The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  I’d been so busy I’d not had time to shop. “I’ve got this.” I held up the box of chocolate cake mix.

  “Cake it is.” He rolled up his sleeves.

  I brought out the egg carton from the fridge.

  “You’re going to have to take it from here.” I gestured to my beautiful gown.

  “You could always take it off.” He smirked as he read the back of the box.

  “I’ll let you do that afterward.”

  “You’re on.” Tobias looked adorable following the instructions. Adding the ingredients of vegetable oil, water, and then cracking that single egg open before adding it to the mixture in that large bowl. I handed him a wooden spoon to stir.

  “You know it’s cheating, right?” I pointed to the packet.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook. But I love learning new skills. You’re good for me.”

  I melted on the spot as I dropped his gaze, dipping my finger into the chocolaty mixture.

  He grabbed my hand. “The egg’s raw. You can’t die on me. Not after waiting all my life to find you.”

  My hand froze midway and my eyes rose to meet his.

  “What I meant was...” His smile broadened. “There’s only one way to make this more perfect.”

  “How?” It slipped out wistfully.

  “Add icing.”

  “Oh, I’ll see if I have any.” I opened a cupboard door.

  “I wasn’t talking about the cake,” he said softly.

  I turned to smile at him.

  He leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. “But now we’re on the subject let’s bake it and have cake in bed.”

  I’d never known this kind of happiness before. I reached for that packet of icing. It was impossible not to smile.

  “Zara.”

  I turned to face him.

  “I think it’s going to be amazing.” He grinned. “More delicious than we ever imagined.”

  26

  The week whirled by as I threw myself into work with passion. Those spontaneous dinner dates with Tobias had been exhilarating, and I couldn’t wait to see him again tonight.

  Thoughts of him clouded my brain in the best kind of way, and thinking of Tobias was a welcome reprieve from the intensity of these hours spent huddled over a table at the Witt Library.

  I loved this place and had spent most of my student days here. It was named after art historian Sir Robert Witt and was a big part of The Courtauld Institute. This library had once been my home away from home.

  Forcing my attention back on the file in front of me, I reread the details of Interpol’s case where a Titian had been stolen weeks ago, from the Burell family in Amboise in France.

  For the last six hours I’d been entrenched in scrap pieces of paper, official records, old photos and tenuous provenance. With another twenty files to go through this was going to be a painstaking process.

  Danny sat to my left at a desktop computer clicking away through the Witt’s database.

  He was chewing on a stick of licorice and now and again he huffed his frustration.

  We’d not traveled far from The Tiriani Building, with Huntly Pierre’s offices being a stone’s throw from here.

  Danny and I had been provided with one of their larger rooms to work in, enabling us to spread out our paperwork and focus in the quiet.

  Danny leaned back in his chair. “What are we looking for again?”

  “Anything that might link the artwork. Give us an idea of why these paintings were chosen by Icon.”

  “We know why. They’re worth a fortune. And he’s a greedy asshole.”

  “Come here.” I stood and spread the paperwork out and pointed to the photo Danny had brought up on the screen during his earlier presentation.

  We peered down at the image of a golden-lit rotunda, a grand feature at the Burells’ family home. Also in the photo before us was an impressive collection of art, including many of the Old Masters, lining the circle of the room. That long wire hanging from the center of the roof was a stark reminder of what our thief had achieved.

  “He stole the Titian,” said Danny. “Rappelled in.”

  “He’s fit. We know that. Probably works out.”

  “So what am I missing?”

  “You told us he used a power tool to cut a hole in the ceiling’s stained glass window? And the police report validates that.”

  “Yes.”

  “See anything interesting?” I pointed to the other paintings.

  “They’re all real? Right?”

  “Yes. Our guy stole a Titian. Worth in the region of eight million pounds.”

  I slid my finger along. “That’s a Paul Cezanne, right there. It’s hanging five feet away from where the Titian hung. Take a guess at how much it’s worth.”

  He shrugged. “Ten million?”

  “This is one of a series of depictions Cezanne painted in the 1890s.”

  An oil on canvas of two men sitting opposite and leaning over a table and playing cards, a bottle of wine between them. An elegant prelude to Cezanne’s final years.

  “Only five Card Players exist,” I added. “The last one was sold to the nation of Qatar for two hundred and fifty million dollars.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “Exactly, so why did our thief go to all that trouble for a Titian?”

  “Maybe he panicked when the bird flew in?”

  “Yet the raven never set off the alarm. They found it happily perched on the van Gogh. He’s cool enough to reevaluate the situation.” I caressed my brow, something wasn’t adding up.

  “Maybe this time he cracked under pressure.”

  I grabbed that stick of licorice out of Danny’s hand and took a bite. “What does all this tell us about his motive?”

  “Icon’s selective about what he steals?” Danny shrugged. “Maybe he’s great at technology but an ignoramus when it comes to art.”

  “What do you do before you break into a house?”

  “Case the joint.” He smiled at that.

  “Research.” I looked at the photo. “He knew the Burells’ rotunda floor was set to detect weight and movement. His scrap with the bird proves that.”

  “The loss of feathers.”

  “All the art is a private collection. Not publicized. So if he doesn’t know what he’s going for before he goes in, you’d think he’d learn a bit about art so his time and his risk are not wasted?”

  “See something worth more—”

  “Take that one, as well. Or at least instead of the other one.”

  He frowned at the photo. “Maybe he’s working for a private collector?”

  “The kind that’s okay with him stealing a Titian—”

  “But not a Cezanne.” Danny frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “Exactly.” I looked over at the computer. “Get back to work.” I raised my invisible whip and struck him with it.

  He feigned defending himself from my attack and laughed all the way back to his workstation.

  He turned serious. “Zara? Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc that was stolen from Christie’s once belonged to your dad?”

  “Does Adley know?” Everything tightened in my stomach.

  He gave an apologetic nod.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon,” I said. “Either way the investigation is added to these.” I glanced over to the case files.

  “I’m here for you if you need anything,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Back to work then.”

  I gave a polite smile to hide my frustration and returned to the table.

  Danny had fun c
ranking the library mechanism to open the shelves, and we slid between the thin corridor to retrieve the compendiums we needed to track the Titian’s provenance. We carried the large books back to our private space.

  Two hours later and we had our first breakthrough.

  Danny stood beside me as I talked him through the painting’s history.

  I placed my scribbled Post-it notes in a line to represent the names of previous owners, and used them for reference before heaving open one of the larger compendiums that we’d pulled from the sixties section.

  I pointed to the page. “Here’s our Titian. Look, in July 1955 the painting turned up for auction in Amboise in France. The Ramirez family who lived in Bobigny reported it missing, stolen from their home. When they found out about the intended auction they argued against the sale and demanded their Titian back. It appears the Burells had the money to have their attorney deal with the mess. Says here, ownership landed with the Burells.”

  “Were the Ramirez family compensated?” Danny moved quickly back over to the computer and tapped away, searching out any news articles related to the contested ownership.

  I scrolled through my phone, trying to come up with new and imaginative ways to coax Tobias to reply. I sent him a silly cat GIF and suppressed a smile.

  “Found something.” Danny centered the article. “This is from the local newspaper back then, Le Rue Relais.”

  I threw my phone back into my handbag and hurried over. We both stared at the headline enlarged on the screen.

  Danny shot up straight. “No way.”

  “Make sure it’s the same family.”

  “Same address.”

  “Same time frame?” My stomach churned with the revelation.

  “It is.” He stared at me. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is?”

  Our gazes returned to the screen—

  Reading on, I cupped my hands over my mouth, aghast at the terrible truth.

  27

  Silence reigned in Huntly Pierre’s conference room, emphasizing how traumatized we felt. Danny and I had returned to The Tiriani building just before 5:00 p.m.

  The other staff were wrapping up their work for the day and preparing to head home.

  I needed to document the details of what we’d found and Danny looked too shaken to be alone. He’d sat for the last twenty minutes with his head in his hands.

  We were both grieving for the family. The injustice.

  “Dan,” I soothed.

  “The Burells...” his voice cracked with emotion “...had them killed.”

  My weary gaze fell once more on Le Rue Relais newspaper article Danny had printed off from July 1955. It relayed the tragedy of a house fire at the Ramirez’s home in Bobigny, and the loss of the family. Only their fifteen-year-old daughter, Sarah Louise, had survived. That large oak tree with its strong branches that reached her bedroom window had been her miraculous liberator.

  Sarah Louise Ramirez would be in her seventies now, if she was still alive. She’d no doubt remember that night and might even be able to shed more light on her family. Maybe even remember them owning the Titian.

  Melancholy shattered me; I knew all about the suffering that followed surviving a house fire.

  I wanted to say something to reassure Danny that we didn’t know anything sinister had happened for sure but motive was key in a case like this. That legal battle of ownership over a Titian suggested foul play was a possibility. And the Burells’ lawyers had dusted away the annoying rumors that followed.

  Why did each revelation bring more questions?

  My thoughts carried me back to St. Joan and her strange disappearance. I’d managed to keep my paranoia at bay but this sense of invasion prickled beneath my skin.

  “What can we do about it?” said Danny.

  “It’s such a long time ago,” I said.

  “But surely there should be an investigation? Something done?”

  “I know. Let’s gather all the evidence on the other cases and maybe something can be done.”

  “When I first came into this job I knew there were some greedy cunts, but this is unspeakable.”

  I waved him back from the ledge. “The truth always rises, Danny. Maybe that’s why you and I were chosen for this. Because we have the skills to know what we’re looking at. And the determination to look deeper. We aren’t willing to be silenced.”

  “Promise me you’ll see this righted.”

  “I promise.” That vow felt like an arrow to my heart.

  I followed his gaze toward the conference door and saw a striking mirage—

  Tobias was leaning casually on the doorjamb, his blue shirt and ripped jeans playing down the fact he ruled one of the most advanced tech empires. It was as though he’d purposefully dressed down to lessen his intimidation.

  I always needed a few seconds to catch my breath with every new encounter. That kind face catching me off guard with its ethereal beauty, those refined masculine edges, the way his smile reached his eyes.

  After this afternoon he felt like a goddamn miracle.

  “Elena told me it was okay?” he said. “Hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Of course not.” I rounded the desk and made my way toward him.

  Danny’s inquisitive stare bounced to Tobias and back to me again.

  “We were just finishing up.” I reached for Tobias’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  He came in farther and slipped his hand down to the small of my back and tipped me backward in one continuous movement to dip me, and I let out a gasp of surprise. I was powerless to resist as I hung completely off balance. All I could do was grin up at him.

  He leaned in and kissed me, crushing those soft lips to mine, and the day slipped away... Tobias peered up at Danny. “This is how Zara greets all of Huntly Pierre’s clients. Quite the service.”

  He lifted me up, and I sprang to steady my feet and tipped forward, leaning conveniently against his biceps. “You’re incorrigible.”

  He peered across the room. “Where did the Pollock go?” He laughed and brought his arms up, shielding himself from a possible thump.

  “I’ve been put through more than enough trials, mister.”

  He studied my face. “How was your day?”

  “Challenging.” I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him tight and my entire body tingled.

  Danny gathered his files and came over. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wilder.” His eyes found mine and widened in a questioning way as he walked toward the door. “I’ll let you continue with your consultation.”

  “Danny!” I chastised him playfully.

  Tobias rolled his eyes and used his foot to kick the door closed behind him.

  I knocked on the conference room window after Danny to get his attention and shouted through the glass, “Call me, okay? If you need to talk about today.”

  Danny offered me a thumbs-up.

  I turned back to Tobias. “He’ll tell everyone about us.”

  “You don’t mind that?” He tipped my chin up. “Do you?”

  “Of course not. I’m just not sure how Adley will take me moving in on his most prestigious client.”

  “Think of me as a perk.” He waggled his eyebrows and pulled me into him.

  “You don’t know how wonderful it is to see you.” I glanced back at my folder.

  “Sounds like you both had a rough day.”

  “We found something at the Witt. The provenance of one of the paintings appears to have a sketchy history. We can’t be certain but it looks like a possible homicide is connected to the theft, dating back to 1955.”

  “That would be difficult to prosecute now. Even with hard evidence.”

  “I know. And all to own a Titian.”

 
His gaze drifted to the file. “Anything else turn up?”

  There ran an insidious thread connecting Titian’s painting, the Jaeger’s Munch, and now my St. Joan. All of them sharing the one common denominator of a sketchy provenance.

  I stilled as the pieces formed in my mind. “Looks like the work of Icon.”

  He gave a shrug. “Sounds like karma.”

  “Sounds like arrogance. Whoever this is, they’re reckless. He’s unpredictable. He’s passing over pieces that far exceed what he’s taking. For someone driven by money this doesn’t add up.”

  “Maybe it’s not what’s driving him. There’s more fuel than finance. Wealth isn’t the only motivation.”

  “Well, I’m not letting up. That Titian is still out there and I’m not going to stop until I find it.”

  He leaned in to kiss my neck, and it was impossible to resist him. He crushed his lips to mine and kissed me greedily. When his hands cupped my butt and pulled me into him, I caved into his possessive hold and opened my mouth further, tangling with his tongue as this stir of arousal sent my thoughts scattering.

  I smiled at him. “You’re the best surprise a girl could wish for.”

  His expression became thoughtful. “You asked me to let you in.”

  I caressed his cheek and gave a smile of encouragement.

  He leaned into my palm. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  * * *

  Our destination remained cloaked in secrecy.

  With Tobias at the wheel of his sporty silver Jaguar, we drove along the backstreets of London and all the way to Copperfield Street.

  Now and again, Tobias’s eyes would lift from the road ahead and flit over to me, and each time I melted in my seat. When he reached over and held my hand I felt our closeness more than ever.

  After thirty minutes of winding our way through traffic, Tobias parked his Jag alongside a large wall covered in lush greenery.

  He reached over and kissed the back of my hand. “I’ve never shown anyone this. No one knows of my involvement. I’d very much like it to stay that way.”

  I peered up at that ancient wall strewn with wild, creeping ivy.

  “I’m asking a lot.” He leaned low and stared up at the wall. “But this is important.”