by Fiona Quinn
“Here, I’ll make another pot since you’re being such a great guy, putting in the overtime.” I went to the bathroom to refill the water and returned. As I changed the filter, I asked, “So you never do a follow-up call with girls? They get the one chance, and that’s it?”
“When you don’t call, they wonder why. They ask their friends. They spend time worrying that there’s something wrong with them. Then they get angry that you didn’t follow through — if your call catches them in the anger phase, they’ll take your head off, and you still won’t get the date. Then, if it’s meant to be, they finally break down and dial the phone because they want to give you another opportunity to see how awesome they really are.”
“Sounds like the kissing game my friends described in the schoolyard.” I pressed the button, and the machine hummed into action. “Run away, look over your shoulder to make sure they’re coming after you, and pout when they don’t.”
“Right, and what happens when the girls see you running after them?”
“They laugh and run faster.”
“And they stop running when…”
“You stop chasing. Huh. Keen observations, Deep. Well done.”
“Still waters…” He winked.
Chapter Twenty-One
With a fresh cup of coffee by his side, Deep settled back behind my computer. “I wanted you to see this.”
I scooted my roller chair over to him and put my hair back into a ponytail, for clear thought’s sake.
“The signatories for the art loan contract are Iniquus — signed presumably by Colonel Grant and Bartholomew Winslow himself, not a proxy. I found some court documents in our data bank, and the authentication software came back with ninety-eight point two percent confidence. That’s the best result I’ve ever seen come through. So we can say with a high level of certainty that Winslow is a key player. Have you talked to Colonel Grant yet?”
“Leanne said he’s coming back to the office tonight. She’ll let me know as soon as he arrives, so I can grab a quick yes or no from him on his signature.”
“Okay, good. Next puzzle piece.”
“Wait, let me start making lists. I don’t want to miss anything.” I moved to the whiteboard and scribbled, CONTRACT BW = yes Col. G = ?
“Next point?” I asked.
“O’Keefe called. He had to wait until twenty-hundred to call the museum because Japan’s ahead by thirteen hours. He said he made up a story about an upcoming trip to Tokyo and had heard there was going to be a Tsukamoto retrospective, honoring his passing. Are you ready for this?”
“Do you think I should sit down?”
“Probably.”
My heart picked up its pace. Rarely did Deep make such a big deal of things he found in his research. I plunked into the chair beside him.
“There is no retrospective planned at this time. The Dyozo Tsukamoto, who died last year, was the artist’s father. He was ninety-nine. Dyozo Tsukamoto, the younger — the one who was the monk turned artist — has retired to Fukuoka, where he is enjoying robust health.”
“O’Keefe was circumspect about it? We don’t want anyone to start chatting. We need to keep things flowing as they are. If the players feel safe, they’ll make mistakes. If their antenna is up, behavior tightens.”
“Sounded like he did a good job. Stereotypical stupid American, struggling with language barriers, is usually pretty good at putting people off their guard.”
“Did you verify O’Keefe’s data?”
“Yup. Tsukamoto, the elder, was a professor of engineering. Tsukamoto the younger is an artist.” He tapped the keys. “Here’s the father’s death certificate.” He tapped again. “Here’s a recent article that was written about Tsukamoto the younger, written in a London paper.”
“April tenth. A few weeks after they signed the contract.”
“Yup.”
“When did the dad die?”
“December of last year.”
I walked to the whiteboard and drew thought bubbles with the information. “December. Didn’t Lacey say she had to ship the artwork in a couple of weeks? She didn’t have any body language tells that she was lying. Why would she be shipping Iniquus art to Japan with no retrospective being developed?”
“You didn’t spend much time with her, Lynx. We didn’t watch a video before we went in to monitor her baseline behaviors.”
“Yeah, but she pretty much wears her heart on her sleeve. And micro-tells are universal.”
“So what did her body language tell you?”
“I’ll tell you that when you tell me where you got your call sign.”
He cleared his throat and reached around his neck, loosening his shirt collar, then turned his focus back to the computer screen. “I have no ideas about the shipments. The whole thing is nuts. If they simply wanted to steal the art, why would it be sitting in a warehouse?”
“We need eyes on it to make sure the art is actually there. She may just be under the delusion that it’s warehoused, and it could be sitting in some private collection now. The deadline could simply be to keep her focused and pushing. Or she could be a mastermind, and I got duped.”
“Or we don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“A distinct possibility,” I said.
“Okay, we can put a team on it. I can get with Striker on a plan.”
“Let’s hold off for the moment. We have quite a few balls in the air, and I don’t want to make them all crash down by focusing on the wrong ball at the wrong time.”
“Gotcha.” Deep swiveled back to the keyboard and tapped the keys. “After I understood this was probably a sham, I only had one known player.”
“Winslow. What about Lacey Stuart? What are you finding on her?”
“There’s a whole stream of emails between Lacey and some woman named Aiko Hiko. They developed rapport. They planned. Lacey sent in her progress reports. Hiko pushed her to get the Babcock painting.”
“Only the Babcock painting?” I frowned.
“So far. Why?”
“It seems to me that the other collector would be a bigger get. Babcock has one, and someone else has four.”
“True. I didn’t read many of the emails yet. I was more interested in finding out—”
“Who Hika is.” I clunked my heels up on the table. “Surface information says that Lacey’s either in the dark, or she’s awesome at leaving an evidence trail that will keep her out of lockup. Can you trace the IP address and see where these response emails originated?”
“Yeah, I already tried that. They aren’t coming from the museum’s IP address, and the server doesn’t want to be identified. The person on the other end of these emails is using the Tor network.”
I scratched my forehead. “Well, damn. I don’t like smart criminals. They make life so much harder. But that’s information in and of itself, isn’t it? I handed the contract to legal to see what they had to say.”
“I already got their response. They said it reads as ‘completely legitimate and normal procedure.’”
I grinned. “Why am I even here? You’ve got this handled.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, hoping it was Striker. Nope. Someone here at Iniquus.
“Lynx here.”
“It’s Leanne. If you want to see Colonel Grant, his car pulled past the security gates. He should be in his office in the next five minutes.”
“Thanks, Leanne. I’m on my way.” I disconnected. “Colonel Grant is driving up. I should have an answer for us about his signature in a minute, Deep. I’ll be right back.”
I hightailed my way to the Command wing and stopped outside the door to get control of my breath.
Leanne looked up as I walked through the door. “He’s not come in yet. You must have jogged over.” She smiled. “By the way, I couldn’t find you earlier. I have a message for you from Mr. Spencer. They made an arrest at Montrim Industries based on the findings you uncovered. He says kudos. He’d like to congratulate you in person when he’s ba
ck in town.”
“Oh, is he traveling?”
“He’s doing some networking up in New York. There was some big event. Oh! And he also said to tell you not to read the New York Times today.’”
“Why not?” I asked.
“No idea. He said I should tell you he wants you to skip over the New York Times today. I looked through to see why he might not want you to read it,” she said, lifting the folded paper from her desk drawer and opening it. “I didn’t see any articles that stood out as upsetting — you know, no kidnappings or serial killers or fires or planes going down. I did find a picture of Commander Rheas and Vine, though, on the society page.” She flipped through the pages until she found the one she was looking for. “Commander Rheas is some kind of gorgeous. I mean, Dawson is a total doll, turns heads wherever we go, but Commander Rheas? Shoot, your team in general. Blaze. Gator? I’m not sure how you get any work done.”
I stared at the newspaper photograph. Vine looked made-for-Hollywood perfect in a glamorous sheath that clung to her curves. The man standing in the corner of the picture stared at her chest like there was nothing he’d like more than to dive headfirst into her very pronounced cleavage. Striker was heart-stoppingly handsome in his tux. The power of his body, his wonderful smile… I hoped three days meant three days, and then he could come home. I could use some alone time with him.
“I used to think Vine was beautiful.” Leanne picked up the paper and tipped her head to look at the picture with me. “Then I got to know her a little, and now she just looks like a bitch.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I wish that hadn’t popped out of my mouth. Do you know Scarlet Vine?” Leanne grimaced.
“Never met her. Probably never will. Don’t worry about it.”
“It always surprised me that Commander Rheas put up with her. They don’t make a very good couple personality-wise if you know what I mean. They sure do look good together, though.”
“Oh?” I smiled at Leanne and tipped my head to the side, hoping she’d share a little more.
“I thought they broke it off a long time ago,” she said. “Looks like they’re back together. They seem completely into each other. I wonder if they knew someone was taking their picture. Well, I’m headed home for the night.” She tucked the paper back in her desk and pulled out her purse, then stood and adjusted the strap over her shoulder. “Sorry I had to bail on lunch today. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Yup. Thai?”
“Good with me.” She headed to the door.
Great. They look like they’re back together. Leanne was right, though. Striker and Vine did look totally into each other. Vine’s body language couldn’t be misread. I didn’t focus on Striker’s long enough to get an impression. For a split second, I considered taking the paper from Leanne’s drawer to show Striker when he got home. But then, what would that serve? I trusted Striker.
I did.
It was Vine I had a problem with.
She sure did remind me of Felicia, Striker’s high school sweetheart. Same long chocolaty hair, same long legs, same ample bosom, same catty-bitch demeanor. I could practically hear her purring. It made me wonder how Striker and I ended up together. I mean, I was pretty enough, but blonde and blue-eyed. I came from an Irish heritage — not a speck of the Latina blood that seemed to attract him. Maybe I was a catty bitch? Nah. That, I could say for sure, was not my style.
My mind went back to the night we sat in his living room trying to figure “us” out — the night of our “boxes” discussion. I had asked him what he looked for in his dating life. He had said he had dated for pleasure; he was looking for beauty, grace, good sex, and basic conversation. Well, I guess he could get those needs met with Vine easily enough.
But he also used the past tense. He was done with dating, and what he wanted from a forever relationship was very different. So maybe it was okay that I didn’t look like a Latina love goddess.
“Lynx? You must be running on vapors.” Colonel Grant strode into the room. “What’s keeping you here so late?”
“Can I have two minutes of your time, sir?”
“Of course.” He swept his arm toward his office door, and I let myself in. “Are you all right? Leanne said you had a medical issue come up.”
“I’m fine, I was fine, I just…” I stopped and cleared my throat. “Colonel Grant, I fell asleep, that’s all. I was lying under the mobile in General Elliot’s file room, thinking through some of the finer points of the case I’m working on, and I very embarrassingly fell asleep. And I don’t mean to take up your time with this story, but it’s actually the reason I needed to speak with you.”
He quirked a brow and indicated a chair. Instead of walking around to the other side of his desk, he pulled the other seat closer to mine and sat down.
“In General Elliot’s office, there’s a piece of artwork by Dyozo Tsukamoto. There used to be pieces of Tsukamoto’s art all over Iniquus. I’m wondering who approached you about loaning them to the Hisako Museum of Modern Art and who signed the contract with you for the loan period.”
“I’m not following you, Lynx.”
“Are you aware that the art in Iniquus has changed?”
“I remarked on the change, yes. But I assumed when I saw the staff at work doing the changeover that it was time for the interior designer to update our look. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Was this supposition, or is that what someone told you?”
He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “The changes happened last spring. General Elliot was on vacation, then fell ill. Spencer and I took on his workload. I can’t recall if I had a direct conversation with anyone or if… I’m not very good with things like that. I leave the decorating at my house in Mrs. Grant’s capable hands. Decoration is out of my purview. But you asked if I was approached about loaning our art. I know that didn’t happen. Those pieces don’t belong to Iniquus. They were commissioned and are owned by General Elliot. So I have no say over them. I signed no contracts. What’s this about, Lynx?”
I opened my file and handed him the contract.
He glanced over it. “That’s not my signature. I can’t make heads or tails of this. Is someone trying to make us look like fools, coming in and stealing our art right out from under our noses?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, sir. But as for art theft. I’d think there are easier places to steal a Tsukamoto if someone were that gung-ho about having one. I mean, from what Deep and I have discovered, this is complicated and ongoing.”
“Ongoing, how?”
“Sir, I will be glad to share the information with you when I have it. I need a little more time, so I have something concrete to offer. I don’t want to burden you with speculation.”
“Off the top of your head, why would someone want our art? And they replaced it, right? They brought in other paintings that went on the walls?”
“Yes, sir. Um, pulling ideas from the air? Maybe they were mapping our interior. Or were planting bugs. Identifying our players, eavesdropping, stealing files? Planting malware? Yeah, there’s my list. Right now, pretty much everything I come up with boils down to corporate espionage.”
“Shit.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Hey, Chica, I’m taking advantage of a traffic jam to call and check in. Is everything all right?”
I climbed onto the counter stool and rested my elbows on the cool marble of Striker’s breakfast bar. “I’m good. And you? Oh, before I get sidetracked, did you get my text about your sister taking a vacation?”
“I did, thank you. And I’m fine. Just tired.”
I picked up a pen and twiddled it back and forth. “It looked like you had a great time in New York at the Kennedy Center.” It popped right out of my mouth, even though I had decided to let it rest.
“You saw the paper.” His voice tightened.
I didn’t mean to put him on guard. “You were absolutely edible.” I used my best Marilyn Monroe
voice. “You do good things for a tuxedo, Commander Rheas.”
Striker laughed quietly. “Well, thank you.” He paused. “I’ve been worried about you. How are you healing up? Are your ribs doing better?”
“Better, yes. My wrists are mostly healed. I’m still wearing my clothes with the longest sleeves, though. If people saw the marks, they might speculate about my private life in ways that don’t need to be part of the rumor mill.”
“There isn’t supposed to be a rumor mill happening at Iniquus. Company policy.”
“You can’t really stop people from gossiping about personal lives. That policy is aimed at our workload.”
“We don’t have personal lives, Chica. Anything and everything can have ramifications, sometimes in unexpected ways. Let’s say, for example, the rumor was that you have marks on your wrists because you get off on being tied up and spanked—”
“Good thing you’re my fiancé. I wouldn’t let just anyone chat bondage with me. Besides, if I actually started doing honest-to-goodness, do-or-die fieldwork, I’d need a new contract and probably a new code name. What do you think about Cuff Lynx?”
“I can tell you’re grinning about this, but think it through. If there were rumors that you went in for the more exotic sexual activities, then Command might assign you to a case that had a target from the S&M scene because they would assume you knew the lingo and the culture and could fit right in. But you wouldn’t have that information, so there’d you’d be in your pleather catsuit and dog collar, prancing around. As soon as someone approached you with a clothespin in their hand, you’d pull one of your kung fu moves and put them on the ground under your seven-inch heel and blow your cover.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. “You had fun with that visual.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’ll make sure to cover my wrists,” I said, pulling the note pad closer so I could doodle.
