DECEMBER FROST
A Southern Romance Monthly
CJ Hockenberry
Copyright © 2013 by CJ Hockenberry
All rights reserved.
Published by Caldwell Press
www.caldwellpress.com
Cover Design Copyright © 2013 Design by Trap Door
Cover Image Copyright © Mast3r | Bigstock
Cover Image Copyright © Kavram | Bigstock
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely fictional. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
CHAPTER ONE
"Ever heard the phrase you're stuck in a rut?"
Cecelia Inzmann looked up from her burrito and glared at her best friend. "I hope you're not referring to me."
Deb Procter pursed her lips after wiping them clean with a paper napkin. "It's sort of written into that scowl."
"I don't scowl."
"Yeah you do." Deb reached out and poked at the space between Cecelia's brows. "It's right there. The grooves are so deep no amount of Botox is going to fix them."
Cecelia good-naturedly batted her friend's hand away, but Deb's message was loud and clear. Cecelia was unhappy. Frustrated. Bored. And everyone around had noticed. Verbally. "You know, at least I'd hoped to evade your scrutiny."
"Nah," Deb said as she sized up her burrito to plunge in again. "I'm probably the first one to notice, but given your recent work load, this is the first time we've seen each other in weeks." She grinned at Cecelia and took a big bite of cheesy, greasy, ground meaty goodness.
No matter how much she wanted to deny it, Cecelia agreed. She was in more than a rut. She worked. She exercised. She caught bad guys. She slept. And she ate. There was little time for anything else.
After spending a few days with her brother Lex in Roswell, GA, exposed to his nauseating happiness with his new girlfriend, a photographer named, of all things, Nana…
Balls.
"You're doing it again," Deb said around another bite of burrito. She wiped her mouth and swallowed. "What the hell's wrong? You know you've been deeper into this mood since you went to see Lex."
Oh great. Now she's reading my thoughts. "No I haven't."
"Uhm hmm."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"I'm not continuing this fourth grade line of conversation, Cecelia. You were already grumpy. You go see Lex and Nana and now you're all unpleasant. Did something bad happen?"
"No."
"Did Lex treat you bad?"
"No."
"Was Nana made of balloons?"
Cecelia gave her friend a confused look. "What?"
"Well I'm just trying to figure this out." Deb sucked on her straw and emptied her soda before she sat back. "Lex is obviously happy. I mean, the dude was laughing on the phone last night—"
"Last night? You talked to Lex last night?"
Deb arched her eyebrow. "Yeah. I talk to Lex a lot. He still uses the lab on occasion. They don't have one in Roswell." She leaned forward. "So why are you all…Negative Nancy?"
"Oh I just…" I just what? Cecelia closed her mouth and poked at her own half-eaten burrito. "Nothing. What'd you talk to Lex about."
"The fact you haven't returned his calls since you got back. He said they're planning a trip down to Nana's uncle's place in Tybee, Island for New Years. They want you to come."
New Years was three weeks away. She glanced up at the red, green and blue garland strung along the fast food establishment's windows and shook her head at the spray-on snow. Too bad it never really snowed in Atlanta. What it did do sometimes was sleet and dump a bit of frozen rain on the city, which just ruined traffic for a day. "I'm not exactly up for being a third wheel again." Cecelia looked at Deb. "You know?"
To her surprise, Deb nodded. She looked concerned. "Actually I do. I'm dateless this year too, you know."
Cecelia straightened up in her chair. "You are? What happened to that Juan guy."
"He got back together with his previous girlfriend—the one he has a kid with." She shrugged. "It wasn't working. I mean, I barely saw him because of my own hours."
"See? You and me," Cecelia said as she picked up her soda. "We got our careers and little else."
"Oh I wouldn't say that." Deb picked up her own empty soda container and slid out of the booth. "Gonna refill. You want one?"
"Nope." Cecelia watched Deb head back to the fountain machines. Her thoughts idled a bit, remembering the smile on her brother's face. He hadn't smiled like that since his wife Veronda was killed by a rapist. To get away from the bad memories in Atlanta, he'd taken the open Medical Examiner's position in Roswell, GA last month. Roswell was about an hour north of Atlanta, but far enough into the foothills to give the illusion of a greater distance. Beautiful countryside. Cecelia used to hike in North Georgia, mostly around Red Top Mountain. A few times she'd ventured into Tennessee into Chattanooga.
But the last year's caseload made it difficult. Being a homicide detective was a lot more demanding than she thought it would be. She loved her work. Loved the look on their faces when they realized the tall, skinny chick with the electric blue eyes was a cop.
Made it all right.
But that feeling didn't keep her warm at night. It didn't greet her at the door (that was the job of her cat, Fuzzy Wuzzy) and it didn't comfort her on rainy days.
It wasn't that she was jealous of her brother's newfound happiness. She just…
She wanted to find the same thing for herself. Just…find a guy that wasn't a scumbag or a player. Or a cop-jerk. She knew enough of those chauvinist ass-holes at the precinct.
"Whoa…" Deb said as she slid back into the booth and snapped her fingers in Cecelia's face. "Come back there. You were a bazillion miles away."
"Yeah." Cecelia finished off her soda and wrapped her burrito up.
"You can't be finished."
"Just not hungry."
"Well," Deb said as she cleaned up her own area. "I bet we'll find a lot better food at the High Museum tonight."
Cecelia had been half listening. So when she heard High Museum her brain kicked back in. She frowned at Deb. "High what? What're you talking about?"
"Tonight's the Advertisers Awards, remember?"
Cecelia blinked. "No."
Deb sighed. "Cecelia—I told you about this months ago. Juan got us tickets to go. He's a graphic artist, remember? Works for one of the magazines in town? The awards are tonight at the High. Should be a pretty swanky event. We can meet people, eat good food, and dress up."
"Dress up?"
"Christ woman. You're the only girl I know that makes that word sound like death. Don't make that expression. I know you have dresses. I've seen your closet."
"Those dresses are for jobs."
"So? You've got a nice black dress. Put on a pair of fuck-me pumps, a little makeup, and do something with that hair."
Cecelia stared at Deb as if she were speaking a foreign language. "I don't…black dress? Fuck-me what?"
"Why is it you can pick clothes out for the right case but you can't get it together for a night out downtown? I'll be over at five to dress you." She scooted out of the booth and stood by the table. "You promised me you'd go. And since Juan and his girlfriend will probably be there—that's who got the fourth ticket—you have to come with me. I'm not going by myself." She sucked on her straw. "That and I talked to Nana's friend, the psychic? She told me to take a good friend. So, that means you."
<
br /> "Psychic?" Cecelia moved out of the booth as well and carried her re-bagged burrito and drink with her as they stepped out into the chilly December afternoon. "Wait…is that the girl that's dating the ghost dude?"
"Yep. And he's just as good looking in person as he is on TV."
It was Friday and they both had the day off. Cecelia had planned on ordering pizza, grabbing a six-pack and settling down with Fuzzy Wuzzy for a night of Netflix.
But…a party?
In fuck-me pumps?
It might be fun. Just a night with her best friend, eating good food and meeting flaky art boys. "Deb, aren't most guy artists gay?" She asked as they piled into Cecelia's truck.
"Some are. But I've met a few straight ones. I'll show you how to tell when we get there." She buckled her seatbelt and patted Cecelia's shoulder. "Come on. It'll be fun. Just us. And if it's boring we can always go back to my place or yours, eat ice cream and watch TV." She grinned. "I got Game of Thrones."
Cecelia smiled. The expression felt weird on her face and she cranked the truck. She had plans on a Friday night, and she had contingency plans. So what could go wrong?
CHAPTER TWO
Thomas Carr sat in the rented SUV, on his phone with his boss's daughter, and watched the exterior of the High Museum. "Blair, I've been sitting here for three hours. Nothing out of the ordinary. Phantom's usual MO would be to take several walks around the place, take pictures, and then step inside as a tourist to see the prize. And from all the studies your dad and I've done, all of these steps would take place a week before the hit date. He's not here."
Blair made a rude noise. "Just give it time, Thomas. Dad thinks he's changing things up. I mean…you've sort of put him out of business."
That was true. Six pieces of priceless art stolen expertly from six different collections in six different states. Each worth millions of dollars.
The thorn in his employer's side was the thief's success rate.
One hundred percent.
Until they hired Thomas. With his expertise, all six of those pieces had been recovered and returned to their rightful owners, the buyers all turning evidence against the now internationally known thief.
There was an international man-hunt after this guy. And it would be a feather in his cap, as well as his boss's, if they actually caught the guy in the act.
But no one knew ahead of time what piece was going to be targeted.
Until today.
"So Blair…" he said as he looked around the High again. "How do you guys know today is the day? The statue's been on display for the month and it was rebooked to remain at the High for another fifteen days. What made today so special?"
Blair didn't answer right away and Thomas thought he heard her talking to someone. "Is that the Professor?"
"No…he's still out. I was talking to the maid." She paused again. "Honestly, I have no idea where dad got the intel. You'll have to ask him. I'm just the messenger."
"Yeah well… I'll give it another half hour, then I'm heading home. I need to go check mom's mail while she's in Hawaii."
"Okay…call and let me know what you're going to do." She hung up.
He tossed his phone into the passenger's side. There was always the possibility the Phantom had already done his routine early and decided the place was too risky. After all, the High Museum in Atlanta was one of the city's largest tourist attractions. Not just for its displays of art, but the building's architecture itself.
Thomas studied the museum's literature, something he'd picked up during his own initial tour the day before. One of the leading art museums in the southeastern United States, the High held over 1,300 permanent pieces of art, a popular collection of African American art, photography and contemporary art. Larger shows, such as King Tut, rotated throughout the year.
He just liked the funky way it looked from the outside. It wasn't all roman columns and stuffy old world snobbery.
The statue in question was called "La petite fille de fleur" or as the plaque below the one-foot statue had said, The Little Flower Girl. He wasn't a lover of art. In fact, he didn't particularly like museums or the people that frequented them. But he had to admit it was a cute piece of marble. A little girl with a basket of flowers and a dog at her feet.
Looked to him like something he'd find on his grandmother's knick knack shelf. Eh…but then Thomas had never understood art. He just retrieved it.
What excited Thomas about his job was setting things right. From a young age he'd been a small guy. Shorter than his friends and fellow students in school. When puberty hit, all the way to high school graduation, Tom Tom Car, as he was called by the other kids, missed the 5' 9" yard stick. On the video his mom made of his graduation, she could be heard saying, "That's him right there—that dip in the middle of the line."
Then somewhere between graduation and his joining the armed services he shot up to 6'1". Growing pains in his legs put him in the infirmary twenty percent of the time in boot camp. But instead of sending him packing on a medical discharge, someone in an office in Washington took notice of his shooting ability, as well as his scores on certain other proficiency and profile tests.
Yeah…he fit a certain profile. And when the growing pains were over, Thomas Carr finished out his boot camp and went straight into training for a lesser known agency in the CIA.
Five years and he was done. Retired at twenty-nine, and now employed by a private company set on preventing crimes before they happened.
Thomas had been to France, Italy, Spain, Dubai, Japan, China and Egypt. He'd seen a lot of things, and he'd done a lot of…things.
And here he sat in the cold in December in Atlanta, Georgia, looking for signs of a thief that might never show.
Until he did.
No one really knew what the Phantom looked like, but he was known for what he wore. Dark shoes, jeans, a black suit jacket and white hoodie with the hood up. This description preceded every theft committed by this individual, in every city.
Thomas smiled behind the binoculars. And there he was.
Spotting him, or someone suspected of being Phantom, wasn't enough to arrest him. Thomas' job was to catch him in the act, get images if possible, or video, and even better, catch him with the item on him somewhere.
It sounded easy.
Application? Eh…not so much.
Thomas followed the white hoodie as he walked back and forth along the sidewalk, stopped and took pictures with what looked like a phone, then walked inside. If he followed his usual routine, the hoodie would buy a ticket, case the place, and then vanish. Then before midnight tonight, the prize would be gone.
Thomas lowered the binoculars and thought out his own next move. He'd already looked around and figured out at least twelve possible ways to steal the statue and get away. The statue wasn't heavily guarded, but the security system at the High was top of the line.
So how was he going to do this? He'd have to have a distraction of some kind.
Thomas had been looking at the museum through the binoculars for so long he hadn't bothered to look at anything around the High. So as he sat there looking out the window at the place, he finally noticed a red banner held between two poles near the sidewalk, just to the right of the museum's entrance. All those hours looking at the place—even a stroll through—and he hadn't bothered to read what it said.
Binoculars up, he focused on the sign.
ATLANTA ADVERTISERS AWARDS.
The date was today. The time, eight o'clock.
An advertisers event in the High. That's how the Phantom planned on stealing the statue. All he'd have to do is blend in with the other art snobs and advertising people.
Which was exactly what Thomas intended to do as well. He grabbed his phone and dialed an old number. "Hey, Giselle….yeah it's me, Tom. Look…I need to cash in on that favor if that's okay with you. Cool, cool. Are you going to the Atlanta Advertisers Awards? Oh good…need a date?"
CHAPTER THREE
Deb showed up
at five to dress Cecelia up.
And after six dress changes, Cecelia stood in front of her long mirror wearing an upper-thigh length black dress that hugged her so tight if she turned just the right way she could see the indention of her belly-button under the lights of her bedroom.
"This is too tight." She reached under her left side to grab the zipper.
Deb smacked her hand away. "Don't touch. It's perfect. I can't wait to be seen with you. They'll think we're this posh lesbian couple."
Cecelia gave Deb's reflection her best I don't know you look before she turned and hobbled over to her closet to look for the right black shoes. Deb was already dressed in a stunning dark blue dress that draped in all the right places. Curves looked good on Deb, and Cecelia had often wondered why men didn't notice her more often. She had a gorgeous face with blue eyes. Her mother's Korean heritage showed up in just the right place in the shape of her eyes, and her spiky blond hair was an art form.
My hair would never do that. It would stick out at funny angles like straw. Cecelia wasn't just being self-deprecating either. She'd tried to have her hair coiffed into an upsweep twice with disastrous results. Her hair was shoulder length, thick, and very coarse. The best she and Deb could do was iron the hell out of it. Cecelia shoved a few hair bands into her purse, along with her gun, license to carry, license to drive, and her license to be a cop, her badge.
Once they were primped and ready—Deb having insisted Cecelia wear lipstick—they piled into Deb's Lincoln SUV and headed 85 south to downtown.
Cecelia couldn't remember the last time she'd been to the High—or had she? She remembered its architecture more than anything—the place did not look like a museum. Maybe it'd been when she was small? Or maybe it was something her brother's wife had taken her too there.
Either thought brought back a slight melancholy with it when she thought of Veronda's death, and now finally, her brother's possible happiness again. She hated the way she'd sounded earlier at lunch. She didn't want to come off sounding like she was jealous, or she didn't like Nana. She did.
December Frost (A Southern Romance Monthly) Page 1
