Called to Protect

by Lynette Eason

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Weird.” Then laughed. “I’m Serene, by the way.”

  “Serene?”

  “Yes, it’s my actual birth name.”

  “I like it.”

  “Thanks.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I need to go mingle. Maybe I can talk someone into buying art from a living artist instead of one who’s no longer with us.”

  “I wish you all the best.”

  Serene smiled and glided away on silent feet. Chloe grimaced. She’d never been that graceful in her life.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped in a group text to the task force agents.

  At the museum where Wright’s auction is happening tonight. Check out his connections to an uncle in Charleston. Has a “party yacht” docked somewhere. No reason other than Ethan Wright appeared to spend a lot of time there. No other info. Will text if I get more.

  21

  Blake sat at his desk searching for and pulling every scrap of information he could find on Alessandro Russo, Van Stillman, and Ethan Wright. Probably a futile endeavor, but he was convinced he must have missed something that could help him. His phone buzzed and he read Chloe’s text. “Party yacht, huh?” he muttered. Then typed back a text to Chloe.

  I’ll ask him about that when he gets here to identify the body.

  Here’s another picture. That nice Mercedes from the hospital parking garage is here. I think. Check the plates and see if it’s the same, will you?

  Will do.

  He entered the information and had an answer within seconds.

  It’s the same.

  Could be coincidence.

  Could be. Want to get some lunch later?

  Sure. Text me when you’re ready.

  As his thoughts centered on Chloe, his attention moved from the case for just a brief moment to the huge influence the St. John family had had on him. With his abusive father and strung-out mother, he’d had a pretty dim view of marriage and family. Then Linc had wound up his best friend in seventh grade and taken him under his wing—and into his home.

  A knock on the door brought his head up and his thoughts back to the case. He raised a brow when he saw Rachel’s swim coach standing there. “Hi, Roger, what’s up?” He kept his tone light, but dread filled him even as he scrambled for what to say to the man that wouldn’t be a complete lie and wouldn’t put Rachel at risk.

  “All right if I sit down?”

  “Of course.”

  Roger made himself comfortable in the older arm chair that faced Blake’s desk. “I’m concerned about Rachel.”

  “I know. She’s missed a few practices.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed a hand down his cheek. “Blake, she’s my best swimmer. Actually, she’s the best I’ve ever coached in my twenty-two years. I never would have expected this from her, but if she doesn’t have a good explanation for skipping practice, then I’m going to have to cut her from the team. And I really don’t want to do that.”

  Blake sat for a moment trying to decide what to say. He finally nodded. “Look, Rachel is having some personal issues right now. I can’t divulge any more than that. All I can say is that she loves being on your team just about more than anything, but is physically unable to participate right now.”

  Roger’s brows dipped. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me and let me know?”

  “I was hoping the situation would be resolved by now. But it’s not and to be honest, I’m not sure how much longer it’s going to take.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Blake met the man’s gaze. “Don’t kick her off the team.”

  With a sigh, Roger leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “I won’t for as long as administration will let me get away with it.” He paused. “You can’t give me any more information that I can use to fight back with should they tell me I have no choice but to kick her off?”

  “Let’s just say that her safety hinges on me keeping her location quiet.”

  Sharp blue eyes studied him. “This have something to do with your job?”

  “I can’t say,” Blake said. He kept his gaze steady on the coach’s.

  The man paled a shade and he swallowed. “Someone’s threatened you. Or her,” he said softly. “You’ve got her in hiding?”

  It was a good guess. One that he’d let the man go with since Blake had deliberately steered him in that direction. “Like I said, I can’t say anything else. Just that this is out of Rachel’s hands, and if she could be at practice, she would.”

  “I can’t believe this. First Lindsey and now Rachel. What’s happening in this world?” It was a hypothetical question and Blake didn’t bother to try and answer. Clearing his throat, Roger stood. “I’ll be praying for her.”

  “Thank you. We’ll take the prayers. And I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself. If you absolutely have to share it with the principal, then you have my blessing. I’ve been fielding their calls about her absences but am going to have to offer an explanation before long. I’ve known you a while and I know you can keep your mouth shut. The principal at the high school is new this year. Can he keep it quiet?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. We all think the world of him.”

  “Then I’ll leave that in your hands.”

  The coach shook his head. “All right. Let me know something when you can.”

  “I will.”

  He paused. “Wow.” Then left the office.

  Blake shut his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered aloud. “Wow.”

  Chloe wandered through the multitude of rooms, noting that Ethan Wright had at least one painting on every wall. When she came to a closed door, she tried the handle and was surprised when it opened. She stepped through and let the door click shut behind her.

  No heat blew through the vents in the floor, leaving the room chilled. A shiver wracked her even as her eyes traveled the room. They stopped on the wall opposite her. Smaller paintings, all the same size, covered the space.

  Upon closer inspection, she made out that there were twenty-six total, each with a number in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame. “Huh.” Maybe this was just a new way of doing things in art museums. It wasn’t like she was an expert or anything. But it was strange that they were back in this room, shut off from everything else. What did it mean?

  She downloaded the app and stood there a few moments, figuring out how it worked. Thankfully, it was simple and well organized. Each artist had his or her own page with a picture of their works. One simply had to tap on the picture to get information and place a bid. Chloe went to Ethan Wright’s page and scrolled through his work.

  But the paintings in front of her never showed up.

  Maybe she could just ask.

  Then again—

  “What are you doing in here?”

  She spun to see Bruce—Bryce—standing in the doorway. “Oh, hi. I thought this was a part of the show. The door was open.”

  “Well, it’s not. This is a restricted area.”

  Tension threaded through his words and Chloe raised a brow. “I see. I’m sorry. Could I ask you a couple of questions, though?”

  “Ma’am, I have a show and an auction to conduct. Can’t your questions wait?”

  Chloe lasered him with her best official look. “And I have a murder to solve. I’d really appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Very well. Ask away.”

  “Why are these paintings back here and what do the numbers represent?”

  “They’re back here because they’re not for sale.” He cleared his throat. “And the numbers . . . uh . . . represent the order each was painted in, I believe.” He flushed. “I hate to admit that I’m not sure.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the mess I inherited.”

  “So, is that why they don’t come up on your handy little app here?” She waved the phone at him.

  “Exactly. Well, because they’re not for sale. I’ve never been told why and I
’ve been so busy trying to get everything organized that this room has been low on my priority list.”

  “Interesting.” She walked toward him. “So, Ethan spent a lot of time in Charleston. Do you know what he was doing there?”

  “Spending time with family is what he told me. And painting.” He swept a hand to the wall. “Doing a lot of painting as you can see. Now, please—” He motioned her to the door.

  Chloe nodded. “Are you aware that we’ve connected Ethan to a human trafficking ring?”

  He blanched. “A what? No. Absolutely not. He would never involve himself in something so awful.”

  “Well, unfortunately, the evidence shows that he did. Do you have the names of any of his contacts? Friends? Fellow artists?”

  “I do not. Ethan and I weren’t exactly close. He was a very talented artist—and the only portion of the deal that I was actually glad to have inherited. And now that he’s gone, I’m going to have to find someone to replace him. If you find who killed him, I hope you put him away for a very long time.”

  He was truly upset. Whether it was about the loss of life or the loss of profit, she couldn’t decide.

  “Now, please,” he said, “come enjoy the rest of the auction. I’ll be sure to lock this room so no one else wanders astray.”

  “Yes. Do that. And thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  His cultured voice held an undertone of steel and Chloe figured he was more than capable of cleaning up the mess he’d been left with. Was that true or was he just feeding her a line? Something to distract her and take her attention from him and his gallery?

  Ethan had been one of his artists. No doubt he had some kind of file or something in his office. She hoped he still used a file cabinet and didn’t have everything computerized. That might make what she was planning a bit more difficult.

  Chloe tracked the man as he turned on the charm and began to greet the people who would drop a lot of money on Wright’s pieces in a couple of hours.

  When she was sure he had lost interest in keeping up with her, she slipped through the growing crowd to the hallway. With a glance to the left, then to the right, and back over her shoulder just to double-check, she strolled through the area Bryce had come from the day she and Blake had first talked to him.

  “Can I help you?”

  She turned to find the young man who’d been behind the reception desk. Neal. No last name surfaced in her memory. “No, I’m fine, thanks. Just checking out the paintings.” Fortunately for her, the walls of the hallway held several pieces of amazing artwork.

  “Those aren’t for sale, you know.”

  His superior attitude irked her. “Yes, but I can still appreciate beauty even if it’s not for sale, can’t I?”

  “Ah, yes. Well . . .” He tilted his head toward the crowd. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course. It’s been a lovely visit, but I guess I should get back to work.”

  He started to leave, then turned back. “You’re a cop, right? You were here the other day.”

  So, he recognized her even without the uniform. “I am. And I was.”

  His gaze flicked past her then behind his shoulder. “Where’s your partner and dog?”

  “The dog is my partner. But if you’re talking about the guy that was with me, he’s working on something else right now. I’m just here to appreciate the art.”

  “Hmm. You really think you can afford anything on display?”

  She raised a brow. “Wow. Judge much?”

  He grimaced. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Chloe frowned. She couldn’t get a read on the guy and that bothered her. Part of her wanted to say he was a harmless snob. Snob? Yes. Harmless? She wasn’t sure yet. “No problem.”

  “Okay, enjoy the art. I’m going to mix and see if I can sell a painting or two. Commission, you know.”

  She hadn’t known. But okay.

  He walked away and she headed for the offices. Spying the cameras in the ceiling, she paused while pretending to study another painting. Should she risk it? Did they have someone monitoring them? It was possible.

  The security guards had been stationed in the other area with the more expensive work. Hopefully, that would be where the cameras were aimed today because she was going to chance it.

  She knocked on the nearest door and waited. No answer. She tried the handle. Locked. A breath hissed between her teeth. Of course. The door next to it was also locked. Rats.

  Looking back over her shoulder, she pondered her next move. When her gaze landed on the empty desk Neal had occupied the day she and Blake had been here an idea sparked. More like a long shot. She really shouldn’t. It would be trespassing, and anything she found would be inadmissible in court. And if she were caught, she could be brought up on charges. But what if it helped her locate the girls?

  Deciding it was worth the risk, Chloe hurried over to the desk, checked to make sure no one was looking, then ducked behind it. She opened the top drawer. “Well, well, what do you know?” she whispered.

  Bingo. She snatched the keys and almost shut the drawer when her eyes landed on a picture of three boys. She pulled it out for a better look. One of the boys looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. On the back, someone had written “Hopkins family.” She snapped a picture of both sides, then on silent feet, headed back to the office door, passing three newcomers who’d just stepped inside the museum. They ignored her and aimed their steps straight for the crowded gallery that held Wright’s paintings.

  In front of the office marked Director, she tried the keys until one turned in the lock. “Thank you,” she whispered, then slipped inside and shut the door behind her. The office was large, probably twenty by fifteen, and held a desk with a leather chair, a laptop—and a file cabinet in the corner. A leather sofa sat against the far wall and a plush oriental rug covered most of the hardwood flooring between the sofa and the desk. Chloe moved to the file cabinet and opened the last drawer, labeled V–Z.

  Quickly, she thumbed through the files, only to find nothing under Wright. “Of course. Couldn’t be that easy.” She turned to the desk and wiggled the mouse. Password protected. “Naturally.”

  She set the office keys on the desk and looked at the open folder sitting on top of the scattered papers on the desk. Fleming wasn’t exactly the neatest freak in the place. With his uppity attitude and his perpetually curled upper lip, she would have figured him for one who thought everything had a place and everything should be in it. Then again, maybe he’d inherited the mess. But eight months seemed like enough time to get everything straight.

  Shoving the folder aside, she found the flyer for the auction. Papers regarding sales of paintings, expense reports, and more. And something about a delivery to Charleston. To a port? Which one? She pulled the file folder closer and glanced at the door.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Chloe flinched and looked up, pasting an innocent smile on her lips. “Oh, hello, Mr. . . . um, Neal, right? How are you?” She slipped a hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around her key fob. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  He stepped into the office. “How did you get in here?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  “No it wasn’t.” His focus dropped to the keys she’d placed next to the monitor. “Been snooping?”

  She was so busted.

  “Um. No, those were there, why?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you looking for something?”

  “Yes, you.”

  The direct approach seemed to surprise him. “Well, you’ve found me. What did you need?”

  “Do you know a young man by the name of Carson Langston?”

  He stiffened. “No. Why?” His body language shouted liar.

  Her question had been a shot in the dark, a desperate grasp at something. Bull’s-eye. “I think you do.”

  “And I figured you were going to be trouble the first time I laid eyes on you. Beca
use of you, Ethan had to die.”

  Two of the security guards she’d noticed in the gallery area stepped into the room, weapons held at their sides. She noted the suppressors on each one. With a cold ball of fear growing in her gut, she knew they had experience in using them. She had the brief thought of going for her weapon, but decided she’d be dead before her fingers touched it.

  “Now, are you going to come nicely?” Neal asked. “Or does this have to get ugly?”

  Chloe pressed the button on the fob and released Hank from the vehicle. He’d be confused, but at least he wouldn’t be trapped. With a mixture of terror and determination, she realized she was going to find out exactly what happened to the girls and where they’d been taken—the hard way.

  Rachel sat on the floor of the van and held Lindsey’s cold hand in her own. They’d had their trial run of dress and makeup and practicing poses until Rachel wanted to puke. But she went along with it without protest, unlike one of the other girls who refused to cooperate. Rachel hadn’t seen her since, but her screams would echo in Rachel’s dreams for the rest of her life. She swallowed against the ever-present lump in her throat and shuddered, then looked around one more time, still not completely convinced they couldn’t somehow escape.

  The rear windows of the van had been blacked out, leaving the back dark and stuffy. She and the other girls were packed into the space, sitting on foam padding that covered the floor.

  First, seventeen girls. Now twelve. Originally, she’d thought they’d only sent the seventeen in the trailer because they didn’t have room for the others, but now, she wondered if they had originally only sent part of their “inventory” on purpose, thinking that if some were found or escaped, it wouldn’t disrupt their “business” because they had more to replace them. Sick, sick, sick.

  Shuddering, she saw that someone had rigged a spring rod and curtain so no one in the back could see the driver or the passenger. But the little camera in the back corner near the double doors said those in the front could see the girls.