by Ritter Ames
“What about stepping away from running the London office? Go back to the way things were before?”
“That would put Cassie in limbo unless the new office head took her on.”
“What makes you think he wouldn’t keep her on the payroll?”
I snapped my fingers and jumped to my feet. “See, that right there, Jack, is a huge consideration for me. The talk will be the woman couldn’t cut it as an office head and a man had to come in and take over.”
“Wait a minute, I—”
“No, you said it yourself. ‘What makes me think HE wouldn’t keep her on the payroll.’ I’m the only female office head in the foundation, and despite how far-reaching the story is about my father losing everything to gambling, booze and floozies, no matter how I’ve overcome that stigma, I’d wager a majority of the people both inside the foundation and out still think I wouldn’t have the position at all if my last name wasn’t Beacham. Which, of course, may not be the case anyway, but we haven’t had the luxury of time or opportunity to either prove or disprove that conundrum either. But it is one more reason we should go to New York. Especially since Clive is giving me a way to sneak in without Max knowing.”
He grinned.
“What?” I frowned.
“I just like being included in that final decision after you mention your personal issues. Oh, and it’s fun to see you fight yourself in an argument. That’s the second one in twenty-four hours.”
I felt a lump in my throat and stepped next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know I wouldn’t try to face half of the mystery about my parents without you, Jack. I may not trust my boss one iota, but I’ve come to trust you implicitly.” My words came out thick, holding back tears.
He pulled me into his lap and kissed me, soft at first, then the kiss deepened. I was ready for more, but the room phone rang, and we got up so he could answer it. I went back to packing.
“Yes, great. We’ll be down in a minute. Thanks, mate.” Jack said. After he cradled the phone he said, “Clive is getting antsy and already paid for our room while he waited. Hurry. We have a luxury plane to catch.”
Nineteen
Cassie bubbled with excitement when I called her from the limo and explained where we were going and how. Conversely, when Jack told Nico the same thing, Hawkes’s body language implied the excited feeling wasn’t a universal experience—at least not in Nico’s case. I mentally kicked myself for not doing the Nico call instead of connecting with Cassie. Despite the fact he’d volunteered for the current gig because it started in Rome, my techno-geek always got his nose bent out of shape when he had to do fieldwork. Especially when gunplay erupted. Not to mention he still blew hot and cold about Jack. All I needed now was for my favorite hacker to stomp off the job in a huff.
I started to ask for the phone, to shift Nico’s attention by suggesting he get current again on the Portrait of Three, and we would focus on the auction card when we returned. Until I remembered one of the Whyte Noyse band members, Gordon Silver, had already said he hoped someday to purchase the centerpiece of the grouping, the painting known as Juliana. Clive might know nothing about the works, or possibly had heard Gordon’s wish list countless times. Except Gordon was obsessed about his art collection and what he liked, so my money was on the latter. I didn’t want to run the risk of Clive mentioning it to Gordon after hearing me talk about the trio of masterpieces. We had a big enough risk for leaked information as it was, without contributing to it myself. More secrets to keep.
A surprise call from Danny immediately after, however, put Jack back into a good mood. At first, anyway. “The wife broke down? That fast?” he said, then added, “Danny, I’m going to put you on speaker so Laurel can hear this. We’re heading to New York on the Whyte Noyse plane with their roadie, Clive. He’s in the car here with us.”
I knew that last bit of information was to warn Danny not to spill confidential information. It didn’t seem to bother Clive, though. If anything, his smile went broader.
“Okay, I don’t have a full report yet,” Danny said. “But I do have one friend who’s in the same district as DI Markham, and he’s giving me updates. I figure Markham will give me more once all the holes are filled. He was fairly chuffed when I took the video information to him that I’d sorted about the appearing and disappearing friend.”
“As well he should be,” I said, smiling inside because Cassie had been the linchpin for breaking that portion of the case.
“The friend is a new one for the wife,” Danny explained. “They were introduced by a friend of a friend at some posh end-of-the-year event held a few months ago. Suddenly, they began bumping into each other on a daily basis, and it was this friend who helped the young wife plan her husband’s birthday party, and who suggested she needed to build a rainy day fund in case her husband ever cut her off financially.”
Interesting. A con for sure, but a targeted one. The thief was patient, making the contact, then already knowing the mark’s pattern enough to happen to run into her often afterward. Probably a six- to eight-month con in the making. The couple had just married last summer, according to Jack’s notes. The thief obviously took her time, leaving me to think her setting off the alarm that night might have been more calculated than I’d thought.
“Was she also the one who suggested using insurance fraud to do so?” Jack asked.
“The very one, according to the wife.”
“And they planned to let the party create a loose alibi for everyone?”
“Yes, they were all going to say they were together nearly all night, and two of the women separately left the group for a short time whilst the thief was away, so they could say later they were each with her during the time she wasn’t in the group.”
My gaze met Jack’s, and I maintained eye contact to get him to understand what I couldn’t say out loud when I mused, “So she’s been planning a heist like this for three or four months? Or more. Building the friendship day by day. Is she a London native?”
“No, she’s French, twenty to twenty-three, no more than twenty-five, and obviously operating under an alias since her background only begins November of last year. Also, the Russian’s wife said she wore gloves constantly. Said she had a medical condition and needed to protect her hands.”
More likely, she had a need to protect herself from leaving behind fingerprint evidence. “I’d forgotten about the gloves she wore at the party. They were frilly and glitzy and made from green fabric to match her dress. I just assumed it was part of her look for the night.”
“Does the wife know where she lives?” Jack asked.
“No, just a general area and her name. Jacqueline Aubertine.”
“What the hell,” I cried.
Jack cursed, “Bollocks.”
Recovering a second later, I asked, “Are you sure about that last name, Danny?”
“As sure as I can be at this point. But like I said, it has to be an alias.”
“Or it’s her grandfather’s real last name,” I said. To Jack, I added, “Remember I told you Rollie mentioned a sister.”
“You think this is her?” he asked.
“It’s the best theory I can come up with spur of the moment.” I looked at the phone again and said, “Have Markham look for a Jacqueline Baroux. If she’s Rollie’s sister, that would be the name on her original birth certificate. She may have others she uses too.”
“Certainly, but who’s this Aubertine grandfather?” Danny asked.
“Moran,” I said. “Devin Moran.”
Danny whistled into the phone.
“I’ll fill you in by text later,” Jack said. “But for now just know I’ve determined Moran’s real name is most likely Phillipe Aubertine.”
“I’ll make note of that. And she definitely disappeared into thin air,” Danny said. “But she left the jewels behind. So even if we do find her
we can’t charge her. When a search of the home was conducted, the pieces were found in the wife’s jewelry case on her dresser. No way to prove the thief ever had them. Her black bag was loaded with some kind of swag when she ran that night, but the Russian and his wife wouldn’t budge about the theft being anything but the stuff found in the jewelry case.”
“Did the wife hide them there? Or were they left by the thief?” I wondered if that was the real reason the thief doubled back the night of the heist.
“The wife said she had no idea the jewelry was inside, but hers were the only fingerprints found on the outside of the case. No one believes her.”
Which may have been part of the appeal of the game all along for Jacqueline.
“Do you know what the husband said when the jewels were found?” Jack asked.
“Not exactly. But from what I understand he’s still ballistic about the robbery. Guess that’s a logical reaction when you learn it was planned by your gold digging young wife.”
Or when the fake Rodin you believed was real, and which you had locked in your safe, actually disappeared with the thief. I looked at Jack and he nodded.
“I also have news about the interviews with the three idiots who attacked us in the National Gallery,” Danny said. “I thought I was saving the best information ’til last, but your bombshell about who the missing woman is overshadows it completely.”
“Sorry, Danny,” I said. “We didn’t mean to quash your surprise. What have you learned?”
“Motive. They were avenging some kind of battery you did on their boss.”
Jack and I looked at each other and smiled. We’d been right. Repercussions of our escape from Colle in Baden-Baden.
“It wasn’t well planned, of course,” Danny continued. “But the stories of the two guys who jumped Jack and I corroborate one another. Apparently, the big guy had a few pints and ran into his mates, then they wandered by the National Gallery and the big bruiser saw you go inside. He wanted to barrel in right away and attack you, but the two smaller guys convinced him the Beacham Foundation would pay a ransom for you.”
I snorted. Max pay a ransom for me. This I had to see to believe.
“The two guys admitted they were afraid when Jack and I fought back and the big guy walked away with Laurel. They’d wanted to stay with him, so he wouldn’t hurt her. Their fighting with us was as much to get away and guard Laurel, as it was to take us out. Jack and I just hit harder.”
“I think I prefer when my inconvenient heroes aren’t part of a plot to kidnap me,” I said.
“You mean you won’t be a character witness at their trials?” Danny teased.
“Have them put me on the docket right behind yours and Jack’s testimony.”
The guys talked shop for a bit, and Clive followed every syllable. But the roadie did give me a soft elbow jab to get my attention and whispered, “You attacked their boss?”
I put my head next to his and said, “The guy abducted me. I tend to fight back when I’m taken against my will.”
“Your life is never boring, is it?” he whispered, grinning.
Smiling back, I thought, you have no idea.
Clive returned to eavesdropping, and I leaned back in the seat and contemplated a little more about what Arlo said. How Melanie tried to hire an assassin to kill me at the request of someone else. It had to be Colle, even if Arlo hadn’t named his client. Nico and I had already discussed the conversation and the implications when he drove me from Montmartre to the hotel earlier, and I knew he would start hacking on the Swiss clinic info as soon as possible—if he wasn’t already. But was locating Colle’s new profile enough? Could we even do it in time? How risky could it be for him if I testified that Ermo Colle and any new persona he used was actually the man I grew up thinking was my father? There was plenty of truly damning evidence if police could just lay hands on the man. My knowledge was probably more embarrassing than anything else. Except the Beacham family fortune vanished quicker than anyone imagined—he had markers to dozens of loan sharks and gambling dens when he supposedly skied off the mountainside and was presumably buried in the avalanche. Could he be afraid more that the police would come after him if I testified about what I knew? And how information about his past life could more greatly impact his future persona? How badly did he not want to be connected to his Beacham profile—not simply for the debts incurred, but because of the potential wrath of the crime bosses he swindled?
When we reached the airport, Clive took charge, easily cutting through any and all red tape and got us boarded hassle free. I’d watched him in action before and marveled at his talents. This time was no exception. We mostly slept on the return flight, which was kind of dumb on our parts since we gained five hours in the crossover. But as Jack said earlier, we all felt knackered. Emotional exhaustion if not the physical type.
Once we landed at JFK, Clive again got us through customs quickly and efficiently. He already had a hotel reservation and a limo waiting for him. Just before he left, he reached into the side pocket of his carryon and said, “The band will be back here for their New Jersey concert date in about a week. Take these passes in case you want to attend.”
I took hold of the lanyards and added the passes to my Prada’s treasure trove. “Thanks so much, Clive. We’ll see what our schedules allow and let you know.”
“And thanks again for inviting us to stowaway,” Jack said.
Clive gave us an abbreviated salute, hefted his carryon, and headed for the limo line to find his newest driver.
Jack turned to me and said, “Airport Hilton?”
“Sounds perfect.”
The next morning, we were up early and renting a car before dawn. I again cursed my idea for toting two bags. “I should have left the big one in Paris and told Nico to ship it back to London,” I groused.
“You can freight it from here. All the big shipping companies have outposts at JFK.”
“No, I’ve carried it this far, and it can stay in the trunk until we leave and have to turn in the car,” I said, knowing I sounded contrary. “Just as sure as I get rid of it, I’ll find an hour later there’s something I need inside.”
Thinking of using Nico to ship my bag reminded me I wanted to talk to him about the Portrait of Three, so I used the car as my mobile office. I looked at my watch and determined he was probably near a lunch break. My stomach rumbled at the thought. We hadn’t stayed in Paris long enough to scratch my itch for French cuisine or all of the wonderful ethnic options in Montmartre and the Latin Quarter.
Nico answered on the third ring.
“Hey, is this a good time? Or should I call back later?” I asked.
“We can talk. I’m walking to meet Cassie for lunch.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. Can you please convince her to stay in Paris through the weekend? Or at least until Jack and I return to London?”
“Why?”
“Given what Arlo said, and the way we suddenly disappeared last night from the hotel and the city, I don’t want Cassie in London by herself. It’s too risky in case someone decides to try to get information from her.”
“You think they believe the two of you returned to London?”
“Well, our names don’t appear on any commercial passenger manifest. Likely the moles that we know they have in law enforcement and intelligence circles could dig up how we left Paris, but it wouldn’t be a quick and easy task.”
“Sì, makes sense. I’ll talk to her about this at lunch. If she stays on with her friend I’ll change hotels, so I can be nearby.”
“Thanks, Nico. One other thing. The night of the heist there was a large postcard in the safe advertising an art auction. There wasn’t a name, date, or anything to help us know when or if the auction had already happened or if it was scheduled for a future time.”
“Secret membership?”
&nbs
p; “Maybe. Well…likely. But what I’m really interested in was the fact three paintings were featured exclusively on the postcard. It was the Portrait of Three.”
Nico gave a low whistle. “Didn’t you think Tony B had copies made?”
“Yes, but he was known for playing mind games. He said he’d brought them to Florence because the gallery owner wanted them for his personal collection, but he never clarified if what he brought were copies or the originals. We just know the originals were gone from his Miami office the next day. We also knew at the time the Florence gallery was funded by Ermo Colle, but we didn’t know my connection to him then, just the name.”
“Do you think the originals are for sale? Or a copy of each?”
“Again, I’m not sure. The photos were high def, and I looked for a visible forger’s mark like Cassie found in the published book of art masterpieces. I couldn’t see anything that sent up red flags.”
“Why would he sell them?” Nico mused.
“Money? His competition with Moran must take huge regular outlays, and we’ve been getting more and more of his copies confiscated, so ready cash could be the best incentive. Plus, with Simon and Rollie having decimated the forger population, Colle has needed to constantly find and sign on new talent.”
“That reminds me,” he said. “The police acted on an anonymous tip and believe they have the person who shot Arlo.”
“Do you think it’s the real shooter?”
“Truthfully, no. I think he’s taking the fall for someone else. His crimes before this consisted of petty thefts, and rumor has it the man has advanced cancer.”
“He pleads guilty to get money for his family, and the real murderer is free to kill another day.”
“My thoughts essato.”
A car horn blasted through the phone, and when Nico came back on the line I said, “Tell me you didn’t walk in front of a truck.”
He laughed. “Non, just a crazy Parisian driver. These people make drivers in my home country look sane.”
