by Ellis, Dee
It was an uphill battle. She sipped her tea and concentrated on the brush marks of red rose petals on the hand-painted cup. It was the only thing that seemed to calm her.
“I still have to hear back from a couple of people,” Jack was saying. “But it seems our friends aren’t part of the local Russian mob. They have a different approach. They’re more covert, content so far to stay in the background.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“More or less. But it doesn’t give us much indication of why they’re here and what they want. We’ll start with the basics. They quizzed you about your boss.”
“Yes but Marcus is in Europe on business. It’s all pretty routine. One of our regular clients died and he’s been helping sort through the estate. There are some items he can sell easily.”
Jack fell silent, staring into the computer monitor for a while.
“You said he emailed you about a courier delivery.”
“Yes.”
“They may have already hacked into your computer. I have a contact that can examine the computer at the store and find out for sure. He can also sweep for bugs.”
“Marcus emailed me at home.”
“I’ll have that computer checked as well. When does the delivery you were talking about arrive?”
“It already has.”
Jack looked up, alert.
“It has?”
“Yes, a few days ago.”
“Then they’d know about that as well. We have to assume they’re watching the store.”
“But the courier delivered via the rear loading dock. It’s not often used. Maybe they’re only watching the front.”
“What was in the delivery?”
Sandrine shrugged.
“Rare books plus a number of art portfolios with mid-nineteenth century prints, drawings and the like. All Pre-Raphaelite. Some beautiful pieces but not exceptionally valuable.”
“I’d like to see them if that’s OK,” Jack said casually. “We still need to be careful. While the Russians continue to shadow us, we don’t want them suspicious that we know just yet.”
“Jack, are they dangerous?”
The warmth of his smile went some way to calming her fears.
“They don’t seem to be. They’re proceeding softly-softly at the moment but it can turn in an instant. Until we know exactly what they want, we have to be very careful.” Jack looked at his watch and grimaced. “In the meantime, we have to get back to the mall. It’s been five hours since we went into the movies. By now, they’ll be getting concerned. We need to let them find us.”
The thought of returning to the Russians, of being so close to them that they could do anything they wanted, unsettled Sandrine. She felt safe in Jack’s home. They didn’t know she was here. She desperately wanted to curl up with Jack. His close physical presence calmed her, made her feel secure and safe. Jack wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She had complete and utter faith in him, trusted him without question.
Jack was her shelter in the storm she suspected was rapidly approaching.
Chapter Nineteen
At Jack’s direction, the taxi dropped them at the supermarket tucked into the ground floor corner of the mall. Jack had already outlined a plan and Sandrine knew what to do. Checking first to ensure they weren’t being watched, she walked rapidly into the supermarket and grabbed a basket.
Jack ducked away, saying he’d be back in a couple of minutes. By the time he joined her, ten minutes had passed and she was in the breakfast cereal aisle. He was carrying a number of large folded bags, bearing a prominent department store logo, of the sort used to hold clothes.
“Why?” was all Sandrine could say. She was mystified.
“We need to look as if we’ve been shopping. These will help.”
If the young woman on the check-out thought it odd they were wrapping cereal boxes in tissue paper before placing them into the department store bags, she hid it well. Chewing gum and curiosity were obviously mutually exclusive. Jack paid the bill in cash and they carried the bags up the escalators to an upper mall level.
“By now, the Russians are probably panicking. We’ll wander around for a while until they find us.”
It took nearly half an hour. They visited a number of stores; in one, Sandrine tried on a dark grey shirt-waist dress in a soft clingy knit material that Jack found particularly alluring. He urged her to buy it. It wasn’t her usual style but the thought of seeing Jack’s reaction when she wore it with high heels and no underwear convinced her otherwise. At the cashier’s desk, he offered his own credit card over Sandrine’s protests. She noticed it was a black American Express, a Centurion card. She’d heard much about these ultra-exclusive cards but never seen one.
As they walked from the store, Jack pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her hungrily. Shoppers stepped around them.
“Don’t look around but they’ve found us. Down towards the south end, outside the coffee shop. The same two who followed us this morning. They look relieved.”
“Can we go home now?”
“Sure. Your place, if you don’t mind. I don’t want them following us back to mine.”
“Anywhere, Jack. I just want some private time with you,” Sandrine breathed huskily, her pulse racing.
They strolled slowly, hand-in-hand. Anyone looking at them would see an attractive couple, obviously devoted, laden with shopping bags. What they didn’t know, and very likely wouldn’t understand, was that only one held what it should. The three large department store bags were laden with boxes of breakfast cereal.
In the car park, Jack took his time easing out of the spot and then set off towards Sandrine’s apartment. Traffic was light in the late afternoon and they were parked in the street outside before the sun set.
Heathcliff was sleeping in the kitchen. His bowl was empty. He woke, stretched lazily and growled a greeting that betrayed an edge of recrimination. Sandrine emptied a tin of tuna into his bowl while Jack opened the picnic basket on the kitchen bench.
The chicken and salads were portioned out, bread sliced and spread with Danish butter and, with the cheeses on another plate, were carried into the dining room. The Beaujolais was smooth and light, and complemented both the chicken and cheese.
“This is wonderful, thank you. So much thought went into this,” she said after they’d consumed most of the food. “I’d forgotten just how hungry I was.”
“It’s been a busy day,” Jack observed.
“Full of surprises. All sorts of surprises.”
“I thought you liked surprises,” Jack teased, arching his eyebrows.
“Some more than others,” she replied earnestly.
“Come here, my beautiful girl.” Jack stood up and Sandrine folded herself into his arms. There was slow music playing and they barely moved, swaying gently in place more than dancing, luxuriating in their closeness. She was snug and warm and feeling completely safe. She also felt loved and the realisation sprung within her and blossomed so beautifully with pleasure she couldn’t speak.
It was a gratifying moment and they held each other for a long time. Sandrine arched her arms around Jack’s neck and pulled him into a deep and lingering kiss. Oh, so wonderful, she thought lazily, Jack is so hard. His body loves me.
The swell in his crotch throbbed against her and she knew she was more than ready for him.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” As far as she was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion.
“Sorry, Sandrine. Not tonight. I’d love to and wish I could, but there’s still a few things I have to find out. There are people I need to talk to and they won’t be available until after midnight.”
She was deeply, almost bitterly disappointed. She didn’t want Jack to go away. She wanted him to stay forever. Silence hung between them like a curtain of frustration.
“Could I come back later? It shouldn’t be too late.”
Brightness returned, like a cloud that had suddenly passed from the front of
the sun. I’m being unfair, she berated herself. I shouldn’t automatically assume he’ll stay with me every night. But she did, she realised, and the idea that she might be forcing him to stay against his will depressed her.
Sandrine broke away and sat on a chair as far from him as she could. It might as well be in another country. He stood in the same spot, watching her coolly and carefully, unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have asked that. I appreciate all that you’ve done for me and there must be more you need to do.”
“Can I call you later?” he asked slowly.
“Yes, please. I’d love to hear from you. But I may be asleep so forgive me now if I don’t answer.”
“Sandrine, I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
She shook her head emphatically.
“No, no, I’m just being silly. I understand you’re trying to help me. Do what you have to do and please give me a call when you finish.”
He looked around, a little lost and confused, to find his coat. As he leaned over her to plant a kiss on the forehead, she pulled him closer and hugged him fiercely. Then he walked out the door.
The music had stopped and the stillness in the room had a suffocating quality. Her mood had darkened so quickly, she found it confusing, and a wave of guilt swept across her.
Heathcliff took this moment to leap onto her lap. He curled into a fat tabby ball and purred loudly.
“Oh, Heathy. Why do I make such a fool of myself? Jack didn’t deserve that at all,” she said, stroking his soft fur.
It was a question that went unanswered.
At eight o’clock that evening, the telephone rang. She hurriedly answered it, thinking it might be Jack but was surprised when it was Mariel, out of breath and almost in a panic.
“Babs, darling. Are you alone? Is he there?” she said, words tumbling out in a rush.
“No, he’s not. I’m all alone. What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk. Can you meet me at Russet & Brown’s as soon as possible?”
Sandrine glanced at her watch and sighed. She had been considering an early night but Mariel sounded anxious. It was out of character for her, usually so calm and cool. Her wit had temporarily abandoned her and that was a bad sign.
“Sure. See you in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Twenty
Russet & Brown’s was one of Sandrine’s favourite restaurants, a crazy place that was a careful recreation of the 1970s, where the wait staff sped along bare timber floors on roller skates and the ladies room was wallpapered in pages from Wonder Woman comic books. At the reception desk, the manager warmly greeted Sandrine and pointed out Mariel sitting at a table near the back of the room, already on her feet and waving madly.
“How many martinis has she had, Andre?”
The suave little man with a pencil-thin moustache shook his head.
“None. Not here at least.”
“Then better send one over. Looks like she needs it. And I’ll have a glass of dry white wine, thanks.”
Sandrine was very nearly crushed by Mariel’s hug. A big sloppy kiss followed. There was no trace of alcohol on her breath.
“Where have you been and why are you in such a state?” Sandrine asked.
“Came straight from the office and needed to talk to you immediately. It couldn’t wait.”
A waitress rolled by with an impossibly tall hot fudge sundae, one of the specialties of the house, made more outrageous by the sparklers spitting stars of incandescence in all directions.
They made small talk until the drinks arrived.
“Thank you, babs. You are just too-too much,” Mariel downed the martini in one gulp, placed it back on the waiter’s tray and ordered another. “Colder. Less vermouth. More gin, please.”
“What’s this about?”
Mariel directed a baleful glance across the table.
“You know I love you dearly and I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Of course.”
“And you know how concerned I’ve been about you. Ever since you met this Jack person, you’ve been like someone else. It’s a wonderful change and about time it happened and that’s why I wanted to make sure you’d made the right decision.”
I don’t like the sound of this. What has she done?
“Mariel……..”
Mariel held up both hands in protest.
“I only did it because I’m concerned about you. You’d do the same for me.”
Sandrine’s scalp should have been tingling by now but the expected flash of anger didn’t occur. Ordinarily, she’d have been affronted, viewing it as an invasion of her privacy, no matter how good the intentions had been. This time, however, she registered little more than curiosity.
The whirlwind of her relationship with Jack had left her with questions that she’d never got around to asking. Who was he? What did he really do for a living? How could he exist the way he did?
A slim, young waiter returned with Mariel’s drink. She examined it, noting the beads of condensation freckling the glass, sniffed the contents and sat back, apparently satisfied.
“Thanks, sweetie. That appears about right.” The high-wattage smile she sent in his direction was enough praise by itself. The waiter blushed like a schoolboy and, almost beatific with gratitude, scampered away. Mariel had that effect on men.
“What did you do?”
“What you’d do in the same circumstances, babs. I checked him out.”
Sandrine pursed her lips and looked around the room. At this time of night, the place was packed with gaggles of women and prowling single men. They were all largely of a type – young, attractive and well-dressed, professionals intent on blowing off steam after a hard week at the corporate coalface. With its clientele and studied air of retro nonchalance, Russet & Browns was one of Mariel’s favourite haunts. She was known to all the staff, from Andre, who favoured her with one of the room’s best tables, superbly positioned for people-watching, down to the kitchen hands. The men, especially the gay men who considered her somewhat of a style icon, were in awe of her and the women loved her flamboyant and good-humoured chutzpah. This was Mariel’s personal fiefdom and Sandrine knew she was also under the spotlight. She was careful not to make a scene.
Swinging her attention back to Mariel, she said, “And what did you find?”
“It’s not so much what I did find but what I didn’t. And what happened afterwards.”
Sandrine sipped the chilled Californian chardonnay slowly. She waited. It wasn’t wise to rush Mariel who loved to indulge the telling of secrets with a theatrical flourish. To prod her along would only prolong the process.
“Jack Lucas. Not a lot to start with. A middle name would have been handy.”
“I don’t know his middle name,” Sandrine admitted.
“So I tried Jack as well as James, John and Jacob, which throws the net far too wide in my opinion. Pain in the bum. I started with a Google picture search because that would bring up social media. Drew a blank there. No Facebook, MySpace or Twitter or, so it appears, Tumbler, Pinterest or any of the others.
“So he’s private. I am, as well. I’m not on any of those.”
“I then tried searching for public records. Zip, nada, nothing. No criminal records I could find, not even a parking ticket. Doesn’t even seem to be registered as a voter. So I took a different tack, working from the other direction. I used the little you mentioned about his address to find his warehouse and used that to search for property information, thinking that would give me his full name. Luckily, the county assessor’s office is on-line. And here’s where it starts getting interesting.”
Sandrine had to admit Mariel had a way of unfolding a story. As a journalist, she often said, she liked the research best. It was a matter of joining the dots to see what pattern emerged.
“That building, along with one on either side and a couple directly behind it on the parallel street, is owned by a co
rporation named Intaglio Inc.”
Sandrine recognised the word but couldn’t quite place it.
“It’s something to do with art, I think,” she ventured.
“Exactly,” Mariel agreed. “It’s a printmaking technique using engraved copper or zinc plates. Been around for centuries.”
Sandrine nodded. Intaglio Inc. A nice little pun. She still had no idea of where the conversation was going or what was so urgent she needed to rush out to meet Mariel in the middle of the night.
“Anyway, I then tried searching for information on Intaglio. That led into a maze of related companies then eventually a dead end. I gave up for a while. My head was spinning and I needed coffee. There’s a great coffee shop near the office with the cutest Venezuelan barista you ever did see. Tall, dark and handsome. And with such beautiful eyes.”
“Mariel,” was all Sandrine had to say to bring the conversation back on course.
“Yes, sorry, anyway, I get back to the newsroom and I can see the editor has visitors. A couple of earnest-looking men in dark suits. Anonymous right down to their identical haircuts and conservative ties. Very official. They were talking and Mr Hopkins, well, he can be the most fearsome editor I’ve ever worked with, he was listening. Intently. And nodding. If he had hair, he would have been tugging his forelock. Whoever these men were, they were scaring him badly.”
Mariel took a hefty swig of her martini and signalled the waiter for another. Obviously her editor wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
“I tried to keep a low profile, just sitting at my desk and sipping coffee. But Mr Hopkins saw me watching. When they left, he called me into his office. They wanted to know who had been accessing information on such-and-such a computer at such-and-such a time. Luckily, I’d been using someone else’s computer and he was away in London on assignment. Mr Hopkins stonewalled them, told them it could have been anyone, all the journalists, researchers and sub-editors had access to each and every computer and often used whichever one was closest.”
“Who were they?”
