She took a sip of her wine, then chuckled. “Langston and I dated for a while about five or six years ago. He couldn’t comprehend my attitude toward something he finds so important. It got to where I enjoyed pulling his chain about it. You know, look at a Rembrandt and say, ‘That artist wasn’t very good, was he? Look at how those peoples’ faces are all lumpy.’”
I laughed with her.
“Cheryl, have you ever heard anything about people trading in stolen art?”
With a shrug, she said, “I don’t pay attention to such things. If you have enough money, you can buy anything, can’t you? Art, boats, horses, women. Everything is for sale.”
“That’s pretty cynical for a woman who recently told me she married for love,” I said.
Her eyes suddenly held a depth I’d never seen there before. “Just because I love Tom, doesn’t mean that I don’t understand that I was the price to rescue my father’s business. Taking a DNA test before you slip the ring on your finger sort of diminishes the romance, but I just ignore things that make me unhappy.”
She signaled the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.
“Speaking of happy,” she said after he poured our glasses, “have you been out to Victoria? On the big island?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s beautiful. Tom is going to San Francisco for business in two weeks. Would you like to take our boat over to Victoria for a few days? Just you and me?”
“If a man asked me that…” I let the sentence die.
Cheryl blushed. “You can think anything you like. Do you want to go?”
“Yes, I would enjoy that.”
Wil called on Friday.
“Hey, stranger. It’s been a long time. Avoiding Vancouver because I’m here?”
His laugh was so good to hear.
“Actually, I’m going to be flying in there tomorrow. Got any free time, or is your date book filled up?”
“Hmmm, let me see. How long are you going to be here?”
“Fly in Saturday, fly out a week later on Sunday.”
“Gee, that’s kinda tight. You have to work during the day?”
“Yeah, unfortunately.”
“It looks like I may only be able to accommodate you when it’s dark. You don’t mind if you don’t get any sleep, do you?”
“I’m tough. I’ll survive.”
“Optimist. God, it’s good to hear your voice. Where have you been? I’m going to beat you soundly. Bastard. I don’t care how busy you are. Call me occasionally.”
“Duly noted. Ring up your favorite restaurant and I’ll try to make it up to you.”
“You bet you will. What time will you be here?”
After talking to Wil, my enthusiasm for my date with Langston took a decided downhill slide. I looked up the play he’d invited me to, and it looked interesting—a new play written only two years before.
When the oceans rose and the bombs fell—a series of events collectively known as The Fall—such pursuits as art, acting, and music took a back seat to survival. Two-thirds of the world’s population disappeared before things stabilized, and society in some ways still seemed stuck at the level of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Science had slowed, but not stopped, but in the realm of aesthetics, humanity hadn’t progressed much.
Pleased that I wouldn’t have to sit through another production of Shakespeare, I felt a little better.
Langston picked me up, and we stopped by a little place near the theater for an appetizer. The play was very good, thought provoking and emotional. All the lead actor would have had to do was crook his finger and I would have crawled in his pants.
So, I was in a very good mood as we left the theater and headed to dinner.
“Where’s your car?” I asked.
“The restaurant is only two blocks away. Do you mind walking? It’s a lovely evening,” he said.
“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all.”
I took his arm and we strolled along.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” Langston said.
“And I’ve been thinking about you.”
He suddenly stopped and pulled me into his arms, kissing me long and deep. I hadn’t been kissed that well since I said goodbye to Wil in Toronto, and it left me breathless.
I looked around, saw some people staring at us. Some of them were laughing.
“Mr. Boyle. What will people think?”
“I don’t care,” he said, and kissed me again. I found myself melting into him.
As we proceeded along toward the restaurant, I wondered if that was his standard mode of operation, or if he was truly sincere. If I hadn’t been in love with Wil, such behavior, such kisses, would have been a powerful motivator to shed my panties before the end of the night. Actually, Wil’s phone call probably saved me from throwing caution to the winds. I sternly told myself to calm down and get my act together.
When the waiter cleared our plates after we’d finished eating, Langston ordered coffee and cognac and asked me, “Would you care to see the dessert menu?”
Since watching Danielle’s girlish figure wasn’t a concern, of course I wanted dessert. It gave me more time to think about what I was going to do once we left the restaurant. I had set this up on our previous date, thinking that I might want to get inside Langston’s home. That still wasn’t a bad idea, but I needed to figure out how to do it without spending time between his sheets.
Sometimes honesty is the best policy. Getting in the limo, I said, “Langston, I have a friend flying in early in the morning.” I leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. “Be a dear, and take me home without making a fuss.”
He gave me a long look, then told the driver to go to my hotel.
The following day, I drove to my safe house, morphed back to my true form and changed clothes. Then I took the van and drove out to the airport to get Wil. He came off the plane, caught me up, spun me around, and kissed me until I thought I would pass out.
At six-feet-four, with video-star looks and dark bronze skin, he stood out almost anywhere he went. Generally, when he gave me that kind of treatment in public, I was glad looks couldn’t kill. Many of the women watching us wore poisonous expressions. I didn’t care, but I watched my back.
While I showered and got ready to go out to dinner that evening, Wil’s voice came from the kitchen. “Is this where you’ve been staying?”
I had to smile. He was probably looking for something to munch on.
“No,” I called. “This is the first time I’ve used the bed. I have a hotel room downtown.”
He came back into the bedroom. “So, any leads on finding Chung’s missing art?”
“No, but I have confirmed that Vancouver is a hotbed of stolen high-end artworks. Some of your largest benefactors are in it up to their necks.”
He scowled, not liking the idea that the large corporations who paid him to keep the peace might be breaking the law. Most of the national governments dissolved during The Fall, and the Chamber of Commerce took over a lot of their functions. The large corporations funded and ran the Chamber to do those things that individual corporations couldn’t do. It also mediated issues between corporations, and oversaw the operations of local police agencies. I once asked Wil if he would be the equivalent of an old-fashioned general, and he said that might be close.
“How large are we talking about?”
“Roger and Marian Clark.”
His scowl deepened. “These are the paintings from the Crabtree job in Pittsburg?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for. Can you fasten this necklace for me?”
He did, and planted a kiss on the back of my neck. “A bunch of people died. That seems pretty crude for someone as high up as Clark.”
“I didn’t say they had Chung’s paintings. I said there is a lot of stolen art in this town, and the Clarks are involved. Wil, I’ve seen stolen artworks in several homes, and also at a museum. When I’m through here, I’ll give yo
u a list if you want.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what you could do about it.”
I couldn’t imagine the cops or anyone else confronting people as rich as the Clarks.
“I worry about you,” he said, trying to take me in his arms.
“Don’t. You’ll smear my makeup, we’ll end up back in bed, and we’ll starve. Come on, let’s go eat.”
In Toronto, I ate a lot of meat—beef, pork, chicken, and mutton—but very little fish. Certified heavy-metal-and-toxin-free fish, mostly from Hudson Bay, was incredibly expensive. In Vancouver, however, they had an abundance of seafood, mostly from the Bering Straits and the Arctic Ocean, that was far more affordable. I found that I loved it. I took Wil to the fanciest restaurant in town.
“You must be making good money on this job,” Wil said as he looked at the menu.
“Expense account,” I said. “Besides, this is the first time I’ve eaten here.” I tipped my menu to show him that it didn’t have any prices. “We’ll see who is the most shocked when I pick up the tab—me or the waiter.”
Wil laughed. We decided on a bottle of wine, and gazed out the window at the bay.
“So, how are you going about this investigation?” Wil asked.
I told him about Danielle and the high society parties I regularly attended, mentioning the Art Gallery only in passing.
“Be careful, Libby,” he said. “You know as well as anyone how people can disappear when they attract the wrong notice from people at that level.”
“I think about it all the time. One of my father’s contacts here has warned me of the same thing.”
A week later I drove Wil to the airport, thinking the week had been too short. I had an irrational flash that I could just get on the plane and go with him. It passed, but when I got back to Danielle’s hotel room that evening, I drank myself to sleep.
Chapter 5
David Abramowitz called while I was in the shower and left a message to call him back. When I tried, no one answered the phone.
Cheryl Frind was coming in twenty minutes to pick me up for our trip to Victoria, so I figured I could call the broker back later. Having gathered my bags, I dragged everything to the lift and went downstairs.
I had spent the previous day shopping. Usually, I simply imagined Danielle’s wardrobe, but I figured I should have real clothes if I was to stay in close quarters with Cheryl. I wasn’t sure what activities she had in mind, so I over packed and had two suitcases in addition to my handbag.
Passing through the front door of the hotel, I turned right, pulling my bags behind me to get out of people’s way.
“Danielle!” Cheryl’s voice called from behind me. I stopped and turned toward her. The pop of a bullet splitting the air as it passed me was followed by the sound of it breaking the window next to me.
Reflexes took over. I dived to the ground and rolled toward a waiting car. Another pop sounded above me, and the window shattered. I reached into my handbag for my pistol, but didn’t draw it. There were witnesses everywhere, some within a few feet of the broken window.
Looking up, I saw Cheryl standing twenty feet away, frozen in place with her mouth hanging open.
“Get down!” I screamed.
She knelt down, a car parked on the street between her and the direction the bullet had come from. A number of other people also dropped to the sidewalk or otherwise took cover.
A security guard, pistol drawn, rushed toward me. I almost shot him, but held up when I realized he wasn’t pointing his pistol at me. He knelt down beside me.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
“Yes. I’m okay.”
He looked around wildly, then started to rise. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down.
“Stay down, you damned fool! Don’t give him a target.”
I wanted out of there, and my instinct was to blur my form with my chameleon talent and slink away, but I couldn’t do that with all the witnesses. The shooter had been close. With both shots. I had no doubts that if I stuck my head up to look around, he’d blow it off. The guy was a pro.
I lay there until the cops came, and even then, I refused to get up until they provided a shield while they hustled me into the hotel. The shooter could use two different strategies after he missed his shot. He could either get the hell out of there, or he could wait, hoping that I would show myself again. A master sharpshooter wouldn’t worry about missing me and hitting a bystander. He wouldn’t miss.
Sometime later, I sat in the hotel’s lounge with Cheryl and a double shot of whiskey on the rocks. I was having trouble drinking it because my hands were shaking so badly. Partly that was adrenaline reaction, but part was pure, unadulterated, old-fashioned terror. I knew I would never come closer to dying than I had that morning.
“Miss Kincaid?” The man standing there was such a stereotyped homicide cop that I almost laughed. Fedora, long overcoat, cheap suit.
“Yes.”
“I’m Inspector Fenton, Vancouver PD. Do you know why anyone would want to kill you?”
Many reasons, but I wasn’t going to tell him about any of them. But in the corporate world—Danielle’s family’s world—assassinations were quite common.
“I don’t know. I’m not involved in my family’s business, but I do control a fair number of shares. Someone might benefit if my shares reverted to the corporation. Or maybe someone’s wife or girlfriend is jealous.” I took a swallow of my drink. “Hell, I don’t know.”
“You didn’t find the shooter?” Cheryl asked.
Fenton shook his head. “We think he was on the roof of the building across the street. By the time we arrived, he was gone.”
I doubted Fenton’s statement. The angle from the roof would mean the sniper was shooting almost straight down. That would be a very low-percentage shot. My bet was from one of the windows much closer to the ground, and my preference would have been third to fifth floor.
The cops finally went away, and I told Cheryl that I wasn’t up for going to Victoria. I tried three more times to call Abramowitz before I decided to drive over there. Unsure if I would be coming back, I took everything of any use with me. Blurring my form, I took the back stairs down to the parking garage. I didn’t trust my car and didn’t want to take the time to check it thoroughly for trackers or explosives, so I hotwired a rental car and took it.
I rang the bell at Abramowitz’s office, knocked on the door, and tried to peer in through the windows. No answer or sounds from inside. While I could have picked the lock, it would have been rather conspicuous standing on the sidewalk of a busy street in the middle of the day.
That night, I bypassed the alarm system and went in the side door. The neat office I had seen on my previous visit was unrecognizable. Someone had obviously ransacked the place.
The secretary sat at her desk with the wide-eyed, shocked expression that people often showed when they’d been shot in the forehead. Her death was easier than that of Abramowitz. He’d been tortured before having his brains blown out.
The living quarters on the two floors upstairs had also been torn apart. I found a tablet, but it had been wiped. I stuck it in my bag and went back downstairs.
The terminals on both desks showed no connection, and the server was blank. I opened it up and took out the storage chips. Depending on how the intruders had wiped the storage, and what tool they used, there was a possibility I could recover the data.
I decided it would be useless to search the place. A number of expensive paintings hung on the walls, both in the office and upstairs. I found a safe in the upstairs bedroom closet hidden underneath a false panel in the floor. It was very well disguised, but I could feel the electronic keypad lock. Considering the state of the place, I didn’t bother trying to find the latch for the panel, I just used a strong knife to pry up the floorboards.
Cracking the safe was easy. The jewelry inside was fabulous. I took it, along with five paintings small enough to carry. Hopefully, the police would write the murders off as part
of a robbery.
Driving back to the safe house, I had so many thoughts swirling around in my mind. I had no doubt that Abramowitz had told his tormentor everything he knew about Danielle Kincaid. Her usefulness was at an end.
If I called my dad or Wil, I knew they would tell me to go back to Toronto and forget about the job. Even Chung might decide to call it off. I was stubborn, but not suicidal. It irked me, though, that I’d put so much time and money into the investigation, and made so much progress.
I unloaded everything at the safe house, then drove the rental car back across the bridge into downtown and abandoned it. The three-hour walk back gave me a lot of time to think.
I had stashed most of my tools and weapons at the safe house, and my computers were set up there. I checked the storage chips from Abramowitz’s server. The tool his murderer had used to wipe the primary chip had not only erased the data, but overwritten it with garbage. But whoever did the job was not a computer professional.
Unknown to most people, almost all computers were built with redundant storage. The secondary chip was intact. I had Abramowitz’s books, a history of his inventory and his deals, and a lot of other things, including the secretary’s artwork and email communications with her lovers. She was a talented artist, and judging from the emails, an even more talented lover.
I spent the day combing through all his files. It was disappointing to discover that everything appeared to be legal. No records of stolen art or transactions that he hadn’t reported to the Chamber or recorded with the international art registry.
His bank accounts seemed to have a problem, though. For someone dealing in high-end art, his balances were very low. It took me a couple of hours, but I found the account where he was diverting funds. That account had about twenty million in it, and I syphoned half of it off.
When I decided I’d learned as much as I could from the data, I encrypted it and sent it off to Mom, with instructions to forward it to Dad. He might be interested in Abramowitz’s contacts and business arrangements.
I fixed myself a sandwich with the remains of the food Wil had bought, then turned my attention to the tablet I’d found in Abramowitz’s upstairs living quarters. Once again, the primary storage chip was blank, but the backup chip was intact. With it, I hit the jackpot, although it took me four hours to break the encryption.
Chameleon's Death Dance (Chameleon Assassin Book 4) Page 4
