Farnsworth took a moment and closed his eyes, his head tilted back, and waited for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal.
America was a hell of a lot different from his own little suburb back in England. He’d forgotten the way sirens would blare all across a big city at all hours of the night. That one had sounded as if it had been stopped right out in front of this house. But then it had moved off.
He got up and ensured the heavy curtains covering the windows of the upstairs portion of Cleve’s house were indeed closed and that no light from his flashlight was likely to bleed through.
He paced, trying to quell his nerves—nerves he didn’t understand. He and Cleve had pulled off some damn daring heists over the years, and he’d never flinched, not once.
I’m alone this time, no preparation, no routine. That must be it. He and Cleve had always gone about their business with a methodical plan and a steely determination. They’d been professionals and their activities, simply business.
This was different. This was personal.
Make it business, then. That was what he had to do. He had to slip into that professional state of mind. Farnsworth inhaled deeply and reviewed his actions since entering this house, an easy lock pick of the handle to the back door. He’d immediately headed to the living quarters. Cleve would never have hidden anything down amid his books, because that would be the least secure place in the entire building.
He’d begun his search in Cleve’s bedroom. It had felt strange to finger clothing he recognized hanging on hangers and go through his friend’s other personal belongings still stacked in neat piles in dresser drawers. He knew Cleve wouldn’t mind, and in his own way, he supposed he was even saying good-bye. Farnsworth had thought it strange all of Cleve’s “personal affects” were still in place. But the fact they were gave him hope.
He’d known the man’s only relative, Priscilla, wouldn’t have wanted anything of his. But he’d thought perhaps Benedict would have cleared things out, regardless.
But the man hadn’t, which meant, in Farnsworth’s opinion, if Cleve had left anything, it should still be here. Farnsworth searched the apartment, looking in all the likely places for a safe and came up empty. He’d settled down at the antique secretary desk in one corner of Cleve’s living room. He picked up a paperweight, one he recalled Cleve buying in New York City a few years ago. Sight of the smooth, glass orb—painted to resemble an owl’s head—brought a smile to his face. Then he’d set it down and gotten to work. One drawer held files for the man’s business. He’d set the lot on the desk and was going through them, one by one, looking for something, anything that would reference either the man’s sideline itself or the disposition of the take or, most worrying, Farnsworth’s involvement in either.
He checked his watch. He’d been in Cleve’s apartment for more than an hour. He needed to pick up his pace because he wanted to be gone before the sun came up and people began to stir.
He tossed the files back into the drawer, rifled through the cubbyholes in the front of the desk, and then sat back. Where else could he look?
Heart rate back to normal, he let his eyes scan the area around him, looking at the placement of furnishings, the surface of the mostly bare walls, and the ceilings—and there he had an “ah-ha” moment.
A trap door had been cut into the ceiling in the small hallway at the apex of the bedroom, living room, and bathroom. Logic told him that was where Cleve’s safe should be—in the attic.
He fetched a chair from the kitchen, climbed up, and pushed on the square piece of wood. The “trap door” was a piece of lightweight plywood, and he moved it easily out of the way. The feet and bottom rung of a ladder were just visible from his vantage point. In moments, Farnsworth had the ladder down and was climbing up into the hot, musty space.
Unlike the living area below, which had been neat almost to a fault, this area appeared jam-packed with…stuff. There were boxes and a couple of chests, as well as a few green garbage bags that appeared to be filled to the point of exploding. The attic space itself wasn’t very large, though it did appear to be floored. For most of the area, the ceiling was high enough that Farnsworth didn’t have to duck to make his way around the attic. But there were items that had been stashed around the edges of the space that he would need to crawl to on his hands and knees if he wanted to sort through them.
He’d thought to bring his flashlight up there with him. The first thing he noticed was that the two small windows on this level had been boarded over. An overhead light hung from the middle of the storage space. After tossing the trap door back over the opening, he judged the ladder, keeping the wood from falling into place, didn’t leave enough space for this light to be seen downstairs. He turned on the light and then simply gazed around at the mess.
He began by looking at the stacks of items and the floor around him. There was some dust on the floor, a floor that was nothing more than rough wood. There was much more dust on some of the surfaces of the items stored. He took a few turns around the room, trying to see if there was a place where the dust was noticeably less or had been disturbed.
There were a couple, and that was where he began his search. Whereas downstairs Farnsworth had taken care to put things back exactly where they’d been, up here he didn’t feel any such compunction. The dust, and the fact that he couldn’t see any signs of recent incursions, assured him Benedict hadn’t ventured this far, yet.
What he’d learned of the man through his research at the local library was that he was a professor, with tenure, at a local private university. A professor of literature, which explained his buying the bookstore. Cleve may very well have hidden some rare books on the premises. As far as Farnsworth was concerned, Benedict was welcome to them. All he was concerned about was finding any evidence against himself and locating the last cache of stolen goods. He was pretty certain his partner would have received cash for most the items by the point he’d died. Cleve likely wouldn’t have deposited the cash in the bank as a single lump sum. He would have held the money back until he was ready, and then he would have taken the cash to two or three banks. Most usually, he wired the funds transfer to Farnsworth. The transmission didn’t always come from a bank. Sometimes it was from Western Union, and on a couple of occasions, it had come in a small box of books—books that rained down hundred-dollar bills when shaken.
Since a bank would raise its fiduciary eyebrows if Cleveland had up and deposited a large sum of cash, the man tended to avoid that unless he could account for the source. Using creative accounting practices in his business, of course, helped. Neil did the same, where he could, in his own travel business.
Two hours later, Neil Farnsworth gave up. Dawn wasn’t far off, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing here. He wished he felt reassured by finding no evidence of their clandestine deeds.
He didn’t. If anything, he felt even more worried than when he’d boarded the plane at Heathrow bound for Texas.
There damn well should have been something here, and he should have been able to find it. He’d head back to his hotel, get some sleep, and see if anything else came to mind.
That something else woke him from a sound sleep three and a half hours later. Neil Farnsworth jerked awake and sat up in bed.
Cleve’s bank statements. Most banks here in the States had a large vault area, where the main cash reserves were held. But those weren’t the only safes they had. They also offered small “safes” to their clients, places to put important documents or small items. The realization was like a jab to his chest. Would his friend have been that clichéd? When Cleveland Arbuckle had mentioned a good, solid safe, had he meant that he’d rented a safe deposit box from his bank?
Farnsworth groaned and fell back to the mattress. Hell and damnation. Could this mess get any more complicated?
He had no choice. He had to go back to Cleve’s apartment. He knew where the bank statements were. He’d seen them, but he had not perused them. Now, he had no choice but
to do just that.
* * * *
Jasper Hewitt, owner of Hewitt Securities, arrived at the bookstore just after nine a.m. on Monday morning. At nine ten a.m., he made a grim announcement.
Abigail accompanied the man and Michael as he toured the downstairs, beginning with the front door and then heading to the back door that opened to the small backyard, garage, and driveway.
He tilted his head and then squatted, his gaze fixed on the outside back door. “Did you lose your key and have to pick your way in this morning, Dr. Benedict?”
“No. We don’t use this entrance.”
The security expert looked up and seemed to pin his focused gaze on Michael. “Well, someone picked their way in because there’re fresh scratches right here.” He pointed to the copper-colored doorknob. “In our climate, so close to the gulf, it doesn’t take long for oxidization to start. I’d say these scratches are no more than two days old, at most. I suggest you check to see if anything’s missing.”
Abigail followed Michael back to the store proper. She scanned all the shelves, shaking her head. “A book or two could be gone from each of the shelves and I wouldn’t know.”
“Unless someone broke in for a specific book then left, any thief wouldn’t just select some weekend reading material. What’s up there?” Hewitt pointed to the staircase nearly hidden behind the long service counter.
“Living quarters,” Michael said. “The late previous owner lived up there.”
“Would you know if anything is missing?”
Michael met Abigail’s gaze then looked at Hewitt. “We might as well go look and see. The man didn’t have anything of value that I could tell. The last time I looked there was a console television, a fairly new fridge and stove. His furniture isn’t expensive, but it’s not ragged, either.”
“There’s a very nice antique secretary desk in one corner.” When both Michael and Hewitt looked at her, she shrugged. “I took a look up there on Friday. We’ll have to go through the contents, and I was wondering how big of a job it was going to be. I might notice if something is out of place.” Abigail headed toward the stairs and smiled when Michael took her hand and moved her behind him. She appreciated his protective instincts, even if whoever had broken in was more than likely long gone.
Once on the second floor, Abigail moved through the small vestibule and into the kitchen. Then she stepped into the living room and let her gaze scan the room. She didn’t know if the creepy feeling was because of the circumstances or if something truly was out of whack.
She was on her second look around. She’d nearly missed it. One of the drawers of the secretary was open slightly, and something beige peeked out.
She stepped toward the desk, but Michael stopped her. “What do you see?”
“Someone’s rummaged through that desk, I’ll bet.” She met Michael’s gaze then frowned as one more thing caught her attention. Her gaze over his right shoulder, she said, “I’d wondered if that ceiling was that way as decoration or if it was a trap door. Guess I don’t have to wonder anymore.”
Michael turned and followed her gaze. Then he cursed. He’d seen what she’d seen, that whoever had opened that door hadn’t settled it down again properly. One side looked as if it had snagged on something, showing just a small, one-inch gap.
Not much, but just enough to announce that someone had indeed been there.
“I think we’re going to go downstairs and call Carson,” Michael said. He turned to look at Hewitt. “He’ll speak to our oldest brother who’s a Texas Ranger out of the Garland office. I don’t know if calling the police is what we should do because it doesn’t appear that anything’s missing.”
Hewitt nodded. “The signs of a break-in are here. Handle the situation however you see fit. I’m going to begin to map out a security protocol for this building.”
Michael kept hold of her hand as he led her downstairs and then to the phone that was in the small office he’d been using. She actually giggled when he pulled her down onto his lap and then called Carson.
She definitely felt cherished as Michael kept his arm around her, his fingers tracing circles on her hip. He told Carson what had happened then switched the phone to his left ear and eased Abigail down, and she realized he’d done so in order for her to hear both sides of the conversation.
Note to self. Get a business phone installed both here and at the front counter. Such a device would have allowed them to put Carson on speaker.
“I don’t think it will hurt to call the Houston PD, brother, and report the break-in. Hewitt should be able to answer most of the cops’ questions, and the fact that something happened—even if we don’t yet know what or why—will be on record.”
“All right, I’ll call them as soon as we hang up.”
“I’ll call the old man and see if he has anything for us. I’ll get back to you as soon as he gets back to me.”
Michael was grinning when he hung up the phone. Abigail was confused. “Old man? He meant Caleb? Your brother?”
Michael chuckled. “It’s what we call him. Jon is Farmer Jon, Carson is the business tycoon, and I’m the professor.”
Abigail shook her head. “So that’s what having siblings is like. I’ve often wondered.”
Michael ran his hand up and down her back, settling her. She cherished this sign that it wasn’t only Carson who could read her. He appeared determined to make her feel better, to the point of humor. “Hey, you should hear what we call the cousins. That’s even funnier.”
Michael called the Houston Police Department, and while they waited for the officers to show up, Abigail happily stayed on Michael’s lap.
It hadn’t been her imagination she had felt something off upstairs. She had no idea who had broken in and what they’d been after. But she wondered, now, if maybe it would be a good idea to try and figure that little thing out.
Chapter Eighteen
The restaurant was lovely, small and intimate, and judging by the way the men she was with were received—three very big Benedict men—a familiar spot for all of them.
It also served the tastiest brisket she’d ever eaten.
“You tell your mama it’s been too long since she and your daddies stopped by. And I hope they bring Miss Mattie and Miss Chelsea, too.” The waitress, who’d been introduced to Abigail as Carla, had hugged Carson, Michael, and Caleb—who’d arrived from Dallas just a few minutes before—as if they’d been long-lost kin.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carson said. “I’ll be sure to let them know when I see them on the weekend.”
It didn’t take long for the food they ordered to be delivered to their table. They sat in a back corner of the comfortable dining room, far enough back that they could talk and not be overheard. It took Abigail a bit of time to understand that the “reserved” signs that had been placed on the three tables closest to theirs had been put there by Carla to ensure their privacy.
Caleb must have seen her curiosity. “Carla and her husband, Jack, who’s the chef, are old friends of the family. This is their way of ensuring we have confidentiality.”
Abigail understood then, which she really should have done when the woman had said daddies, that Carla and her husband were aware of the ménage lifestyle.
She guessed a lot of people, knowing the truth, would make judgments but just as many would adopt a live-and-let-live attitude.
They ate for a time, and then Caleb wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked at his brothers then focused on Carson. “Just after you called this morning, I spoke to Chief Inspector Clemens, who’s with New Scotland Yard.” Caleb took a moment to take a drink from his sweet tea. “On a hunch, I had asked him not only about Farnsworth but also his pal, Cleveland Arbuckle. The latter, apparently, had been a person of interest more than a decade ago in a series of high-end burglaries. There had been a rash of break-ins of private homes, in some of the wealthiest neighborhoods of London. The items stolen ranged from rare coins and books to jewelry to, of course, cash—even a c
ouple of Fabergé eggs went missing. And then, suddenly, those robberies stopped. There hasn’t been another crime using that exact same M.O. in the United Kingdom in several years.” Caleb looked around the table. “The most notable common thread all those thefts shared? They took place during the same period each year—in June. I’ve asked the Chief Inspector if he could narrow the time frame down for each case and telex that to me.”
“Now that’s interesting. Farnsworth mentioned that he and Arbuckle vacationed together each year—always a different place. I’m pretty sure, though, that he was referring to here, in the States. And he did say those vacations happened in June.”
Caleb pulled out his note pad and pen. “I’ll place a call to a contact I have with the FBI in D.C. I’ll ask him to check the NCIC data base for similar crimes.”
“Would records of thefts be kept in a federal facility in Washington?” Abigail had heard of the National Crime Information Center. She just really had no idea how it worked.
“They would. It’s a…clearinghouse, if you will, of information from federal, state, tribal, and local agencies all across the country. Hoover started it, back in ’67, I think it was. I suspect that we’ll find there’ve been a string of thefts here in the U.S. that are similar in M.O. to the ones in England, likely taking place after those ones we already know about. Also, there should be a record if any of the goods stolen here were ever recovered because those updates on the cases would have been sent to the NCIC, as well.”
“You mean if the thieves stole something in one city and then fenced them in another?” Carson asked.
“Exactly. In the case of jewelry, the stones might be removed from their original settings and both sold separately. Cash is cash, but any other expensive items—art or coins or, hell, even Fabergé eggs—their value is in what the thieves can get for them. You even have a few collectors who will hand over big bucks, no questions asked, if the items suit their collections.”
Labor Day in Lusty, Texas [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) Page 15
