by Lila Dubois
“You mean because I’m black?” Eli replied.
Irina blinked. “No, I mean because art historian isn’t exactly the most common profession.”
“Are you black?” Jasper asked.
Eli answered Jasper’s blunt question first. “My maternal grandfather was African American. My maternal grandmother was Chinese. My father had a grandmother who was from Morocco, and a grandfather who was Welsh—or maybe it was a great-grandfather.” Eli frowned, trying to remember his diverse and complex family tree.
“So you’re about as mixed as they come,” Irina summed up.
“How very American,” Jasper added.
That made Eli pause. He smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am.” He took a sip of lukewarm tea. “My parents were citizens of the world. When I was growing up it felt like we celebrated every possible holiday, because there was always someone in the family, somewhere, who was that religion. The museum near where I grew up had a cultural center, and we spent a lot of time there. By the time I was in high school, the museum was like a second home. Just like going to events at the cultural center, the art pieces in the galleries were windows into different worlds. And with art, it was also a window into the past.”
Irina and Jasper were both watching him with serious, thoughtful expressions. Eli shrugged uncomfortably—he always felt a bit stupid waxing philosophical outside of a classroom.
“I got into Harvard, and was majoring in economics, because that seemed practical, but my favorite classes were art history. My sophomore year I was having trouble in school. The dean of students sat me down, and we talked about what I liked. I changed my major and never looked back. The next semester, I was approached about joining the Trinity Masters.”
“Sophomore year is when they asked me too,” Irina added.
“It’s funny that we didn’t know one another,” Jasper added. “Since we all attended the same school.”
They talked about college—Eli was the oldest at thirty-seven, and had graduated before the other two even started. Irina was twenty-nine and Jasper thirty-five.
“Wait,” Eli said, frowning at Jasper. “If you’re only two years younger than I was, did we have classes together?” That would be oddly fitting.
But Jasper shook his head. “Possible, but I was a nontraditional student. I didn’t start college until I was twenty-two.”
Irina caught Eli’s gaze and raised a brow. Something in the clipped precision of Jasper’s words made it clear there was more to that story.
“Tell us about yourself,” she asked Jasper. “How did you get into archaeology?”
“Mysteries. I like solving mysteries.” Jasper grinned. “Archaeology is discovery. I actually have a minor in art history, which explains how we know so many of the same professors.” He nodded at Eli. “I planned to study art until I realized archaeologists got to travel, dig in the dirt, and solve mysteries.”
“Did your family frequent a museum too?” Irina’s question was teasing, but Jasper’s expression sobered.
“Most of the men in my family are in prison or dead. My mom tried, but it took everything she had just to keep a roof over our heads. Ferrer isn’t actually my last name. I changed it when I turned eighteen, with the help of some people.” Jasper smiled ruefully. “With the help of these people.” He twisted his triquetra ring around his finger.
“They approached you when you turned eighteen?” Irina asked.
“Yes. The, uh, director of the FBI recruited me.”
Eli straightened. “Why did the director of the FBI recruit you when you were eighteen?”
“The real question is, how did a kid from Southie end up loving art and archaeology?” As he spoke, Jasper dropped into a hard Boston accent, losing every “r” in his sentence. He turned “art” into “ahht.”
“We’re going to come back to that accent,” Irina said with a laugh. “But I’ll take the bait. How did a kid from Southie end up loving art and archaeology?”
“When I was younger, I saw a painting. Something about it…” Jasper looked down, and Eli had a strange sense of recognition—just as he’d struggled with explaining his love of art, Jasper too was struggling.
“I understand,” Eli said. “When I teach undergrads, there’s always one student who finds that piece while in my class. The piece that changes everything for them.”
Jasper nodded. “Changes everything…that’s a good way to put it. And in my case, that’s true in more ways than one.”
“What painting was it?” Eli asked gently.
Jasper sighed heavily. “A Rembrandt.”
Eli hummed in understanding.
Irina said, “I remember being shocked the first time I saw one of his portraits. I really thought they were photos.”
Jasper nodded. “It wasn’t one of his portraits that changed my life, but I know what you mean. I stood in front of this painting and I understood what I was looking at. As if I were looking at a representation of my own soul.”
“One of the landscapes?” Eli asked, flipping through his mental catalogue of Rembrandts.
Jasper looked at Irina. “You put him down once before. Can you do it again?”
Irina straightened slowly, her smile fading. “Not without making a scene.”
“Can you hold him long enough to give me a head start?”
Irina nodded. “If I have to.”
“What are you talking about?” Eli asked, utterly confused. “Why does she need to hold me?”
Jasper looked at Eli, their gazes meeting. “The painting that changed my life was a seascape.”
Eli frowned. “Rembrandt only did one sea…scape…” Eli blinked hard. “You son of a bitch.”
Jasper scooted a few inches toward the end of the bench. “Only an art historian would put it together so fast.”
Eli reached across the table, ready to strangle the other man, but Irina caught his arm. Her fingers dug into the space between his wrist bones, causing his nerves to sing. She jerked his hand back to their side of the table, laced her fingers with his, and held their joined hands in her lap.
“Jasper, don’t you dare run away. You two already pulled that. Never again. We’re in this together, so we’ll deal with everything together.” Her words were silk-covered steel—this wasn’t a plea, it was a proclamation.
Eli squeezed her fingers and exhaled slowly.
Jasper looked at them, then scooted back. “That’s reasonable, but unrealistic, because I’m pretty sure Eli is going to strangle me as soon as you let go of him.”
“I could still strangle you with this hand.” Eli bared his teeth and raised his free hand.
“How about you two art nerds explain to me exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Art nerds?”
“Art nerds!”
Eli and Jasper both looked at Irina, who merely raised her eyebrows. “If the shoe fits. Someone explain.”
Jasper cleared his throat. “The painting I saw was Rembrandt’s only seascape. It’s called Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”
“And why does that mean Eli wants to strangle you?”
“Because Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee is one of the Gardner paintings,” Eli growled.
“That sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re still in art nerd territory. Keep talking.”
Eli cleared his throat, as if he were about to start a lecture. “It was one of thirteen paintings stolen from the Gardner Museum here in Boston in nineteen ninety. Still missing.” Eli’s eye started to twitch. “Jasper, if you have it, or know where it is—”
“Wait, nineteen ninety?” Irina released Eli’s hand, then grabbed his shoulder and gave him a little shake. “Eli, do the math. Jasper was just a little kid.”
Eli blinked. She was right. He looked at Jasper, whose head was bowed.
Eli prided himself on being open-minded, and yet he’d jumped to a conclusion that made no logical sense.
“I’m sorry, Jasper,” he said stiffly.
Jasper raised his head. Grinned. “Don’t apologize. I did steal it.”
Eli sputtered, pointed at Jasper, then at Irina, growled, and finally dropped his head into his hands.
“I think I broke him,” Jasper said.
“I’m starting to suspect that you’re enjoying this. Next time I’m going to let him hit you.”
“That’s fair.”
“But,” Irina continued, “I’m having trouble believing you robbed a museum while still in elementary school.”
“If you’re lying just to see if you can give me a stroke…” Eli mumbled.
“Nope. I’m not lying. I was part of the crew. Little kid, little fingers. Able to squeeze through tight spaces.”
Eli raised his head. “The theft was carried out by two men posing as Boston PD. They tricked the museum staff into letting them in. The FBI suspected there was a larger crew.”
Jasper nodded. “A crew including the ringleader’s little cousin, who was tucked into the duffel bag one of the fake cops was carrying. A little kid who smuggled the rolled-up paintings out through the ventilation system.”
“Rolled up…I might pass out.”
Irina frowned. “They stuck you in a duffel bag, then made you get the stolen goods out of the building? You were practically a baby.”
Jasper shrugged. “I was a minor. Safer for me to be caught with anything.”
“Yeah, yeah, tragic childhood. What. Happened. To. The. Paintings?” Eli asked.
Jasper laughed. “I’m sure you know part of the story. My idiot cousin and his idiot friends didn’t steal the right paintings.”
“What?” Irina asked.
“It was a commissioned job. They were good thieves, able to talk their way into, and out of, almost anything. But they were idiots. They had a list of paintings they were supposed to grab, but just assumed one would be as good as another.” Jasper shook his head. “Except for the Rembrandt. That’s my fault. And I do deserve a beating for that. I loved that painting. The glow of hope in the middle of chaos. I wanted that hope. So they took it. For me. And they hung it on the wall in my mother’s basement. With thumbtacks.”
Eli felt faint.
“Stay with me, big guy.” Irina cupped his head in her hands.
“Basement…thumbtacks…”
“I don’t know much about what went sideways,” Jasper continued, “but I know the buyer backed out, and then they couldn’t move the paintings.”
“The others. The other twelve. Where are they?” Eli asked desperately.
“I don’t know. They might be with the Rembrandt.”
“Where is the Rembrandt?” Eli whispered the question, suddenly paranoid someone else would hear them and steal it before he, Eli, managed to get his hands on it and restore it to its rightful place.
“Six months after the robbery, I walked into the FBI’s Boston offices with a poster tube, and turned over the Rembrandt. I was scared because of all the publicity, and I felt bad that I was the only one who got to see it. Staring at that painting day after day made me braver, made me think about the future, about the hope. Plus, Catholic guilt.”
Eli sat back and looked at Jasper. “Your family…”
“I was placed in witness protection and put in foster care out of state.” Jasper’s voice was flat. “My mom wouldn’t go. I have two sisters, who were just little, plus my mom was caring for my grandma.”
“You did the right thing, and lost everything.” Irina’s voice was husky with reflected heartache.
“I did. But there’s a semi-happy ending. I joined the Trinity Masters, my idiot cousin and his partner died. The FBI knows who the rest of the crew was, and they’re just biding their time, hoping that on their death beds, someone will confess to the theft. Hopefully the paintings are safe, but without a confession they’ll never get the buyer.”
Eli tried to imagine being in Jasper’s position, and he wasn’t sure that he would have had the courage to do what Jasper did. Eli loved art, but Jasper had suffered for it.
“I’m sorry,” Eli said.
“Don’t be sorry. I have other stories where I don’t come out looking so good. But I’d like to point out that I’ve never been convicted of anything. Suspected, but never convicted.”
“I have two follow-up questions.” Eli cleared his throat. “One. The FBI has the Rembrandt?”
“Yes. And if your second question is why haven’t they announced that, or given it back, the answer is because it’s technically evidence in an ongoing investigation.”
Eli blew out a breath. “Okay. I have an alternate question two. Have you ever really stolen something? I don’t like it, but I get that things like taking pieces out of the National Museum of Iraq may have saved them from destruction.”
“You mean have I ever walked into someone’s house and taken a Cezanne off the wall, then stolen the hostess’s diamond bracelet on my way out the door just for fun?” Jasper’s grin was wide and wicked.
Eli bared his teeth. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Then…no. Nope. Not me.”
Irina laughed. Jasper laughed.
Eli frowned at both of them. “Wait, does that mean he did do it? Which Cezanne?”
“What did the bracelet look like?” Irina countered, still laughing.
Eli decided to rise above it. Pointedly ignoring them, he went back to studying the binder.
Irina and Jasper went up to the counter—Irina came back with a cup of tea and a banana, and Jasper with a coffee refill, and another cup of tea for Eli. He grunted his thanks when Jasper tapped his arm and pointed at the mug.
“Hmm, that grunt sounded thoughtful,” Irina said. “Anything you want to share with the class?”
Eli looked first at Irina, then at Jasper. “I think I know where this sculpture is.” He took his phone from his pocket, then showed them an email he’d unearthed from his trash. It was an invitation to a fundraising gala, cosponsored by his university, with proceeds going to a scholarship program for visual arts students. It was a major event for his university, and he’d gotten what felt like hundreds of email about it.
The event was cocktails and an art show, featuring both some student pieces, and “never-before-exhibited pieces from private collections.” The header image for the email had five panels, alternating images of art pieces and fresh-faced art students. The center image was a photo of a sculpture that looked similar to the grainy photo in the ERR album.
Jasper and Irina looked at each other, then leaned forward, studying Eli’s phone and the copy of the ERR album page.
Jasper touched the page reverently. “A Rodin sculpture.” His voice was colored by wonder, as if he’d just opened the perfect present Christmas morning.
“And if I’m right, we need to leave Boston.” Eli tucked his phone into his pocket. “Tonight.”
Chapter Four
“I hate these things.” Eli tugged on the collar of his shirt with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel.
“Elegant parties?” Irina had reclined the passenger seat as far back as it would go. Eli had looked at her like she was crazy when she told him that sitting up would wrinkle her dress. The gold dress, made of heavy but wrinkle-prone silk, had been the best she could do on such short notice. She had an entire closet full of appropriate dresses at her condo in D.C., but there hadn’t been time for her to have one shipped to her.
Twenty-four hours ago they’d been sitting in a coffee shop in Boston. Now they were in Denver, having taken the first flight out this morning. They’d used Eli’s house as command central. It was a lovely Craftsman-style, single-family home with a view of the mountains. Irina had wanted to explore every inch of it—to snoop through his books and his medicine cabinet. But instead she’d grabbed Eli’s car keys, made a whirlwind trip through a cute boutique for the dress, shoes, and clutch, then done a few other errands, and returned with just enough time to shower and get dressed.
By the time she was dry, she’d had less than hal
f an hour to get out the door. No time for exploring.
“Grown-up clothes?” Jasper guessed in response to Eli’s statement. His voice was crystal clear in her left ear. Before they left Boston last night, Irina had taken Jasper to the Bennett Securities’ headquarters. No questions asked when Irina and Jasper told the tech department what they needed, and they’d left with a whole bag of fun gizmos.
Eli veered toward oncoming traffic when Jasper spoke. Irina yelped.
“You two okay?” Jasper asked. He’d left before they did, setting up shop in a twenty-four-hour diner two miles away from the factory-turned-hip-event space where the gala was taking place.
“Eli almost drove us off the road.”
“You startled me,” Eli protested. “This is weird, having this thing in my ear. It’s probably giving me brain cancer.”
Jasper snorted.
“I guess I’m dying young, since I spend most of my working hours wearing one of these,” Irina said dryly.
There was a beat of silence, then Jasper said, “Don’t joke about dying.”
Irina’s heart clenched. These weren’t her team members on a protection detail. These were her husbands. Or they would be, and sooner than anyone expected, if Eli was right and he’d identified the sculpture correctly.
She had to keep reminding herself that they were a trinity, bound together. The task they’d been given had put their relationship on the back burner. Last night they’d all gone to their separate rooms by mutual, if silent, accord.
“I’m sorry, to both of you.” Irina hoped they could tell she was sincere. “But I’m fairly certain the earbuds aren’t causing brain cancer.”
“We’re here.” Eli pulled up to a valet.
Irina flipped down the visor and checked her makeup. She’d gone for gold tones on her eyes, and bronzer used as blush to play off the dark gold dress. With her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, the whole look had a regal Egyptian feel.
The valet offered his hand, but Eli was already circling around to her door. The valet backed off.
When Irina put her fingers in Eli’s, awareness shot through her. She’d opted for low heels with ankle straps, and when she stepped out of the car, Eli towered over her. He was wearing cologne, or aftershave, and smelled amazing.
