Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  He flipped through the surveillance photos of the sculptor.

  Blake had no idea how they’d found their way to his superior’s desk or why Walsh had chosen to concern himself with the nitty-gritty of an operation in its early stages.

  “A waste of time, wouldn’t you say?” Walsh glanced up, craning his head forward questioningly.

  Blake remained silent, forcing his superior to explain himself. Walsh knew as well as he did that the better part of any surveillance consisted of snapshots like the ones captured in the eight-by-eights on his desk.

  “Nothing going on.” Walsh frowned, visibly annoyed at having to spell out his concerns. “This looks like a waste of budget, Markham. Not to mention a potential lawsuit in the making.” He jabbed at the photos. “What’s this guy done?”

  Blake shifted his position in one of the two uncomfortable chairs Walsh reserved for visitors.

  “We began surveillance because Ms. Skye sensed a connection between Reynolds and the individual known as the General.”

  “The man who supposedly masterminded the Gardner theft?”

  “Possibly one of two men, according to Ms. Skye’s insights.”

  “So we think following this guy around is going to lead us to the loot?” Walsh’s pained expression was akin to that of a professional skeptic asked to put his faith in the afterlife. “On the say-so of a psychic?” Walsh pronounced the word as though it were an expletive.

  “A psychic who helped recover the most valuable of the Gardner’s stolen works,” Blake pointed out.

  Walsh waved an irate hand in dismissal of this argument. “Because she had it in her backyard, so to speak. Who knows what else she might have had?”

  So they were back to that, were they?

  The surprise raid on the Mechelen had been about as necessary as the tactical force used in the pre-dawn arrest of Roger Stone. A simple knock on the door would’ve yielded the same results.

  But try explaining that to an SAC with little to no field experience—a man who was essentially an unelected bureaucrat. Walsh had thought the headlines the raid inspired would be worth it. A nice show of force indicative of the FBI doing something about a thirty-year-old cold case instead of simply spinning its wheels.

  “And so we’re following Reynolds?” Walsh returned to the matter at hand.

  “We’re following him, sir, because Ms. Skye received a premonition of an attempt on her life. By the General. That attempt was made last night—with a box of poisoned chocolates. Cyanide.”

  Walsh’s eyebrows shot up.

  “She didn’t touch the chocolates, fortunately,” Blake assured the SAC before he could ask. “But her friend Annabelle Curtis did.”

  “Duarte’s sister.” Walsh’s tone suggested that an attempt made on the relative of someone with even minor ties to the Gardner heist was excusable.

  Blake didn’t bother pointing out the obvious. Duarte had been a minor cog in the wheel, compelled against his will to participate.

  “Anthony Reynolds, whom Ms. Skye believes could be associated with the General, was at the Mechelen yesterday. About the time the chocolates were delivered.”

  Walsh’s frown deepened, the connections beginning to make sense.

  “Do we have enough to question Reynolds?”

  “Ella”—he was referring to his personal assistant—“is getting all the information from Rick Mailand. He’s the Sheriff’s Office detective assigned to the case.”

  Walsh sat back. “Well get on with it, then, man. No need to waste time here.”

  “No sir, no need at all.” Blake resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As though it had been his idea to waste his morning in the SAC’s office.

  “Julia?”

  Showered and dressed and armed with a soothing cup of Chamomile tea, Celine clutched her phone to her ear.

  “I was just about to call you,” the former fed replied. “Everything okay?”

  Celine hesitated. Was everything okay?

  Other than the fact that she’d spent the past several minutes crouched over her toilet bowl, heaving the contents of her stomach into it, she supposed it was.

  She nibbled on a piece of dry toast.

  “Celine?” Julia’s voice sounded urgent.

  “Still here. Listen, I think I know how those chocolates got here.”

  “We’re surmising it was Reynolds,” Julia said.

  “And you know that . . . how exactly?” So much for her psychic insights.

  “It’s the only explanation that fits.” Julia’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The box had no postmark. The mailwoman assigned to the area is adamant that she only delivered a stack of envelopes. No packages.

  “Mailand confirmed that with the post office as well. There were no packages scheduled for delivery to the Mechelen.”

  Celine swallowed the piece of toast she’d been chewing. “I’m guessing Andrea was too busy to even go into the office.”

  “You’re absolutely right. But when Jonah went in there at closing time, he found the box sitting next to the stack of envelopes in the tray.”

  The Mechelen’s mail slot was on the side of the Tasting Room, set into the wall by a door that opened into the office.

  Celine pictured the mail tray—a black enamel affair with a floral pattern in bright red. It was set on a low table, strategically positioned to catch the envelopes that fell through the mail slot.

  She’d bought it several months back, hating the idea of mail littering the office floor.

  The slot wasn’t large enough for packages, though.

  Those were left on the stoop, the mailwoman pressing the buzzer on the wall to alert staff to the fact.

  “I saw Reynolds going into the office,” she told Julia. “In a dream.” Strangely, she hadn’t seen anything in his hands.

  She turned her attention back to Julia’s voice.

  “That confirms it, then,” the former fed was saying.

  “It does,” Celine agreed. “We should ask Blake—”

  “Already on it. Mailand’s on the horn with Blake as we speak. It ties in with our case, and given that the prime suspect is in Boston, it makes sense to ask for FBI collaboration.”

  There was a pause.

  “You should probably take the day,” Julia suggested. “Wanda’s quite capable of handling things at the bar herself. I’ll help out as much as I can and also be on hand if Annabelle needs anything.” Another pause. “Bryan should be here in a few hours. So we won’t be stretched too thin.”

  So Bryan had gotten in touch. Celine wondered if he’d mentioned their conversation to Julia. The former fed hadn’t said anything. And Celine wasn’t about to ask.

  An unpleasant sensation stirred in her stomach. She owed Bryan an apology. Big time. She knew that, but she wasn’t looking forward to having to abase herself.

  “Sounds good,” was all she said. “Keep me posted.”

  Celine had just about finished her tea when Andrea called.

  “You are well, cara?”

  “I’m fine, Andrea.”

  The note of fatherly concern in his voice brought a smile to her face. Her parents’ untimely death had left her with no surviving relatives. But she had found a family here—in Andrea, Wanda, Julia, and Annabelle.

  “And Annabelle will be, too,” she went on before he could ask.

  But Andrea’s worries weren’t so easily allayed.

  “The chocolates were for you, cara? It is what the police say.”

  “I . . . uhmm . . . yes, they were.” What else could she say?

  “You knew of this?” Andrea pressed her. “You sensed it, as you put it.”

  Celine knew why he wanted to know. She’d asked him to be her partner, told him she was settling her affairs, but she hadn’t explained why. She’d intentionally left the details out, although she’d insisted they were a team.

  He would never say it, but Andrea Giordano was hurt.

  “I had a premonition. I didn’t want to say anything.
I deliberately didn’t. I didn’t want to get you alarmed.”

  “I understand, cara. You do not need to defend yourself.”

  But something was eating at him, Celine could tell.

  “Had I known, I might have been more careful.”

  “Oh, Andrea, there’s nothing you could’ve done. It’s not your fault. How could you have known?”

  “I should’ve suspected, cara. Your work is dangerous. And your insistence, yesterday, that I partner with you . . . Well, it was telling.”

  “But, Andrea, seriously, how could you have prevented any of this?”

  “Cara, I should’ve personally checked your mail, inspected postmarks on every envelope and package that was brought in. Instead, I let Jonah take your mail.

  Celine understood what he was saying. The box of chocolates placed beside the mail tray would’ve stood out like a sore thumb. Andrea would’ve known the mail lady hadn’t left it there. She left packages on the stoop.

  The door by the mail slot was locked. Meaning that only an intruder—someone who had no business in the office—could have left the box for her.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Andrea. Besides, the police and Julia have already figured out who it could be.” She told him Mailand and Julia suspected Anthony Reynolds of having brought in the doctored chocolates. “It’s all under control.”

  “By God’s grace, it is, cara,” he replied fervently.

  “But now you understand why I want—need—you to be my partner? If anything were to happen—”

  He stopped her before she could finish.

  “Do not say it, cara. Yes, of course, I understand, and I am happy to oblige. But let us pray nothing happens to you. You are much too young to let thoughts of death overshadow your life.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Blake took a cautious sip of his coffee and instantly regretted not ordering it iced. The brew, hot enough to almost burn his tongue, was the worst thing he could’ve asked for on a muggy July day.

  He set the medium-sized paper cup down and stared at the tall, muscular figure sitting across from him.

  “You were at the Mechelen yesterday, Mr. Reynolds.” He didn’t bother phrasing it as a question.

  The sculptor stared back at him, hands interlaced around his large latte.

  “I’ve already told you I was, agent.”

  Blake regarded him for a moment, trying to interpret his body language. Reynolds sat before him, taut as a newly tuned guitar string.

  He’d seemed cagey when he answered Blake’s knock on his apartment door, scanning the empty hallway for imaginary intruders before suggesting they meet at the Starbucks down the road.

  Now as they sat here at a black metal table on the nearly empty Starbucks patio, Blake detected a subtle difference.

  The wariness had gone, replaced by a watchful, expectant attitude that Blake couldn’t quite decipher.

  He made his move. “Any reason for wandering into the Tasting Room office?”

  He pushed his weight against his chair, making it rock backward onto its rear legs. He’d decided to go with Mailand and Julia’s theory. It was the only explanation that fit.

  Reynolds’ pupils—a brilliant green—briefly dilated before resuming their normal size.

  “There were cameras?” The sculptor’s voice was quiet, as though the significance of that possibility had just begun to sink in. “They picked up on my presence?”

  There had been no cameras, but Blake chose not to correct the impression. Reynolds had already given him what he wanted: an admission of his presence in the Tasting Room. Blake remained silent, hoping for more.

  Reynolds attempted a grin. “I didn’t take anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Blake regarded him. “It’s not what you took that concerns me, Mr. Reynolds.” He paused. “It’s what you left there.”

  That got the sculptor’s attention. He went rigid.

  Excitement pulsed through the agent. They were getting somewhere. Finally.

  “What I . . . left there?” Reynolds repeated, picking his way around the statement as though he were walking through shards of glass. He stared at his latte, his hands still wrapped around it as though it were some kind of talisman.

  The tan had faded, leaving the sculptor’s features an unhealthy shade of gray.

  “I’m not so sure I understand, agent?” Reynolds looked up, his eyes watchful, his stance wary—like a gladiator bracing himself for a vicious attack. “Penny Hoskins didn’t send you, did she?”

  “No.” Blake allowed his gaze to bore into the other man’s eyes.

  “Then who did?” Reynolds surveyed the patio, eyes alighting on the portly guy hammering away at his laptop two tables away. Guy Shepherd, the agent on surveillance duty. Reynolds’ gaze returned to Blake. “What is this about?”

  “A box,” Blake informed him. “About yea big.” He spread his hands wide to indicate its dimensions. “It contained chocolates.”

  Reynolds gaped at him. Then, oddly enough, he relaxed.

  “Yes, I remember that.” He seemed mildly surprised they were discussing it. “It was for Celine—a gift from Penny.”

  “A gift from Penny?” Blake’s voice rose despite himself. “Penny Hoskins?”

  “Yes.” An Oscar-winning actor couldn’t have injected more bewilderment into that one syllable. “I meant to tell Celine. I forgot. But she found them, no problem, I take it.”

  “She did.” Blake decided to break the news. “They were poisoned.”

  Reynolds stared. “That’s not possible. Why would—?”

  “That’s what we want to know. The chocolates were poisoned. You’re admitting to placing them in Ms. Skye’s office—“

  “Hey!” Reynolds leaned across the table, visibly outraged. “I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t poison any chocolates.”

  “You’re suggesting Penny Hoskins did?”

  “No, of course not.” Reynolds shook his head vehemently. “That’s ridiculous.” He wiped his hand across his face.

  Blake considered the sculptor. He couldn’t detect any signs of deception. Either Reynolds was a grade-A psychopath or he was telling the truth. He didn’t know the chocolates had been poisoned and he genuinely believed Penny had sent them.

  “How did the chocolates come into your possession, Mr. Reynolds?”

  Reynolds glanced up. “It was yesterday, at the winery. This USPS guy approached me. He musta thought I was an employee.” The sculptor frowned, remembering something. “Wonder how he—?”

  Blake interrupted him. “When you say USPS guy, you mean a mailman?” Mailand had mentioned a mailwoman being on the route.

  “Yep.” The sculptor’s thoughts seemed elsewhere. His eyes roved past the only other occupied table toward the dull-blue patch of sky visible behind the buildings on Grove Avenue.

  “A man?” Blake pressed him. Was Reynolds making this up? “Not a woman? You’re quite sure?”

  “Absolutely.” Reynolds met his gaze. “Thin guy, medium height. Definitely not a broad.” The sculptor smiled, genuinely amused now. “Trust me, agent, I can tell the difference.”

  I bet you can, buddy, Blake thought. He wondered again if the sculptor was lying. It didn’t look like it.

  “You’d recognize him if you saw him again?” Mailand would need to re-interview the other postal employees. One of them must have made an unauthorized stop at the Mechelen.

  Would the SLO County Sheriff’s detective be able to put together a photo lineup at such short notice? If so, they had a chance of nipping this thing in the bud.

  Reynolds shrugged, responding to Blake’s question. “I guess.”

  Blake rocked forward, bringing his chair back to the ground with a thunk. He had one more question.

  “So a mailman hands you a box of chocolates. And you assume it’s from Ms. Hoskins because . . .?”

  “There was a note.”

  “A note? Which you opened?”

  “Why w
ouldn’t I? It was addressed to me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” Ella Rawlins searched Blake’s features.

  He’d returned to FBI headquarters fifteen minutes ago and had just finished filling his personal assistant in. After the sweltering heat outside, the cold air blowing from the vent above his chair felt damned good. He relished in it as he weighed his impressions.

  The sculptor had clearly not been expecting to be questioned. He’d been nervous during the interview—cagey even. But on the subject of the box of chocolates, Reynolds had been astonishingly forthcoming. He hadn’t denied entering the Tasting Room or leaving the candy box in there.

  His outrage, when Blake had mentioned the candy was poisoned, had been genuine.

  But there were aspects of his story that didn’t add up.

  And when Blake had asked whether the message Reynolds claimed to have received from Penny Hoskins had been postmarked, the sculptor’s pupils had dilated. Without warning, he’d thrust his chair back.

  “I’m sorry, agent, I have to leave. I don’t have much time.”

  Either Reynolds had realized he’d been caught in a lie or—

  Blake caught Ella staring at him, her head tilted to one side. The light glancing off her glasses rendered her expression inscrutable.

  “I’m not sure, Ella,” he answered her question. “But it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

  He pulled the phone toward himself.

  “It’s not here.” He heard Celine rummaging through the stack of mail Julia had left on her kitchen countertop. “No note from Penny.”

  A whoosh of air burst from his pent-up lungs like a dam being released.

  “Damn,” Blake swore softly. He’d believed Reynolds. More or less.

  “Any kind of corroborating evidence would’ve been good,” he said.

  He drummed his fingers on his desk. He’d hoped Sheriff’s Detective Rick Mailand had somehow omitted to tell him about the note. Understandable, given that Celine hadn’t had time to sort through her mail. But this wasn’t looking good.