BRONZED BETRAYALS

by Ritter Ames

  “They won’t be able to report the theft of the bust,” Cassie said, leaning on her hand in thought. “Would the police do double duty if it’s just a report of an intruder but nothing missing?”

  “Good point,” I said. “But the little thief left with jewelry too. The Russian may decide it’s worth working with authorities to try to get those pieces back. Then he can send someone to try to get the bust back if it’s learned who the perpetrator was.”

  “Any idea of value on the jewels?”

  I shrugged. “Not my wheelhouse. I’m conversant in art, not gems. Plus, while she had night vision goggles, I didn’t risk making noises to dig mine out of the backpack. Even with the night vision enhancement, however, I would only be able to ballpark a guess. Stands to reason she took the best pieces though, and I can’t imagine the little trophy wife going for less than perfect sparkles. One necklace in particular, looked heavy with gold and gems, and several of the bracelets were impressive in the near dark.”

  “She didn’t simply come for the jewels and see the bust as a bonus?” he asked.

  “Doubtful. She lifted the fake Rodin first and squealed a little, like she’d met her goal,” I said. “She put it into her pack, and almost seemed for a second to want to close the safe. Then she pulled out a drawer and grabbed a handful of jewels, but kept glancing down at the bagged bust as she checked some of the other stacked drawers. She didn’t waste a lot of time on the jewelry. I think only half the drawers were opened.”

  He frowned. “This is something we need to keep in the back of our minds in case it becomes important later. And frankly, the timing of the crime leads me to assume this is the work of the mole or moles we already can attribute to Moran in either Westminster or Whitehall, or both. That would be the easy answer on how the information on the bust made its way to another thief’s ear, and how the hit was made the same night we planned ours. But I can’t see Moran hiring someone who appears to be inexperienced. Also, the purposeful setting off alarms to double back, while possibly a brilliant ploy, seems risky to me.”

  “Do we add another tick to the column fingering Moran as the one creating the fakes that use these forgers’ marks, since you’re saying it’s less likely he employed this thief?” I asked. “Presuming he wouldn’t bother stealing a fake. If so, that could mean she works for Ermo Colle, but would also imply Colle has as many moles in as many places as Moran in order to get this kind of confidential information about the bronze.”

  “Yeah, this is getting deep,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to my superior running this project and see what is sorted out in the follow-up. That way, if there is anything MI-5 learns, we’ll learn it too, and we won’t have to risk adding to our own fears about the long-term heist while we’re still investigating. No point in letting the moles get all the information handed to them.”

  I couldn’t help but think how nice it was that Jack handled the follow-up details on not getting the masterpiece and why, rather than me having to do so again.

  Looking at my watch, I realized it was time to resume our normal personas, so I could keep my alibi solid. We finished our drinks and put Cassie in a cab. As we walked away, I waved at her through the back glass, and Jack set his jacket across my shoulders. Though it wasn’t freezing, I was grateful for the warmth. I crossed my arms to pull the coat closer and got a stronger whiff of the sandalwood cologne he always wore, blended with the heady mix I’d realized was Jack’s personal scent.

  “Did Melanie give you any problems after I left? Or did she notice the Cassie switch? She was a year ahead of me and went to Yale instead of Cornell, so I only saw her during summer internships and workshops. But I’d forgotten she and Cassie met at a couple of the college art events we all attended. I should have—”

  “Nothing to worry about. Melanie left right after you did. I was lucky to catch sight of her exiting the front when I returned from the side hallway.”

  “Wonder what her game was,” I mused. “She’s taller than me, which means she couldn’t have been the second thief.”

  “I’d like to know who invited her since we suspect she’s fallen in with Colle.”

  Oops. Grow up, Beacham. I’d been so busy with my adolescent revenge thoughts I’d forgotten about the bigger picture. “Uh-huh, that’s what I meant.” I thought for a moment then said, “Colle could be mixed up with the Russian. I still believe Melanie likely cultivated a relationship with him and Tony B to sell art on the side. We already know the Russian has no scruples about buying masterpieces with sketchy provenances. Or Melanie and Colle may be looking for a new way to liquidate forgeries on less than expert buyers like the Russian. Thanks to the directorship she held at The Browning, Melanie’s resume has enough weight for her to bluff her way into expert status for anyone looking to scoop up shady art. She could be the front person for selling forgeries.”

  “Like we don’t already have enough to consider with this bunch,” Jack said, then sighed. “Forgot to ask how your lunch went today with the P.M. I meant to ask when I picked you up tonight.”

  “Well, it’s not like you haven’t had other things on your mind. We were both running what-if scenarios to make sure all the angles stayed covered.”

  “Still no excuse.” He put his arm around my shoulders as we hurried across a crosswalk with the light. Street traffic was normal, but the sidewalk wasn’t nearly as crowded as in the daytime. “How did your conversation with her go?”

  “It was productive, I believe, and the prime minister had a good understanding already about the public version of what the foundation does,” I said as we leaped up the curb and slowed our pace again on regaining the sidewalk. “We hadn’t had a chance yet to meet and talk officially. And since Cassie and I are only allowed to live here because of our jobs, it’s always a good idea to know people in high places and have them know me.”

  Jack gave a brisk nod, but frowned slightly when he said, “You and the Beacham Foundation might be patently American, but there are a lot of common interests between England and the foundation’s mission.”

  “Exactly the kind of thing we discussed.” We neared another zebra crossing and slowed to wait for the light. “It’s nice walking London streets this time of night. We almost have the sidewalks to ourselves. Even if the cars still barrel right up to the crosswalks before braking.”

  The gray stone and trendy purple neon signage at the club entrance came into view. We angled that way since there no longer was anyone to open the side door for us. I couldn’t really be irritated by the change in plan since I understood Jack’s worries. Though I would file the instance away to use at a future date when I felt a need to deviate from agreed upon steps and wanted to avoid a lecture from Mr. Hawkes.

  Jack took back his jacket to retrieve the invitation he’d shown to get us in when we’d arrived earlier. As before, the hipster gatekeeper checked the names on our invitation against the lengthy list on his clipboard and marked the time we reentered the premises. Luckily, he didn’t ask how we’d exited mid-party—or couldn’t have cared less because it wasn’t in his job description. Either way, I was grateful. Despite the fact he’d varied from the original plan, Jack hadn’t been out of the building long enough to worry, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. On video it would look like I left with him for a short stroll and returned—though the blonde on his arm during the exit was Cassie. Still, I let my brain run over any potential pitfalls and was glad the videos would be timestamped to coincide with the front gatekeeper’s reentry list.

  Our plan was to stay another hour, then give our best wishes and leave. We headed for the dance floor, making small talk with others as we rejoined the crush in the middle of the cacophonous beat. The birthday boy continued to hold court at his table, a waiter handing him another glass of clear liquid that I doubted was water. His spouse was nowhere to be seen.

  I pulled Jack’s ear down to my level and said, “Bet if I checked out my
appearance in the ladies room I would find the trophy wife and her friends hitting a few lines.”

  He nodded and pointed. I turned and saw the wife and her posse stumbling out of the hall leading to the bathroom. Three of the women rubbed their noses in a suspicious way, and all were laughing uproariously.

  “She’d better hope the servants don’t call the cops.”

  “Too late.” Jack pointed to the front of the club. Police constables and a plain clothes DI stood surveying the scene. One of the waiters pointed out the Russian and they held up their warrant cards to push through the dancing and drunken crowd.

  Trophy wife had been chuckling her way back to the table until she saw the coppers homing in on her husband. She made an abrupt U-turn and double-timed it in the opposite direction. Instead of the bathroom, however, she disappeared down the hallway I’d used earlier to exit the side door.

  “She must not be so high she’s forgotten about self-preservation,” I said. Jack nodded, then motioned toward the bar.

  “Let’s go get a drink,” he said. “We probably can’t hear anything, but we’ll be close enough for a better view of their body language.”

  Minutes later we were leaning against the bar. As the DI talked, the Russian’s face grew darker. He finally rose to his feet and waved toward a redheaded woman in the group, pointing toward the bathroom.

  “I think the missus is being sought,” Jack murmured in my ear.

  I raised my white wine to my lips but didn’t sip. Instead, I said, “Notice the dance floor is emptying pretty quickly.”

  “The uniforms. Likely a good portion of the reason why the Russian is livid.”

  “Wait until his wife shows up and she’s arrested for the coke up her nose.”

  Jack shook his head. “Look. The ginger is coming back by herself.”

  And indeed, she was. The redhead had her arms extended out and shrugging, signaling to the Russian and his entourage that wifey couldn’t be located.

  The Russian gave the DI a rude shove and barreled his way toward the redhead. The DI stumbled, then followed.

  Jack set his untouched scotch on the bar. “Are you finished? I think we’ve probably seen all we need to see.”

  My glass went next to his and we headed for the coat check. I held out my hand. “Let me get my coat and you can work on getting us a cab.”

  He shook his head but pulled out my claim ticket. “We need to stay together. Then we’ll take the Tube. Keep us more easily trackable on CCTV.”

  “Good thinking.”

  The dance floor was nearly empty by this time. I wondered how many people had been in the bathroom tonight since no one seemed to want to be scrutinized by the police. There were some holdouts, gawkers who stood on the sidelines or pretended to dance as they kept their attention locked on the little drama.

  Jack put his arm around my shoulders as we walked, and he spoke softly into my ear. “I know Markham, the DI. We have friends in common. I’ll try to connect with him later and see what I can learn.”

  “No, let’s go by there now,” I said. “We’ll say hi. You can give him your card. See if he has any questions. Let him put faces to our names.”

  He didn’t answer but steered us in that direction.

  Markham was tall, even taller than Jack, and wore an expression of growing irritation. He recognized Jack and offered both of us a card. The Russian stood ten feet away, voluble in his angry confusion and ordering everyone within earshot to find his wife. He yelled at Markham that she may be a victim of kidnapping. Jack caught Markham’s eye and shook his head slightly, handing over one of his cards and suggesting a phone conversation later. I stepped over to say goodbye to the birthday boy just as someone behind me finally got wifey on a cell phone. The Russian pushed me into the arms of one of the uniforms and ran toward the person with the phone.

  The constable and I apologized to one another, though neither of us did anything wrong. Markham shook hands and said goodbye, telling Jack they’d talk soon. Jack took my elbow and we finally headed for the coat check. That seemed to be the end of all the excitement.

  It wasn’t the first time we’d been wrong that night, or the last.

  Four

  The subway ride was populated with the normal weekday night selection of interesting characters. I loved riding the train for precisely this reason. The nuances of my job required I keep as firm a grip as possible on my surroundings, which also meant observing exactly what groups and individuals were encompassed in those environs. Yet, there were times like these, when I was on a high after finishing a challenging task that ended more challenging than expected, and it was a bit of a mindless release to tally the distinct personalities surrounding us on public transport no matter the time of day. From tats to tube tops to tank coats, and even a couple of nice suits like Jack’s, the subway displayed its distinct runway style.

  The only available seats were beside a silent woman with shopping bags and quite a lot of cat hair on her sweater. Neither of us wanted to crowd her or her bags, so Jack and I grabbed one of the silver support poles, jostling along with the other standing riders. Once we hit my stop and exited from the Underground to the sidewalk less than a block from my hotel, Jack looked at his watch and said, “It’s only half past ten. Markham did tell me he was there for the break-in.”

  I stopped and turned to look him in the eyes. “What are you up to?”

  He gave me his shocked face. “I’m just thinking.”

  Like I believed that line. “About what?”

  “Maybe…” He waggled his head side to side. “I’m thinking I could text Williams and try to get a look at the house. See which way the other person went. If the thief was spotted running away.”

  Danny Williams was Jack’s wunderkind source in British intelligence for access to London’s entire CCTV system, reporting to all arms of U.K. law enforcement. The two of them were almost like human face recognition software, and both could waste whole days in Danny’s video cave following criminals on the multi-screen monitors employed there. I’d been floored by Jack’s ability to recognize people who hoped to remain incognito. Danny’s talents proved even better, and he had the additional face recognition software to increase efficiency against any disguises. I understood the draw of getting that kind of information, and I’d actually worked with Danny myself to keep tabs on Moran last month when he popped back unexpectedly in London and left before I’d even realized he was local.

  Despite the appeal to gain an opportunity for Jack to see if he could identify the phantom thief, or even learn how and when she escaped the house, I knew I needed to rein in this idea. Too many hazards loomed.

  “You don’t think he might recognize me because of you asking to see the digital files?” I raised my brows.

  His expression fell. “Ah, yes.”

  Poor guy. I patted his arm and pulled him down the sidewalk with me, saying, “Wait and see if Markham calls us. Danny can pull the files up later if we really need to check.”

  “True. And it’s not as if we don’t already have enough on our agendas,” he said. “Are you packed for the morning?”

  Morning. Right.

  Jack and I were booked on an eight a.m. flight to New York to meet with the retired detective who had investigated my mother’s fatal car accident nearly twenty-five years ago. A crash we were more and more convinced hadn’t been accidental.

  I’d been putting this off as long as I could, despite the fact I’d been the one who asked Jack to nose around and ask questions in the first place. I think the four-year-old inside of me still worried that hearing any information would make me heartsick again. Not to mention the way my family history had been jumbled up lately since we started delving into the past. Leaving me unsure who I was actually fathered by, and what name might ultimately be linked to my own.

  Like peeling the layers of an onion, new trut
hs of long ago years brought the kind of tears that couldn’t be willed away, no matter the effort. I not only feared the man I’d known as my father all my life wasn’t just a master criminal we now called by his alias of Ermo Colle, but I believed he had also caused my mother’s death. Except we needed proof, and we hoped a trip to New York would provide said proof by letting us connect evidence that went cold a couple of decades ago.

  If that wasn’t enough turmoil, facts gained in the past few months pointed to the possibility the man wasn’t even my father. Instead, my paternal parent might as likely have been the late brother of master criminal, Moran. The same master criminal I’d been chasing for years. I’d only learned this kernel of scandal when I began receiving anonymous gifts of jewelry and photos that had belonged to my mother. Through diligent sleuthing, I learned they’d been safeguarded by Moran after my mother’s death. And after Nico and Jack did their own digging, the full story of my mother’s affair with Moran’s brother was revealed as clearly as the focus of those photographs. More investigation by Jack, and a conversation with a friend who had known my mother well, exposed the distinct possibility my genetic DNA could as likely be tagged to the Aubertine moniker as the Beacham surname.

  Moran’s brother, Paul-Henrì Aubertine, died in a fiery one-car crash in France similar to the accident that took my mother’s life a few months earlier. Both crashes happened after Paul-Henrì and my mother had secretly carried on a decades-long affair, and my mother had finally said she was leaving Beacham and wanted a divorce. Coincidence? We thought it stretched credibility too far.

  The plan was to meet with the retired detective, go over his case notes and files with him, maybe view the scene of the crime, and basically shake the trees to see if anything fell loose a couple of decades after the fact. We thought we had most of the dots located. Now we just needed to get them all connected without more interference.

  I wasn’t optimistic.

  We’d made it into the lobby of my hotel before Jack’s phone rang. It was his Home Office superior, Cecil. I wondered if Cecil already heard about the break-in, or was just impatient like my boss, Max. Despite their government versus nonprofit careers, the men were two of a kind in the boss realm—and not in a good way. Even if an ocean separated them.