In any case, it really didn’t matter why he’d come, I was happy to see him. We played kissy-face when he arrived and spent the afternoon in bed. Dinner at the pub across the street was followed by more bed.
“So,” I said the following morning, “you came to Dublin just because you were horny?”
He laughed. “We have word that Reagan will be arriving here sometime later today or this evening.”
“You could have sent me an email.”
“More fun this way.”
I had to laugh at that.
“I’ve been in touch with the local Chamber,” Wil said. “They have the marina where he docks his boat under surveillance, and we’ll have a team meet him when he lands. I don’t want those paintings to get away.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, rolling over and burrowing deeper into the covers.
“You don’t object?”
“Why should I? I get paid whether I retrieve the paintings alone or if an army helps me.”
Chapter 20
Wil and I spent the early part of the day sightseeing after eating a full Irish breakfast. Bacon, sausages, an egg, black and white pudding, a fried tomato, fried mushrooms, and toast with butter. And it was cheap! It amazed me that anyone on the island weighed under four hundred pounds if they ate that every morning.
We sat around with half a dozen Chamber men in a café overlooking the marina where Reagan leased a boat slip, drank coffee, and waited. As afternoon turned to evening, I began to get antsy.
“Is there any way to know where he is?” I asked. It bothered me that Wil managed to put an operative on board Reagan’s ship in France, but the guy didn’t plant a tracker on the ship. I wondered if I could sell training services to the Chamber.
“We had a satellite image of the boat near Wales,” Wil said, “but things clouded up, and we lost him.”
I looked up at a typical gray, drizzling Irish sky and sighed. Depending on the weather in Ireland was a little bit like depending on a boyfriend. If you wanted to get pissed on, it was dependable.
By the time it got dark, Wil was starting to show as much impatience as I felt. Around midnight, one of the Chamber men came in and announced that Reagan had docked at Belfast, unloaded, and disappeared.
Wil looked at me as though I were going to explode and take the whole group with me.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” I said, “but I’ve had enough coffee to float an oil tanker. Anyone know a good place to get a drink?”
We trooped down the street and into a pub. As we entered the place, Wil leaned into me and said, “I thought you’d be more upset.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I said. “Patience is a virtue. Once I staked out a target for weeks, only to have him fly to South America. Reagan didn’t get to where he is by being stupid.”
“We’ll get him,” Wil said.
I gave him my best raised-eyebrow look, which I knew wasn’t half as good as his. “We’ll talk.”
And then I settled down to an appreciation of some good Irish whiskey and a couple of beers that the Irish called ‘mother’s milk’.
Over breakfast the next morning, I filled Wil in on the scouting trip I had taken out to Reagan’s estate.
“I don’t know what kind of defenses he has beyond the alarms and surveillance,” I said after detailing the security setup, “but depending on how many men he can deploy, it might be rather dangerous to go in after him. I assume that your Chamber buddies here in Ireland would love to nail him, but I notice they haven’t done much.”
“People like Reagan are adept at deniability,” Wil said. “You don’t find them going out and pulling the trigger themselves, or kidnapping teenagers and selling them as prostitutes. That’s why I was able to get the resources for this operation. He’s actually touching the art. If we can nail him in possession of millions in stolen art, and especially if we can tie him to the forgeries, then we can bring him down.”
I thought about it, then said, “What if I could find evidence in his computer systems? You know, emails, bank account transactions, stuff like that? Stuff that ties him to illegal activities or even to murders?”
Wil shook his head. “Breaking into his systems, or his bank’s system, is as illegal as his activities.” He held up his hand when I opened my mouth. “Libby, no corporation is completely clean, and the rules are set up to protect them unless they really step over the line. We’re not allowed to use computer evidence unless we already have enough other evidence to bust them.”
“I didn’t know you needed evidence to persecute someone you don’t like,” I grumbled.
He leaned across the table and kissed me on the forehead. “I don’t. I can persecute anyone I want, but I have to abide by the rules of evidence if I want to prosecute them. If I had the resources, I could set twenty people to following Reagan around day and night and make his life miserable. But he’d just fly somewhere else, and my budget can’t match his. That’s where prosecution is superior. I just lock him in a cage.”
He gave me a side-eyed look. “You haven’t been breaking into his systems or his bank, have you?”
I rolled my eyes. I used to think his naiveté was endearing, but he really should have known better than to ask that question.
“Just a surface scan,” I said, and watched his expression change to one of alarm. “His accounts are so tangled that it would take months to figure everything out. Covers and fronts and cut-outs, companies that don’t exist paying companies that do exist, and owners that aren’t owners. Either he’s a genius at generating confusion, or he employs one.”
“So why did you even ask about hacking his systems?”
“Because he keeps the art deals separate. The buyers and sellers are coded, but if we traced the money, I could probably figure it out.”
He looked thoughtful. “Well, I can’t use such information to prosecute him, but I’m sure the insurance companies would be interested, and they wouldn’t care how you got it.”
I shook my head. Wil was a bright guy, but he didn’t seem to understand how the world worked.
“Wil, if I told Myron Chung that I could access bank information, he’d have a contract on me before morning. You just don’t tell big corporations information that makes them feel threatened. An insurance company can employ a cat burglar or an assassin without a twinge of conscience. Elite hackers are on everyone’s shoot-on-sight list.”
A light went on. I could see it in his eyes.
We drove out to Reagan’s that afternoon. Compared to my previous visit, the place was bustling. Wil brought a drone with him, and sent it into the sky, then we sat back, drank coffee, and watched the screen. We saw cars and trucks coming and going along the roads leading to the estate. People inside the fence hustled back and forth. Guards made their rounds. Basically, it looked like the boss was home.
“You haven’t been inside?” Wil asked.
“No. I might be able to slip through the gate when it’s open, but only at night. Going over the fence is a non-starter.”
He chuckled. “Must drive you crazy to find a place you can’t break into.”
“I didn’t say that. It will just take a little longer. We need to check if he’s hiring anyone.”
Wil turned toward me. “And?”
“And I get hired. Doesn’t matter what kind of job they’re looking for. If not, then we find someone critical and convince them to quit. Instant job opening.”
With a laugh, he said, “And if they’re looking for a cook?”
“Absolutely no problem. There will be a lot of collateral damage, though. To make sure I get him, I’ll have to poison everyone, not just him.”
He choked on his coffee.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m hoping he’ll throw a party.”
For a moment, I thought Wil might choke again. “What? Why in the world would he do that?”
“Ego. That house is full of art, and he brought a bunch of new stuff home with him. It won�
��t be as much fun if he can’t show it off.”
“All the new stuff is stolen!”
“So? That didn’t bother all those rich people in Vancouver. You should know better. The rules are made by the rich and powerful to control everyone else. It’s been that way throughout history, and nothing has changed.”
We sat there and watched the screen and brainstormed. Wil suddenly zoomed the camera in on the side door on the right side of the main house. I caught a flash of copper, then the camera steadied. Kieran Murphy, dressed to go horseback riding, walked along the portico to the stables.
“That’s an idea,” I said.
“What is?”
“When she goes out, we could kidnap her, and I’ll take her place.”
Wil continued to stare at the screen as though I hadn’t spoken. We watched Kieran enter the stables, then he leaned back and turned to me.
“What makes you think she’ll go out?”
“A couple of things. She has family north of Dublin that she hasn’t seen in a couple of years, and she can’t have much of a wardrobe. I mean, how many clothes can you take on a boat when you leave in a raging hurry?”
He seemed to think about it. “You said she and Reagan are intimate.”
“She’s screwing him. I don’t know about how intimate they are.”
“Don’t you think he’ll notice that you aren’t her? I mean, they just spent a couple of months on a small ship together. She would know a lot of things that might trip you up.”
I shrugged. “Possibly.”
Someone on horseback emerged from the rear of the stables. Wil aimed the drone’s camera, and we could see Kieran’s strawberry blonde hair flowing down her back.
“Even if he doesn’t notice, what are you going to do if he gets amorous?” Wil asked.
“I’m sorry honey. I have a headache.”
“You don’t get headaches. Suppose Kieran doesn’t either?”
“That’s because I like you.” I did not want the conversation to go in that direction. He could be a little prudish sometimes, and I definitely didn’t want to deal with any possessiveness. Especially when it came to business. “Hell, Wil, I just need to get inside. If the paintings are there, I call you and you come riding in like the cavalry.”
He shook his head. “I think that’s a lousy idea. Suppose the paintings aren’t there? How do you plan to get out?”
“Then we draw Reagan out, and I go in while he’s gone.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“Stage an art show. One that will pique their interest, and send them an invitation. We can even organize a charity show, invite all the rich thieves, and donate the money to a good cause.”
“And you think that will work?”
“I’m very interested in better ideas.” I put my chin on my fist, leaned forward, and gazed wide-eyed at him, waiting for him to enlighten me. I waited a long time, then poured myself some more coffee.
Chapter 21
Wil and I were out running one morning when his phone rang. He spoke with someone for a few minutes, and when he hung up, he said, “Your buddy O’Bannon got out of the hospital.”
“Huh?”
“You told me he had an accident. Well, I guess he’s well enough to travel. He checked out this morning.”
“That’s impossible.” Wil cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Wil, I shot him. Right through the chest. He was less than ten feet away. Really. He died. Fell in the lake and floated away. I know what a dead man looks like.”
Wil got back on his phone. Fifteen minutes later, he said, “According to local authorities in Killarney, one Gavin O’Bannon was found floating in the lake, Lough Leane. He’d been shot in the chest, and the bullet exited his back. They took him to the local hospital, and although he was close to bleeding out, he survived. The bullet missed his heart, lungs, and spine. In other words, it didn’t hit anything vital.” He shook his head. “That’s incredible. He must be the luckiest man alive.”
“So where is he now?”
“Some men picked him up at the hospital and headed north on the road to Limerick.”
I normally tried not to curse, too much, but I had paid attention to the creative way my father sometimes used language. I tried some of it out. It really didn’t make me feel better, but it did relieve some tension. Wil looked shocked.
Back at the townhouse, I took a shower, then turned the bathroom over to Wil. With a towel wrapped around my hair, I rummaged in the freezer for a quiche to microwave, and turned on the screen to check the weather.
The major story on every news site was a variation of, “Art Scandal in Vancouver.” In spite of the large corporations controlling most of the media, some stories are just too juicy to keep quiet. This one had all the ingredients—theft, forgery, murder, and the involvement of some of Vancouver’s foremost families and art patrons.
Some enterprising reporter had tied Boyle’s and Abramowitz’s murders together. I watched Sheila Robertson with her lawyer making a statement about how she was an innocent victim of art fraud. Marian Clark’s lawyer gave a “no comment” to a report that she had purchased stolen masterpieces for her personal collection. Five employees of the Vancouver Art Gallery were under arrest, as was a member of the Chamber’s security force, and an employee of Feitler’s Gallery, where I had delivered the recovered art to Chung. I was impressed both with the reporter who put it all together and with Inspector Fenton.
“Wil,” I shouted. “Come see. Major art scandal in Vancouver. We’re all over the news.”
He came out of the bedroom dripping water and toweling his head.
“What are you yelling about? What about Vancouver?”
I pointed at the screen.
“Holy crap.” He stood there, staring with his mouth open and making a puddle on the floor.
“I told you there was a leak,” I said. “That day we got boxed by the trucks, and the day Reagan escaped. Two different leaks.”
Just then, a picture of a woman came on the screen, and the announcer said, “Police are looking for this woman, believed to be the kingpin of the operation.” It was Kieran Murphy.
I erupted in laughter. “Kingpin? Kieran? What idiots. Not a word anywhere about Reagan.”
“I need to call Vancouver,” Wil said and trotted into the bedroom. I followed and watched him grab his phone.
“What time is it there?” he asked.
“Like one or two o’clock in the freaking morning. No one is going to be awake. Here, give me that thing.” I snatched the phone out of his hands. “Geez, you really need to get better equipment. I guarantee the people in your financial audit unit have better phones.”
He glared at me, but I ignored it.
“Come with me,” I said, and led him into the other bedroom where I had all my equipment set up. Taking a patch cord, I plugged it from a little gray box hooked to my network into his phone. “I assume you plan to call your people at the Chamber, and maybe Inspector Fenton?”
Wil nodded.
“Just plug this in before you call. This little box will encrypt your conversation so that no one can listen in. You know, like the media. The people that are broadcasting your quiet little investigation to the world.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Go dry off. Do you want some microwave quiche?”
Wil did talk to the local Chamber guys. In Ireland, the Chamber had taken over all major police functions. The Garda, the Irish national police, had been so corrupt that the Chamber abolished them along with the rest of the government in 2087.
A couple of hours later, one of Wil’s Chamber contacts called him back.
“Murphy left the estate in Celbridge. She took a car and is driving toward Dublin,” Wil said after he hung up.
“Is she alone?”
“Yeah. Our spotter said she put two suitcases and a backpack in the car, then left alone.”
“She’s running,” I said. “Is Reagan at the es
tate?”
“We haven’t seen him leave,” Wil said. “Our information is that he’s a night owl. Sleeps until almost noon.”
“So, he may not know she’s gone. Obviously, she doesn’t feel as though he’ll protect her,” I said. We were walking along the south bank of the River Liffey. Stopping and looking north, I could see the steeple of Christchurch Cathedral jutting out of the water, and the ghosts of thousand-year-old buildings beneath the surface. So much of the history of the city had drowned. But not the airport, though it was much closer to being beachfront property than when it was built.
“You might stop her from getting on a plane,” I said. “And if she drives past the airport, then she might go to her parents, who live about halfway between here and Belfast. And if she doesn’t go to her parents’ house, then she might be heading to the airport in Belfast.”
“It might be more than a concern that Reagan wouldn’t protect her,” Wil said as we turned up the hill into downtown and headed for Chamber headquarters. “She would probably be the most important witness against him. Men like Reagan aren’t fond of witnesses.”
At Chamber headquarters, we found Miles Callaghan—the Deputy Director of Criminal Investigations that Wil had been working with.
“We definitely have a runner,” Miles said when we entered his office. “She’s made it off the island.”
“I thought you were watching for her at the airport,” I blurted out.
Miles gave me a disapproving frown. “We were. She took a ferry.”
I let that sink in. The only ferries I had any experience with were the ones that traversed Lake Ontario and the one in Vancouver.
“Why didn’t security stop her there?” Wil asked.
Miles shook his head. “In North America, do you have security checkpoints to cross the street? There isn’t any security. You drive into the ferry port, get in queue for your destination, pay the fee, and drive on board. Your girl probably knew the schedules, because within fifteen minutes of arriving at the port, five ferries launched.”
He had a large map of Ireland on one wall. I walked over to it.
Chameleon's Death Dance Page 15
