Chapter Twenty-six
Max and Ryan spent Sunday morning going over Max’s timeline again in her office.
“I’m investing in a magnetic whiteboard,” she said after a sticky note lost its adhesive from being moved one too many times.
“It’ll have to be a big one,” he said.
“I’ll install one on a wall in my office at work and at home.”
Ryan looked at the postcards as they were displayed in the order they were sent to Max. “Are these all the postcards your mother sent you?”
“Yes. My grandmother was unhappy—and disappointed—in my mother’s chosen lifestyle but she would never have hidden any of them from me. She told me once that Martha had sent her a few postcards through the years, borderline nasty notes about doing things she knew my grandmother wouldn’t approve of. They upset her, though, and she never told my grandfather.”
“Did she keep them?”
“No. I’m pretty certain she didn’t lie about that. She would never have wanted my grandfather to find them because they would break his heart.”
“She sounds like an interesting woman.”
“Formidable.”
“People might use that word with you.”
She looked at him with a straight face. “Would you?”
“Sometimes.” But he was smiling.
Ryan had certainly made himself at home in her cottage, and surprisingly, Max didn’t mind. He wore sweats and a faded Notre Dame T-shirt but was even more attractive that way. Even his hair, which was still a bit too long for Max’s taste, fit his persona.
He left the den and went to make another pot of coffee. She followed. She was about to invite him back to bed—it still wasn’t noon, and their Skype call with Dr. Dillon Kincaid wasn’t until four that afternoon—when he said, “The dates don’t match up.”
“You had a conversation without me,” Max said.
“The postmarks and the handwritten dates.”
“Because my mother didn’t mail them until long after she wrote them.”
“Maybe.”
He stared at the coffeepot, clearly thinking. She stepped away, let him contemplate whatever it was he thought he saw, and went back to the den.
It was true that her mother was always late in sending her a birthday postcard, and when Max was ten and eleven, when she really believed her mother would come back one day—for better or worse—it bothered her. How could someone just forget the birthday of their only child?
The same kind of person who would leave their only child with virtual strangers. The same kind of person who would spend their entire inheritance on fun and games, expensive hotels, two-hundred-dollar dinners, and thousand-dollar bottles of wine.
At times over Max’s early childhood, Martha had spent everything before she received her next allowance payment. There were days when hamburgers were paid for with coins scraped from the bottom of Martha’s purse or Max’s backpack. But those were few and far between, because inevitably, Martha would find a new “boyfriend” who would carry them over during the lean times.
Feast or famine.
She unwrapped a new package of sticky notes, this in a different color than she had been using. Then she realized she needed two new colors, and unwrapped another. On the bright green squares she wrote the postmark of each postcard, just the month and day, not the year. On the bright pink squares she wrote the date that her mother handwrote on the card—the way her mother wrote them, the European way, with the day first and the month second.
She put them not under the postcards but in a row. The cards that related to museums and art, she circled the numbers.
She stared. She didn’t see anything unusual or noteworthy about the dates. All but one were mailed between January and July. The lone card that was mailed outside of that window was an “early” birthday card, sent right before Christmas, but dated 01/01, the day after her actual birthday. That was also the only card that had a handwritten date later than the postmark.
Max was good with numbers—she could figure basic math in her head and she had a fairly solid grasp of accounting principles and patterns. But nothing stood out to her.
Ryan walked in and handed her a cup of coffee—he’d added just the right amount of cream. He leaned over to kiss her, then stopped.
“That’s it.”
She turned to look at what he was looking at.
“It’s a code.”
She was skeptical.
“My mother wasn’t that clever.”
“Numbers are the most common way for people to send codes. But they repeat. Don’t you see? It’s the days she wrote down, not the postmarks.”
He put his coffee mug down and ripped off all the green squares, tossing them aside, only looking at the pink. “She knew from the moment she sent the postcard from the Dallas museum that she was going to hide these paintings somewhere.”
Max had always known that her mother was book-smart, but she didn’t think she’d be able to come up with an elaborate code over the course of years.
“See?” Ryan said, clearly excited. “The generic Miami beach card came between four sets of art cards. But the two sets of four art cards repeat the pattern.”
“That means for three years my mother planned this?”
“Too long to be a social security number or an address or a locker combination, so it’s not going to be easy. But the code means something and if it means something it means we can figure it out.”
“You’re confident.”
“About this? Yes, I am. I just need a little time. There could be more clues here.”
“Like this.” She picked up the Oyster Bay postcard. “It’s not a coincidence that when we stood here, we saw the Boreal property.”
Ryan was focused on the numbers. He tilted his head, deep in thought.
Max couldn’t imagine that her mother had this planned for so long. If she had stolen the paintings from Colter, had she hidden them away and these numbers were a key to their location? It was a long time ago. And four of the paintings had been recovered or their whereabouts known.
“Ryan,” she said quietly after their coffee had grown cold.
“Hmm?”
“Put this aside for now. Maybe your FBI code-breakers can see something that we can’t.”
He rubbed his eyes, nodded. “You’re right. But there’s something here. Why can’t I see it?”
“Maybe you’re right. The repeating numbers are certainly odd, and it makes sense considering the postmarks are way off on most of them. But think about it: if we’re going with the assumption that Martha and Jimmy stole these seven paintings from Colter nineteen years ago, what could any code mean? How would she know that I would keep the cards for years and even discover that I could put it together?”
“Maybe she planned on retrieving them from you. Or finding a way to tell you there was something on the postcards and to look at them.”
“A lot of time has passed.”
“Maybe she didn’t plan to get killed,” Ryan said.
That was a good point.
“You look tired,” Ryan said.
“Insomnia is a way of life for me, but I slept pretty well last night.” Partly because Ryan was there. She didn’t say that to him, however, because she wasn’t exactly sure what to make of their mutual attraction. She never overanalyzed her relationships. She took them one day at a time. But after Nick, she found that she was feeling a bit more cautious. She hadn’t planned on getting so deeply involved with Nick, and ending it had been bittersweet. Even with Marco, her longtime on-off boyfriend, she hadn’t felt so … sad … when she ultimately left him.
“Hungry?” he asked. “I can make some sandwiches from that roast pig the Hendersons cooked. That was amazing. I was very happy when they handed me a to-go bag.”
“With all those people, I’m surprised there was any left.”
“It was a large pig.”
“A sandwich sounds good.”
They
went to the kitchen and made sandwiches, then sat on the deck to eat. She poured a glass of wine and offered some to Ryan. “I feel like I’m working,” he said.
“It’s Sunday afternoon.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a hundred percent positive that you’re safe here.”
“You’re not going all he-man male chauvinist on me, are you?”
“Only if you want me to.”
She shot him a narrowed look.
“I’ll take that as you’re thinking about it.” He smiled and bit into his sandwich.
She couldn’t help but like Ryan. He had a natural sense of humor and was confident both professionally and personally. He clearly loved his job, but he wasn’t a workaholic—though she saw his potential of getting lost in a case that grabbed him.
“You know everything about me, I know nothing about you—other than you told Beth that you were born in Iowa.”
“I doubt I know everything about you,” Ryan said.
“I used to try to avoid drama, but it follows me around, so I guess I’ve embraced it. My mother. My family in California. My job.”
“And your job is solving cold cases and covering murder trials. I read your website. It was very interesting. I downloaded all four of your books to my e-reader.”
She scowled. “I see we’re going to have a huge problem.”
“You don’t like ebooks.”
“I like real books.”
“They are real. Same words.”
She shook her head. “I can’t touch them. I can’t smell them. I have walls of bookshelves in my apartment.”
“Big apartment. Maybe I can visit someday.”
“Maybe I’ll invite you.”
He laughed. “I live in a small beach house in Virginia Beach. Small because of my government salary. I have one bookshelf.”
“What was the last book you read?”
“A biography about Ulysses S. Grant. My brother gave it to me for Christmas, it won a bunch of awards and I thought it would be stuffy, but it was really good.”
“You like history.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He winked.
“You went to Notre Dame.”
“Full scholarship.”
“Smart.”
“Smart and poor. But no complaints. Raised by a single mom, my dad was a total deadbeat. My mom raised me and my brother and sister on her own in Des Moines. None of us turned to drugs, excessive drinking, or welfare, so I guess we beat the odds.”
“More than good, I’d say.”
Ryan nodded. “I go home every Christmas. My mom likes when we’re all together. I try to visit in the spring, which is my favorite time of year in Iowa. If you’ve never been to Des Moines in May, it’s absolutely worth the trip. My little brother is a cop there—never left. Married to his high school sweetheart, has three kids, his wife is a teacher. My mom lives less than a mile from them. My little sister is a doctor in Pittsburgh, married to her job, though I think she’s seeing someone. She won’t tell me because she thinks I’ll run a background check on him.”
“Would you?”
He just smiled. “Now you know everything about me.”
“Allergies?”
“Penicillin.”
“Married?”
“If I were married, I wouldn’t have been in bed with you last night. And this morning. And tonight.”
She laughed. “You know what I meant. Have you ever been?”
“No. You?”
“If you read my bio, you would know I wasn’t.”
“People lie.”
“I don’t.”
“Really.”
“Don’t believe me?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe I don’t know you well enough.”
She leaned on her elbow and said, “My mother lied to me for my entire life. I’m not going down that path.”
“What if it was for a good reason? Like Gabriel Truman lying to Eve about her parents.”
“Good reason? That remains to be seen.”
“He thought he was protecting her.”
“It’s not to say that a lie is always to hurt someone. Some of the most destructive lies initially had noble motives behind them. But in my experience, eventually that lie will come back and bite someone in the ass.”
Ryan stood up. He took his plate and hers in one hand, and pulled her up with his other. He kissed her neck, sending chills up her spine. “How long until your shrink friend calls?”
“Nearly two hours.”
“Two hours. What can we possibly do for two hours?” He walked her inside and put the plates next to the sink. “Maybe,” he said as he backed her against the wall, “we should try to clear our minds, so we can come at this investigation fresh.”
Without waiting for her answer he ran his hand under her dress and cupped her butt cheeks. She put her hands on his chest and kissed his neck. “You are a very smart man.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His hands were on her waist, and she ran hers under his T-shirt, enjoying his warm skin against her fingers.
Ryan heated her up fast. Maybe because this was new, or maybe because she was attracted to him, or maybe because he seemed to know exactly how to touch her without her having to direct traffic. He was intoxicating and sexy.
She was about to pull her dress over her head when the door buzzer rang twice.
“Shit,” she said. Ryan laughed.
“What are you laughing about? Think you can turn this off that easily?” She ran her hand between his legs.
He groaned and said, “Oh, sweetheart, payback is going to be a bitch.”
“I can’t wait,” she said with a grin.
She started down the stairs, but Ryan whistled. “Stop.”
“What?”
“Didn’t we have this conversation earlier? That if Colter thinks you have information to lead to his paintings that he’ll find a way to get to you?”
“And I told you that I plan to have lunch with him, so what’s the difference?”
“Preemptive strike,” Ryan said.
“I don’t get it.” She also didn’t see him grab his gun—last she saw, it was in his briefcase on the kitchen table.
“You can answer,” he said, standing to the side of the door.
She looked through the side window. “Put that away, it’s David.” She opened the door. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“I got the information I needed and took the next flight here.” He wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at Ryan.
“David, Agent Ryan Maguire. Ryan, my assistant and sometime bodyguard, David Kane.”
David extended his hand. He was giving Ryan a solid appraisal. “Good to meet you.”
But he didn’t sound all that pleased about it.
“Likewise.” Ryan glanced at Max with a confused look on his face.
David said to Max, “This place is a goddamn fish bowl. At least you had the sense to close most of the blinds.”
“Aren’t you in a grumpy mood.”
He said, “This the second bedroom?” He walked through the downstairs sitting area to the bedroom, flicked on the light and looked around, then put his small suitcase on the floor.
Why was David acting so weird and making her feel like she had been caught by her grandfather making out with the pool boy?
“Dillon Kincaid is going to call in a bit,” Max said.
“Do I have time for a shower?”
“Sure,” Max said. “Come upstairs when you’re freshened up.”
David closed the bedroom door.
Max and Ryan walked upstairs. “You said you weren’t involved with anyone.” He sounded angry.
“I’m not.”
“That guy is jealous.”
“David is gay.”
“He’s—what?”
“And yeah, he’s acting strange. I don’t understand it, either.”
“Are you sure he’s gay?” Ryan sounded incredulous.
&nb
sp; “Well, I haven’t watched him in the bedroom, but we’ve talked about it, so I’m ninety-nine percent certain he is what he says he is. Most men—especially former Army Rangers—aren’t going to confide to their employer that they’re gay if they’re not. And we’re friends.” Was that what the odd attitude was? That they were friends and she was sleeping with Ryan? How the hell would he know?
David was one of the sharpest people she knew. He picked up on subtleties better than most. And he went to the bedroom and realized Ryan, who Max had told him was going to stay in the cottage because of the potential threat from Colter, hadn’t used the second bedroom.
“Think of David as my overprotective big brother.”
“That I can do.” Ryan leaned over and kissed her. “I was worried for a minute.”
He still looked a bit worried, but probably not that David was jealous. More that David looked exactly like what he was: a tough former Army Ranger who didn’t take shit from anyone.
Max smiled. “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Max had plugged her computer into the television so that they could more comfortably Skype with Dr. Dillon Kincaid in the living room, rather than cramming around her laptop in the den. She introduced Ryan.
“I appreciate you fitting me in,” Max said. “I wish you’d let me pay you—you’re an expert, you should be compensated for your time.”
“How about if I spend any more time working on a profile after this call I’ll bill you?” Dillon said with a smile.
“As long as you let me take you and your wife to dinner next time you’re in New York.”
“That would be fun. Kate has been wanting to meet you.”
Dillon shifted in his seat, turned a paper over on the desk in front of him, and said, “I read your memo, and the email you sent an hour ago about a possible code in the postcards Martha sent to you over the years. I first want to address your last point, because until you understand why, I don’t think you’ll truly grasp what you’re dealing with.”
“You mean why my mother, who was independently wealthy, hooked up with a con artist?”
“That’s a small part of it. And I need to state the standard disclaimer—I haven’t interviewed Martha, of course, so everything I say is based on her actions—and a few of her writings. I can’t give you a diagnosis, for example, though I think I can help you with the why you need.”
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