflesh traveled down her arms. Had she shaken hands with him today? Had he been laughing at her behind one of those funeral smiles? He’d been so clever and so bold with that communication through the video store. Nothing for anyone to trace. No way for the FBI to know she’d been contacted, unless she told them.
Desi swallowed. Had she done the right thing in keeping quiet? The blackened devastation of the picture in the newspaper clipping appeared in her mind. Her throat tightened.
“Desiree Jacobs?”
She started at the soft voice beside her.
“Monsieur Dujardin, you came!”
“Would I miss saying a proper farewell to one of my dearest friends?”
The slim, white-haired gentlemen leaning on a four-pronged cane raised pale brows, but his eyes smiled. He resembled a dapper Gene Kelly in a double-breasted suit and black wing tips. Had he been thirty years younger and had this been a happier day, Desi could picture him tap-dancing and singin’ in the rain like the 1950’s film star.
“Daddy would have wanted you here. He mentioned you often.”
“And likewise he spoke of you to me. Your papa was very proud of you.”
Desi blinked back tears and made her lips form a smile. “I’ve always enjoyed our conversations when you call the office. But the last time I saw you I was young enough to appreciate the teddy bear you gave me. Did I ever properly thank you, monsieur?”
He cupped her palm in his. “You must call me Paul. This is not business, and you are not a little girl any longer but a beautiful young woman.”
He bowed over Desi’s hand.
Old-world elegance. A woman’s charm-o-meter would have to be broken not to love this.
Tears glistened in his dark eyes. On impulse, Desi hugged him. He patted her back, making little harrumphing noises.
They drew apart, and he looked at the ground. “It seems impossible that Hiram is gone. I shall miss him a great deal.”
“Did you fly in from France just today?”
Paul shook his head. “When I heard the news of Hiram’s passing, I was at my Washington DC estate helping my son with his campaign for reelection to the Senate.”
“A U.S. election campaign? Oh, yes. Daddy said you have dual citizenship.”
“My father was an impoverished aristocrat who married an American heiress, an exchange of title for money not so uncommon in those days.” Paul laughed. “And now they are both gone, and I have outlived two wives. Who’d have thought I would also outlive a friend so much younger than myself?” His gaze sharpened. “Hiram was at my villa right before he left for Rome. If I had been able to stay and host him a little while longer, perhaps …” His nostrils pinched, and he blinked rapidly.
A touch on her arm distracted Desi. She looked around to find Sanderson Plate offering a smile and a handshake.
“On behalf of Boston Public Museum of Art and Antiquities, I would like to extend my sympathies.”
“Thank you. So kind of you to be here.”
Now leave so I can finish my conversation with Paul about Daddy.
Stay cordial, girl. You don’t need another client to withdraw from a contract because you’re more interested in what someone else has to say.
Plate nodded. “We won’t hold you to your schedule with us tomorrow if you need more time to get your affairs in order.”
Desi’s stomach clenched, but she managed a smile. “That’s very thoughtful, but the staff interviews will be conducted as planned. HJ Securities will continue to serve our clients with the usual standard of excellence.”
“Good, good.” Plate rubbed a hand across the top of his head.
“Let me introduce you to Paul Dujardin.” She motioned toward the elderly gentleman. “Paul, this is Dr. Sanderson Plate, head curator at Boston Public. The two of you share a devotion to fine art, I believe.”
“P-Paul Dujardin? The art critic?” The curator’s pink cheeks lost color. “I didn’t expect … I mean … an honor, monsieur.”
“My pleasure to meet you.” Paul held out a hand.
The curator gave it a quick grip and then hurried across the lawn without another word. His furled umbrella whipped back and forth in his hand, while his smooth dome and suited shoulders got wet in the increasing rain. He made for a car parked up the street, where a slender female figure climbed into the passenger seat. Desi narrowed her eyes. Must be Jacqueline Taylor in a hurry to get back to the office … or maybe she didn’t want to talk to Paul either.
Desi exchanged looks with the Frenchman.
His shrug was as eloquent as his laugh. “I had no idea I was so fearsome.”
“Did you do a scathing review of one of their displays?”
“If I did, I have forgotten. But who can comprehend the oddities of the human mind—mine or Monsieur Plate’s?”
For the first time in days, Desi laughed.
When Desi arrived home after the funeral, her purse hung like a lead weight on her shoulder. She dragged her feet through the front door and reset the alarm. Since the break-in, she kept the door and window alarms activated at all times, not just when she was out.
Her heart sank at the sight of the climb to her apartment. Mount Everest. Not going there right now. She wandered into the downstairs living room.
The picture window’s panes had been replaced and the curtains rehung. No glass splinters or wood chips remained on the floor. Except for the missing table lamp, everywhere she looked her father’s things sat undisturbed, as if awaiting his return. She let out a gust of breath.
Loneliness and sorrow lumped in her stomach. Thank heaven she still had the business to give her a reason to get up every morning.
Dad, I promise you, I will keep HJ Securities afloat. And your good name will be cleared.
So far, the FBI had made no arrests, nor had the Italian police, who were on watch for Leone Bocca. The search at the HJ Securities office had uncovered nothing incriminating or even suspicious. Analysts were dissecting data from the firm’s computers, but they weren’t going to find anything. If her father had been part of anything criminal—which she didn’t believe for a millisecond—he was too smart to leave evidence in the usual devious places that attracted investigators like bees to honey.
No, he was more likely to hide something in plain sight, where no one would look at it twice. Dad swore simplicity was the most effective subterfuge.
Desi stopped. Stared.
If her father had stumbled across something that got him in trouble with Leone Bocca and his mysterious boss, it was still here at the house! Probably in this very room where her father had spent the most time.
Waves of electric energy washed up and down her body. Heart pumping in overdrive, she slipped out of her high-heeled shoes and took off her suit jacket. Time for another search, Jacobs style. Either she would find something that would prove her father a man of integrity—a man who simply discovered something that got him killed—or she would find nothing at all. Either way, she could rub Tony Lucano’s face in her father’s innocence.
Beginning in one corner of the room, she ran a hand along the plaster walls. No unusual bumps or anything out of the ordinary. Definitely no secret passage. She grinned. The top of the door lintel yielded nothing but dust. No key to a safe-deposit box in the Cayman Islands,
or wherever crooks hid their loot these days. She took a flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen, then got on her knees on the hearth and peered up the chimney.
Yuck! Oh, gross! Desi backed away, brushing at black smudges on her white blouse. I won’t be wearing this again.
She stood up, tossed the flashlight onto the easy chair, and planted her hands on her hips. She was still thinking too cloak-and-dagger. Tapping a finger against her lower lip, she scanned the room. Plain sight. Plain sight.
Her gaze halted on her father’s prized jade collection. First, the mandarin duck. Then the ox. Then a Qing Dynasty white jade cabbage. Next came the Kwan Yin figure.
Could have bowled me over with a feather when he bought that one.
The goddess represented admirable qualities such as kindness and justice but was steeped in Buddhist philosophies of reincarnation and collective human godhood. When Desi had asked him about his purchase, her father gave her a one-armed hug and said, “I have no belief in this piece of stone shaped by human hands. The object can’t hurt me or help me, but it’s just what I need for my collection.”
Just what he needed? Desi’s skin prickled. Daddy was buying with a purpose, not a collector’s passion.
Last in line on the mantelpiece, the damaged bull stood frozen in a humpbacked snort.
Desi swept the order of figures again. Duck. Ox. Cabbage. Kwan. Bull. In an acrostic, the first letters of each item would spell …dockb. Dockb? Desi frowned, concentrating. Then her eyes widened. No, not dockb …
Dock B.
In a harbor town like Boston, those words meant something. And Daddy had loved his acrostics.
Desi clenched and unclenched her fists. Maybe she was making things up in desperation.
Maybe not.
She strode to the mantel, flipped the duck over, and read the white tag on the bottom. If she hadn’t been looking for it, she would have missed the abbreviation in the four lines of text about the background and purchase details. EBOS. East Boston Harbor.
Desi set the duck down and grabbed the ox. Nothing cryptic this time, but the place of purchase read Pier 1 Imports. Hah! I know good and well Dad didn’t get this at the import store. He bought it online from a previous owner.
What did she have so far? Dock B at East Boston Harbor on Pier 1.
Desi picked up the cabbage and discovered WRHS. She nodded. Of course. Warehouse. The numeral five was included in the provenance information. Warehouse 5.
She set the cabbage down and leaned her forehead against the cool marble of the mantel’s edge. Her breath came in harsh gasps. She so did not want to complete this puzzle, because once she did she’d have to do something with the knowledge.
But the truth wouldn’t go away just because she hid from it. Making like an ostrich wouldn’t exempt her from being the target of a killer like Leone Bocca. In fact, ignorance could be fatal if she had no idea what she was up against.
Desi swallowed. She made herself pick up the Kwan Yin. The label’s acrostic had to be an abbreviation: CONT. But the purchase date didn’t make sense: 1-1-93. Dad hadn’t started his jade collection until six months ago. Cont. 1193?
Her heart fell. Container 1193.
She moved on to the final figure. No acrostic. Nothing unusual. What? Ooooh! What a sludge-brain! She and her father worked with these types of codes all the time. The string of numbers in the fourth line was a keypunch sequence for a brand of electronic lock.
Tremors began deep inside. She stared unseeing at the numerals. Everything fit. So logical. So neat. So like her father.
Only someone who knew Hiram as well as she did would pick up on the clues. Who else was that close to him? No one. The message was for her alone. Dad had known this day might come, and he was speaking to her from beyond the grave.
Speaking … or confessing.
Daddy, no! What have you done?
A cry left her lips. The jade figurine slipped from her fingers, and the crash of splintering stone jerked Desi from her trance. She whirled and raced from the room, pounding up the stairs to her apartment. She slammed and locked the door, then leaned against the jamb, panting.
She couldn’t believe … But what if—? Not possible!
Her father was an honest man. End of story. Whatever had happened, when the truth came out, the world would know that Hiram Jacobs had good reason for hiding something from evil people.
Desi’s breathing slowed. She’d vowed to restore her father’s good name. Now that she had a direction to investigate, she needed to sit down and plan. That’s what Dad would have done.
She went to the kitchen and brewed a cup of herbal tea—good old brain juice. With the mug cupped in her hands, she curled up on the corner of her sofa.
Getting to the container undetected by the legal beagles or the bad guys would be difficult. She was watched everywhere she went. Was the house bugged? Probably thicker than an infestation of cockroaches. Were her phone wires tapped here and at the business? She would have to assume so. Hemmed in by human and electronic surveillance, she had limited options.
Should she involve Max? A helper would be worth her weight in Rembrandts. Desi shook her head. No way would she involve her best friend in something that might get her hurt. Max was a wife and mother, for pity’s sake.
The odds against solo success were the pits. But she had one thing going for her: Neither Lucano and company nor Bocca and boss understood the extent of the training she’d received under her father’s instruction.
She smiled and took another sip of tea, savoring the minty tang.
Dad, if you were here, we could have fun with this.
Desi’s spirits plummeted into the dust. Dad wasn’t here.
She didn’t trust Tony Lucano and his guilty-before-charged system of law enforcement. She feared Leone Bocca’s violence and the terrorist threats of his faceless master. But both paled in comparison to what she dreaded most …
Finding out what was hidden in Container 1193 of Dock B, Warehouse 5, on Pier 1 of East Boston Harbor.
Tony barged through the second-floor bedroom door of the surveillance house next to the Jacobs home. “What have you got?”
The Asian-American technician looked up from her receiving unit at the lone table in the bare room. She pulled off her headset and shrugged. “I may have called you in for nothing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“No, really, I—”
“Humor him.” Crane’s voice came from the doorway.
Tony turned to see his partner saunter into the room. The tip of a toothpick peeked from between his lips. Not much of an improvement over the gum-smacking.
Crane shot the young technician a toothy grin, jaw clamped around his pick. “He’ll just keep bugging you until you give him the details. He’s got a thing for this investigation.”
Tony glared at his partner. Was Stevo implying that Tony had something personal at stake?
“Very well.” The woman’s expression didn’t indicate that she considered Crane’s comment out of line. “Desiree Jacobs arrived home from her father’s funeral about an hour ago. For about five minutes, I picked up soft breathing from the downstairs living room area. Then I started hearing noises that sounded like a search. This went on for, say, thirty minutes. Then it got all quiet again, but the breathing got louder. Like she was agitated. Pretty soon, bam! Something hit the floor and broke. She cried out, and then I heard feet running across the room and up the stairs. That’s when I called you. I thought maybe we had an intruder situation again.”
“We don’t?” The question came out harsher than he had intended.
“Nah. If I thought so, I’d have sent the boys over. Besides, an ant couldn’t get in there without us spotting it or an alarm going off. For the last twenty minutes, I’ve picked up ordinary sounds. Someone rattling around in the upstairs kitchen. Relaxed breathing in Miss Jacobs’s living room.”
Thank heaven! Tony’s muscles relaxed. Why should he feel relieved? They wanted to catch a b
urglar. Yeah, but he didn’t want Desiree in danger. The stark fact stared him in the face.
Crane chuckled. “That Jacobs lady is a piece of work. Knew it the minute I laid eyes on her. She must have been looking for whatever loot her dad stashed, got upset when she didn’t find it, and threw a tantrum.” He slouched out of the room.
Tony’s hands fisted. If they didn’t catch Bocca pretty soon, he might just strangle his partner to let off some steam.
The fear that knotted in his belly—not for himself, but for the class act next door—shouldn’t be there. She was a suspect! But for a woman like Desiree, his mother would wave a finger under his nose and say, “You bring this one home. I’ll get out the good china.”
Too bad he wouldn’t be bringing her home. How could he? Any attraction to the daughter of a thief was a no-win situation for him. And if she turned out to be involved in this mess, he’d have to send her to jail. Even if she was innocent, when he proved that her father was guilty, she’d never forgive him. And if she were hurt or killed, he’d never forgive himself.
A gun had been pointed at Desiree once already, and she’d come through whole, no thanks to her self-defense techniques. Next time she’d better have more than a pillow for protection, or the outcome would be different. Tony had seen too many corpses in his lifetime. The thought of seeing Desiree injured or worse …
No. He had to protect her. Even if that meant putting her behind bars.
Desi checked again to make sure her briefcase contained everything she needed, then snapped the lid shut. As she left the house, she locked doors behind her and set the alarm system. Since the feds were ogling her from on high, along with whatever rodent might be peeking from the sewer, Desi kept her expression neutral during the brief walk to the detached garage beside the house. The balmy air tasted of sunshine and budding flowers after yesterday’s gloom.
Her stomach fluttered nonstop.
Sliding into her compact car, Desi exhaled a long breath. She lowered her head to the steering wheel. God, help me. That was all the prayer she had in her. It had to be enough.
Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Page 5
