by Ritter Ames
“Are you saying you don’t want Colle killed?”
“As I said, I want justice. If he’s tried and convicted for my mother’s murder, he should receive the punishment he deserves. But even in a perfect world…Sometimes we need to make sure there’s backup. I want all parties to have enough information to not only catch him, but hold him, and put him away for the rest of his life.”
“Which means a race to see who collars Colle first, the cops or the criminals.”
“Or Jack and me. Just because we’ve found the answer, it doesn’t mean the problem is resolved.”
“You really need to stay out of this, Laurel. This could bring long-term problems if you do anything…off the books.”
“I won’t kill him, Nico. At least, not on purpose. I save and recover art. I catch crooks and turn them over to the authorities. That’s all I intend to do here, find the truly crooked art criminal and turn him in. The path toward the murder convictions will already be in play by the end of the day. I won’t be involved other than passing along information.”
Nico gave a long sigh over the phone line. “Okay. This shouldn’t take long. I still have a couple of options from when I hacked Rollie’s guys’ phones in Barcelona. It may not be a direct number, but I can find a connection and get back to you soon. Don’t make any other phone calls until I see what I can find. The less anyone else knows about you talking to Moran, the better it sounds.”
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the burner phone I’d used a couple of days before to connect with Jack. “If you can’t get a direct number for Moran, leave this number and ask him to call me.” I rattled off the digits.
“Is this a burner?”
“Yes. I wasn’t planning on calling Moran on my line anyway. I think it’s safer if I don’t leave a digital trail.”
“Ahh, you’ve learned well, Grasshopper.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. The Karate Kid reference, coupled with seeing Kelly again yesterday, was too much.
Nico broke my good mood, asking, “What if he calls when Jack is around?”
“If you’re as fast as you claim to be, Moran should get the message before Jack returns from seeing the solicitor. I have Cassie’s flat to myself until then.”
“Guess I’d better get to work,” Nico replied and hung up.
Twenty-Two
After talking with Nico, I decided to vary my plan a bit. Because of Melanie having tried to hire a hitman to kill me, and the three goons at the National Gallery whose plan had been to use attempted ransom to avenge their boss, Colle was still a menace to me. However, I needed to make sure I didn’t look like the person turning him over to anyone. I didn’t want any other henchmen to concoct future revenge plots against me.
Plus, it didn’t feel right making it super easy for Moran.
I still felt I needed to give Moran the information, as much for self-defense for myself as justice for his brother—and my possible father. Only DNA testing with Paul-Henrì’s relatives would let me know that for sure. And I wasn’t about to ask.
When Jack sent the electronic copies of Simon’s file to Nico a couple of days ago, he’d cc’d me as well. I pulled up the email on Cassie’s laptop and downloaded the image files to a flash drive, then I slipped the drive back into its tiny hinged case.
The phone call came twenty minutes later. Nico was even better than I’d thought.
A voice with a Continental accent I recognized said, “I was given this number, am I speaking to—?”
“Yes, Moran, it’s me.”
I spent a good five minutes telling him a lot of what we’d learned lately, and the risk I saw for Beacham/Colle not being prosecuted for the murder of Moran’s brother unless steps were taken soon. I didn’t give Moran the new identity Nico found this morning. That was part of my plan to at least try to play fair with law enforcement. Jack was offering everything. I was simply offering what was in Simon’s file. Minus the DNA evidence, of course.
“So, that’s the deal. I give you the flash drive with information to use in locating Colle’s new name and face, while law enforcement is looking for him as well. If you decide you want to prosecute, I’ll make sure you have evidence from my mother’s case that could be useful in tying her murder to your brother’s.”
“And if I decide not to prosecute?”
I knew he was baiting me. He wanted to see how far I would go.
“We’re not playing this game, Moran. If you choose not to prosecute, you don’t need the Scarsdale material. And if you aren’t interested in finding Colle—”
“Non. Attendez. I’m sorry, wait…wait a moment.”
I got a mental picture of him using his hands to make a calming motion as he spoke. The line was quiet for a short time.
“I would like the material you have to help find Colle’s new persona,” he said, finally. “I believe it would be in all our best interests for him to be arrested on a number of charges. Not the least of which is attempted murder of you.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that recent risk, and it’s part of the reason we’re working so hard to get enough material for law enforcement to make a case. We’re also working with other countries’ art task forces for the same reason because you’re correct, there are many ways he can be charged. However, his risk to me is no different from that of the redhead who works for your grandson, and who stole everything she could out of my office a couple of days ago. And my packed luggage from my hotel suite when she left behind a dead body.”
“She’d come to protect you. She killed the woman who went to your room to kill you. She knew the woman was a threat.”
“But the redhead had the telescoping baton handy to kill Melanie in my room. That was the only weapon on the scene.”
“The baton arrived with the victim. The redhead, as you call her, entered your room after the drunken woman went inside. This, Melanie, tried to attack, and our woman took away her baton and hit her instead.”
“Multiple times in the head,” I said.
“Her anger was unleashed,” Moran replied.
I thought back to his previous statement. Our woman, he’d said. This was the first absolute confirmation the Amazon was part of Moran’s organization.
But he had more to explain. I said, “The redhead had a gun when she came to my office. Why was she armed if she was there to protect me?”
“She always has at least one weapon, usually more. She heard about the attempted abduction in the museum and realized your young man wasn’t enough protection. She went to your office intending to move you to a safer environment. Per our instructions.”
“Then why didn’t she knock?”
“She didn’t believe you’d open the door for her. There’s evidence, she knows, about some of her previous…work…and she wanted to get close enough to communicate more personally.”
I wasn’t gullible enough to completely believe him, but it all made a weird sense when coupled with everything that happened whenever I was near a Moran associate in the past. I shook my head in frustration, disbelief—who knew. “Tell her thanks, but I’m picky about wanting to only use my own bodyguards. Please tell her I prefer to see her as my enemy for the time being. Or at least a disinterested party. Too many people have switched sides on me lately and I’m getting a little dizzy trying to keep up. Besides, she may be quite busy soon defending herself for the murder of Melanie Weems.”
“I doubt very much that she’s concerned.”
“They’ve found evidence an auburn-haired assassin was in the room with the murder victim.”
“Maybe they have, maybe they haven’t. But she was only there because Melanie came to kill you when you returned that night. She’d taken a job as a maid in your hotel a few days before, to keep an eye on you.”
“There were no redheads—”
“She wore a wig while she worked.
Very easy to change one’s looks that way. I understand even you have done that on occasion.”
Huh. He was trying to sidetrack me. Stay focused, Beacham, I thought. Now I had a hit woman turning maid-bodyguard, and a former art museum director murdered because she couldn’t find a hitman and decided to kill me herself. But it was his casual tone about the evidence that I addressed.
“Are you telling me the crime scene evidence has been taken by one of your moles in London law enforcement?” I asked.
“I believe small items like that strand of hair get misfiled quite easily. Of course, I have no idea if it has happened this time. I simply wanted to bring up the possibility, you understand.”
I rolled my eyes. “The fact you already know about the hair evidence, and informants have come into the conversation—”
“I believe you brought that topic to the floor, mademoiselle.”
“Be that as it may, I’m going to be giving you exclusive intel on a flash drive, and I want to make sure the information isn’t accidentally leaked to someone affiliated with Colle. Please choose carefully who you assign for this sensitive hacking job.”
“I understand your concerns.”
Then, while I seemed to have the upper hand, I delivered the pièce de résistance. “You might also want to start double checking the information of whichever mole told you about the recent hopes for recovering the Rodin bust for the British government from the Russian official living temporarily in Knightsbridge. If someone had spent a little time double-checking that intel, your granddaughter wouldn’t have had to lug around a forgery by a metal expert from Paris as she ran from the police.”
Moran sucked in a breath.
Bingo, I thought. I knew I wasn’t being completely fair denigrating his informant that way, since we hadn’t known it was a fake either until I cracked the safe. But I’d wanted a reaction, and I scored this time. I started to mention that she didn’t look anything like Rollie, but I hesitated pushing my luck.
“Also, that particular forger was killed in Montmartre a couple of days ago. I’d thought the forger wars were over when Simon…stopped.”
“I get your point, and I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you. There have been far too many deaths.” I pulled a pad of paper and a pen from my Prada. “Back to the business of getting this flash drive to you. Where can I mail it?”
“I think a dead drop would be a preferable method in this case. Perhaps attached to the bottom of a bench?”
“Sounds doable.” I pulled the package of super strong adhesive pads from my purse that I used to leave listening transmitters when I needed to unobtrusively keep tabs on people.
He gave me a location in St. James Park near the playground and asked if I could manage the drop within the hour.
“I can probably make it in half an hour. Tell your pickup person I’ll try to leave it under the seat on the north side of the bench. It will just be the little plastic case, not an envelope or anything large that could be spotted by a passerby.”
We rang off, and I changed into jeans and a sweater, then shrugged into Cassie’s purple hoodie. It was raining again, but with the hood up and an umbrella, I figured on staying fairly dry. Into various pockets, I distributed my phone, key ring, wallet, the flash drive and the pads I’d use to attach it to the bench. The burner phone went into a back pocket, so I could grab it quickly and toss it away when I noticed a handy trash bin. I left the Prada behind. I’d have to hurry and get back since Jack didn’t have a key to the door and I didn’t need anything slowing me down.
I bought a paper from the news agent on the corner and tucked it under my arm. The Tube was packed with people set to enjoy their weekend, rain or no rain. I got off at the stop for St. James Park and strode Birdcage Walk to get to the rendezvous point. Buckingham Palace stood in the distance, majestic even in the drizzly gray day.
The bench I needed was in sight while I was still under my half-hour goal. No children were in the playground at the moment, so I had no competition for the spot. I sat on the folded newspaper and clamped my umbrella between my torso and left elbow, so I could leave both hands free to work inside the big front pocket of the hoodie. It may have looked like I was watching people walk their dogs, and kids jump in puddles—in fact, I hoped it looked exactly like that was all I was doing. My hands were busy, however, removing a couple of the super sticky pads and affixing them to the small plastic square case. Getting the thin plastic off the adhesive sides was always tricky without looking, but I’d had plenty of practice, and today’s task wasn’t under a time limit like I usually had when I did this kind of thing blind.
All set, I held the readied case in my pocket with my right hand, careful of the adhesive, and withdrew my left hand again to hold the umbrella. I looked around at the people in the park, trying to determine who would be coming by for the flash drive. There were more people than I’d expected for a rainy day, but it was a Saturday after all. Dogs still needed to be walked, and the Brits truly enjoyed their park strolls. I looked at my watch and prepared to go, letting my right hand grab the front slat of the bench as I rose, firmly attaching the flash drive underneath. I picked up my paper, folded it again, wet side together, tucked it under my arm and walked away.
I felt like a spy, making deals with the enemy for the greater good. At the next bin I spotted, I tossed the burner phone.
Twenty-Three
Jack had his phone out when Cassie’s building came into view, and he sheltered under the porch overhang. My phone rang a second later.
“Hello?” I said, grinning as I walked down the sidewalk. His attention remained fixed on the front door.
“Can you come and let me in?”
“It’ll be a minute.”
“All right?”
“Everything’s fine.” Except you may want to kill me when I’ve admitted what I just did, I thought.
“Come on down when you’re free,” he said and hung up.
Then he turned around and saw me. He was frowning when I joined him on the stoop, but he stayed quiet when I handed over the key. My phone rang again as we climbed the stairs. This time it was Cassie.
“Nico said you’re back in London.”
“Early this morning.” I followed him inside and punched the disarm code. He walked to the lounge and pulled the files out from under his coat and dropped them on the table.
“Are you at my place?”
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“Sure. But could you drop that brown reference book on my nightstand by the British Library for me? My friend, Ian, the guy who’s so helpful to me there, called and said they could really use the book for another patron. I was finished with what I needed it for anyway. Just using it for bedtime reading.”
I walked into her room and picked up the book in question. A tome on historical furniture and fabrics. A little light reading.
“I can leave immediately.”
Jack started shaking his head. I nodded twice, then added, “Text your friend and see if he can meet me at the door or the reference desk, so I can make sure it gets turned over to the right person.”
“Great. I’ll text you back after I hear from him.”
I cradled the huge book in my arms and started to leave the room. Until Jack’s arm shot out to block my exit.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to tell me where you’ve been?”
“Because you’re paranoid, Hawkes.” I ducked under his arm and took a seat on the sofa. Then I hid my crossed fingers and pretended I hadn’t told Nico earlier what I knew I’d said. I made my gaze stay locked on Jack’s when I replied, “I have every intention of telling you where I was, but I didn’t want to do so on the street or while we climbed the stairs in the public area. Want to come get comfortable?”
He took the space beside me, and I kept the book in my lap in case I
needed to throw something. I turned slightly, so we were practically facing each other.
“First, can your lawyer help us?”
“Yes, it went pretty much as I expected. He looked at the file information but will begin with a letter. I told him we are very concerned about leaks, and we’re keeping a tight lid on the evidence in all the files for the present. But we will share it with law enforcement for them to use to locate the suspect and build their case.” He raised an eyebrow. “Now, your turn.”
“I left a flash drive in St. James Park for Moran.”
I let him bluster a minute, knowing he’d eventually calm down and listen. One of the things I appreciated most was Jack’s ability to understand my squashy ethics. He never liked me stealing back art work, but it was more because he didn’t want me to get hurt or caught than it was because I was stealing. I always gave the pieces back to the rightful owner, after all. This transgression regarding Moran, however, was different, and I’d known it from the start. I was giving information to the enemy that law enforcement would rightly assume was on offer for just their benefit.
Before our decision to go to the solicitor, Jack had only given the hair and a few pictures to Cecil. I gave Moran the clues to find the man growing the hair.
Once I explained I wasn’t giving away everything, just the raw data Nico started with, his face relaxed a bit. Then when I said I did it as much for self-preservation as justice, since the more people looking to punish Colle for all his crimes the faster he would lose the ability to send people after me, Jack nodded, and I knew I was in the clear.
“Still, Interpol will get him behind bars, Laurel. Especially since Nico has found the new identity.”
I demurred, “As long as one of the Colle moles doesn’t find out as well and tip off the boss.”
“We’ll be very careful in how we release the information.”
“Moran’s granddaughter pulled the heist because they thought the Rodin was the real thing. They could have only known about it because of a mole in the British government, and I can’t help thinking that secret was one carefully kept to a tight circle as well.”
