Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Jerusha Jones

  This message had been recorded near noon. Arleta’s rich, balmy voice filled the speaker. She’s my favorite nurse in the Alzheimer’s unit at my dad’s care facility.

  “Nora, I’ve tried to reach your mother, but her assistant said she’s on a Far East adventure cruise this month. We’ve received a few phone calls for your dad in the past week or so, from male callers who won’t identify themselves. This morning we turned away a man who was asking after your dad because he wasn’t on the list of approved visitors. He also refused to give his name, and he basically threatened the receptionist — Cindy, I think you know her? Scared her so bad I had to talk hard and fast to keep her from quitting.”

  A spike of panicked fear shot through my chest. My dad. Utterly defenseless now that his mind was jumbled to the point of complete unreliability. He was locked inside the concrete bunker of a health care institution, but that didn’t give me any comfort. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel for Skip’s unsavory cronies.

  I jerked back to the mellow voice still talking in my ear. “I know your dad was a businessman, a labor union leader here in the Bay Area for years. Could it have something to do with that? Clearly, these people don’t realize the advanced stage of your dad’s disease.” Arleta paused, and I heard chimes over the intercom system in the background — the lunch bell reminder for people who had trouble putting their clothes on in the proper sequence let alone attending regularly scheduled mealtimes. “I’m worried. I’ll try calling you again tomorrow,” Arleta finished.

  I’d known about my mother’s cruise, of course. I hadn’t really kept track of the dates since it wasn’t a perk I’d be enjoying. I guess I hadn’t thought she’d actually go, considering the upheaval in my own life. It appeared that maternal urges did not negate long-anticipated vacations. By all rights, I should have been in the first weeks of homemaking in my new marriage, and the last thing I would have wanted around was a nosy mother.

  Which left absolutely no one in San Francisco to protect my dad. My mother was qualified. She’s not someone anyone would want to tangle with. She’d disable an adversary with commentary before he could get within arm’s reach for a physical confrontation. But she was out of the picture.

  I hit the speed-dial button for Matt’s number. My words came out tight and raspy. “My phone — the one you have tapped. Listen to the message left at noon. I want agents swarming all over the Century Hills Memory Care campus within the hour.”

  I tried to swallow, but my tongue was too thick. “If that’s a problem, then take all the agents currently in May County and stick them in that nursing home. I want FBI to outnumber old people ten to one.” I was way past the point of keeping my demands polite. “We both know my dad had ties to small-time mobsters in his longshore union organizing days. Sounds like someone’s called in a favor to put pressure on him. But they don’t know that he doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. Whatever he might have known, it’s gone now.” I gulped and tried to bring my voice back down from the screech it had ascended to. “He doesn’t even recognize me most of the time. I introduced Skip to him a few times, but he never could remember his name. Don’t let them touch him. Please.”

  I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. How far away was I? Six hundred — seven hundred miles? I’d have to rely on Matt. I knew the FBI could react quickly if they wanted to. If they thought the threat was valid. Although my dad was in no condition to be valuable to them. He’d never be able to take the witness stand in a trial, not anymore.

  Goodwill. I hadn’t done much to cultivate that with my FBI handlers in the past several weeks. Too late now.

  So I did the only thing I could — checked the other message.

  “Nora. New phone. You’ve got the number now. Listen, I’ve been thinking about that contact list you lifted from Lee Gomes. Can’t stop thinking about it, actually.” Josh Freeney’s tone was strict, matter-of-fact. “And then your message earlier today about the audio recording from Skip. I have a few hypotheses. None of them are terrific. Call me.”

  Josh switched out his phones more often than I did. As a former FBI agent, he’d know just what their tracking capabilities were. I should probably take the hint.

  I slouched on Lentil’s saggy bench seat and pressed my forearm tight against my stomach while punching his new callback number with my other hand. My body felt murky and sluggish, as though I was submerged in a swamp, and Josh’s message was a tiny oxygen bubble floating by. Flail too much and my only hope would burst.

  Josh answered on the second ring. “Doing okay?”

  “No. You?”

  He sighed heavily. “Me neither.”

  “I have even more tantalizing information now,” I replied. “You wouldn’t believe who’s in my basement and what he brought along with him.” I filled Josh in on the details — what I knew of them, at least.

  At my mention of Viktor Lutsenko, Josh let out what sounded like a low growl. “Damn,” he muttered. “Your Numero Dos. I’m not surprised. But that’s bad news, Nora. You wanna talk about evil — it’s personified in Viktor Lutsenko.”

  “I sure know how to pick ‘em,” I said. “What about the paintings?”

  “You’ve seen them? In person?” Rapid clacketing sounded in the background as though Josh’s fingers were flying over a keyboard.

  “Yep. They’re in my tenuous possession.”

  More clacketing, pauses, clicks. “They’re here. On the Art Loss Register. My membership is still active — looks like I found something the agency forgot to shut down when they fired me.” A couple more bumps and a shuffle, then Josh was back on the line. “Two separate museum heists. One in 2008 in Paris with presumed insider connections — a security guard called in sick and disappeared afterward. The other in 2012 in Stockholm, probably committed by a Corsican gang which seems to be developing a specialty in this type of thing. Interpol would love to get their hands on those guys. So you either have the originals or decent forgeries or some combination thereof.” He blew out a big breath. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “What do you mean?” I blurted, then flinched as I thought I saw movement in the side mirror. I tilted forward and peered into the reflected darkness. The last thing I needed right now was Violet or one of her team lurking about, eavesdropping on my conversation about stolen, priceless paintings.

  “It’s rare,” Josh said, “but law enforcement regularly speculates about it — the idea of commissioned art thefts. Where a wealthy criminal will offer a contract for the successful acquisition of specific works of art, a sort of custom-curated collection he can never show to anyone who has a functioning conscience. For bragging rights among his peers, if nothing else.”

  I sucked air in between my teeth. Exactly what Chet had said. Lutsenko hadn’t appreciated the paintings for their artistic expression but for the prestige their ownership conveyed. So he could show off.

  “It’s not unusual for these top bosses to have weird collections,” Josh continued. “Things or events or experiences that only a great deal of money and power can obtain. It’s a way of establishing their position in the pecking order, to throw their weight around. And the collections are never subtle — the more exotic or obscure the better. A sick sort of conspicuous consumption in their social circles. Lutsenko certainly has the ego and wealth to do this. He’ll be in a volcanic rage that someone had the balls to steal his stolen paintings.”

  “Chet said that Skip thought he might be able to use the paintings as leverage,” I said.

  “Makes sense.”

  “Or a trade,” I murmured.

  “For what? You could probably name your price, if you lived through the exchange,” Josh noted helpfully.

  “A missing Laotian girl and her uncle,” I whispered.

  “Damn,” Josh muttered.

  We sat in silence, listening to each other breathe on opposite ends of the line. It was a weighty idea. Paralyzingly terrifying, actually.

  I’d steamed up the windows.
The fog outside was roiling around in pale, bulbous shapes. Or maybe that was — I swiped condensation off the glass with my sleeve and scowled again into the darkness — nothing. I was becoming paranoid. With good reason.

  I returned to slumping against the seat and closed my eyes, but I waited for Josh to speak. I wanted his professional opinion.

  “I’m in,” he finally said.

  I bolted upright and clung to the steering wheel. “In what?”

  “This. Whatever it is. For old times’ sake with Skip. And because it’s big. And stupid. And if we can pull it off without getting killed, then maybe I can get my job back.”

  “You have a plan?” I croaked.

  “No. More like a phantom, ad-libbing, wishful dream.” Josh chuckled ruefully.

  “That’s better than what I have,” I said.

  “So you’ll take me on as a partner?”

  “Are you kidding?” I almost whooped. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

  I could hear the smile in Josh’s voice. “One other thing, now that you know you won’t be receiving a ransom call — leave your phone, the original one, at home at all times. I don’t know if the FBI’s put a roving bug on it, but if they have, it can be used as a live microphone to record and transmit everything you’re saying, even when it’s turned off. Put it in some quiet, unused corner of that old mansion and only check it periodically for messages.”

  My jaw dropped. A blotchy, barrel-shaped form bolted in front of my truck, and I blinked. “I gotta go.”

  “Something wrong?” Josh’s tone returned to stern urgency.

  “Nothing a little grub won’t solve. See you when you get here.” I gave him Tarq’s address and hung up.

  I quietly opened my door and slid off the seat. “Psshht. Psshht,” I called, barely above a whisper.

  A solid snout bumped against my calf.

  “There you are.” I bent to scratch the bristly skin on the pig’s neck. “Is your brother around here too?”

  A grunt sounded from my other side. I couldn’t tell them apart in the dark, but I definitely had the rapt attention of two very hungry pot-bellied pigs.

  They trotted faithfully behind me like obedient dogs, and I let them into the kitchen. This was a major violation of Clarice’s housekeeping protocol, so I lured them into a corner with a full package of Oreos and built a sort of corral around them with tipped-over and interlinked ladder-back chairs. There wasn’t much I could do about the odor that was sure to follow in short order. I didn’t know what kind of effect all that sugar would have on the pigs’ digestive tracts, but at least I could contain the mess.

  “The Terminator’s still at large, huh boys?”

  But I only received short, blinky stares from their beady eyes while they masticated. Oreo filling appeared to create quite a gooey compound when mixed with pig saliva. Good thing it was well past Clarice’s regimented bedtime.

  “Right. Well, just make yourselves comfortable. If you value your lives and limbs, you’ll also keep very quiet. Got it, boys?”

  Orville rippled the sensitive edges of his nose at me, and I took that as agreement.

  Clarice was absolutely going to pitch a fit over this latest stunt, and I was immensely grateful that I wouldn’t be around to witness it even though I was the cause.

  I printed a short note on a paper towel and folded it, then I slipped upstairs and left it on Emmie’s pillow. Her hair was tangled over her face. I gently brushed it free and planted a kiss on her forehead. She was so peaceful, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth, her breathing deep and regular. I wanted this sense of security for her every hour of every day — a childhood the way it should be, without worries.

  At least I could dream about that. The reality seemed impossibly out of reach.

  CHAPTER 14

  I had planned to get up early, but Matt made sure of that by returning my call while it was still pitch black — no hint of daylight or even moonlight seeped around the window shade. Seeing his name on the phone’s screen immediately dashed all grogginess from my mind.

  “Is he okay?” I blurted.

  “Yep,” Matt said. “We worked out a schedule with Arleta, brought in some undercover agents to keep an eye on things. Your dad likes chocolate pudding.”

  “Yes, he does,” I whimpered in relief. “It has to be Jell-O brand, with sprinkles.”

  “Okay,” Matt said slowly. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you, thank you.” I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my pajamas.

  “We’re going to show Cindy, the receptionist, our Bay Area organized crime photo book, see if she can identify your dad’s visitor.” Matt carried on as though I wasn’t a weepy mess. “Might give us a lead. Although I think we might have prompted the harassment.”

  “What do you mean?” I sniffed.

  “We raided the Turbo-Tidy Clean office and Skip’s residence.”

  “What?” I screeched. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Day before yesterday. And I’m telling you now. I wasn’t in on the decision, just the bearer of the news.”

  “You knew I wanted to make sure the employees were treated well. They deserve at least a couple weeks’ severance each. I left money in the accounts for that,” I hollered.

  “Yep,” Matt replied calmly. “The legal team in our San Francisco office got you a sympathetic judge to handle the bankruptcy, but it was time to seize the remaining assets — what little there was left, thanks to you.”

  “What, did I spoil your bonus?” I grumbled.

  “I wish my compensation worked that way, but no. By the time the judge has doled out what’s owed to the employees and the IRS, there won’t be much left. They figured the amount you designated for Skip’s ransom was moot now.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “Your corporate attorney — Freddy Blandings — has been fussing about, making a minor stink,” Matt added.

  “Because he’s greedy — and cold-hearted. If somebody doesn’t get paid, it’s him,” I said firmly. “Vulture. Couldn’t be bothered to help when I needed him.” I scowled into the phone. “But why now?”

  “We needed the computers,” Matt replied.

  “You’re not going to learn anything you don’t already know.”

  “Probably not,” Matt admitted. “Just following procedure.”

  Sometimes the FBI powers-that-be seemed extremely obtuse to me. Following the rules when it didn’t accomplish anything. I guessed they didn’t have any other choice.

  I couldn’t keep the frustration from flowing through my voice. “Why didn’t you arrest Skip earlier, when you had the chance, as soon as you realized he was laundering money for organized crime?”

  “While we were gathering sufficient evidence to do just that, it quickly became apparent that the scope of his operation was gigantic, bigger than we’d ever seen. The idea was to widen the net and also catch as many of his customers as we could. He had to stay in business for that. He was the central figure in a wide-ranging network. Maybe we were overly ambitious, but we wanted to reel them all in.”

  “And then there were none,” I said.

  “Three are sitting in a federal penitentiary awaiting trial,” Matt replied. “And another one has gone underground without a peep after kidnapping you. So our efforts haven’t been fruitless.”

  “Because I’ve been bait,” I grumbled.

  “Your choice.”

  He had a point. But how could I possibly have walked away? Gone back to a so-called life with no husband, no job, and the weight of not having even tried. I sucked in a deep breath and curtailed the pity party. Matt was absolutely correct.

  I thanked Matt one more time for coming to my dad’s aid and rang off.

  He hadn’t said anything about the destroyed surveillance post at the gate. Maybe Violet hadn’t told him. Maybe it didn’t matter because maybe they’d been listening to my conversations with my original, and possibly
co-opted, phone which had been on the truck seat right beside me last night while I’d outlined the bulk of my current knowledge for Josh.

  Well, no more. I shoved the suspect phone in a bundle of old towels in the back corner of Clarice’s least favorite linen closet. Now the FBI could conduct sneaky eavesdropping on mouse nest-building activities. But there would be no more inadvertent advertising of my intentional indiscretions.

  oOo

  I knew I could count on Tarq and Loretta being awake early, and I had a narrow window of time in which I could sneak out of the mansion before Clarice arose. I wrote her a gushy, apologetic note and tossed it on the table as I blasted through the kitchen without stopping to inhale. Wilbur and Orville were lying side by side in the chair corral, snoring contentedly.

  Once safely buckled inside Lentil and bouncing over the ruts toward the county road, I left a message for Walt suggesting that he find other accommodations for the pigs before someone I knew and admired regrettably made them into sausage. Because cohabitation would be absolutely impossible the moment Clarice became conscious.

  I swung by the general store to buy two full cases of Oreos and a few gallons of bleach. With Clarice’s Subaru up on blocks at Gus’s shop, she wasn’t able to go shopping, and I figured we needed to replenish our depleted, or soon to be depleted, stores of those two commodities.

  I was pretty sure Etherea had given up trying to speculate on the motives behind my purchases. At least she hadn’t specifically asked what I intended to do with them during my past few visits to the store. We exchanged small talk — mostly about the continuing icy spell — while she rang up the items. I paid in cash which always reinforced her agreeable mood.

  We both completely ignored the juicy topic of new residents at Mayfield. It appeared Chet and his family would also settle under the protection of neighbors who knew everything and shared almost all of that same information. It was what they neglected to share, and with whom, that mattered the most. Life or death most, in my case, and I was extremely grateful.