by Sara Rosett
Half glasses perched on his nose, Mort examined the two paintings with Kathy hanging over his shoulder.
“A real Monet,” she sighed. “I can’t believe I’m this close to one. The two paintings are similar, but there’s something about this one...” Kathy indicated the one with the markings on the back. “I don’t know how to describe it. It has an extra something that makes it...I don’t know...sing.”
Zoe tilted her head, studying the two paintings. Now that they were isolated away from the mass of similar paintings at the villa and placed next to each other, there was a difference. “I see it, too. It’s like it has more...oomph.”
“It has an effervescence,” Kathy said, and Mort looked over his glasses at her. She shrugged. “It does. Don’t you see it?”
“I’m more concerned with getting it into a safe.”
“Spoil sport,” Kathy said, but then she grinned. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
Mort removed his glasses. “Looks like I’m going to have to turn on my cell phone. Almost made it two whole weeks without doing that.” Kathy volunteered to return to their cabin to get the cell phone while Jack replaced the paintings in the plastic bag.
“Sorry to ruin your vacation,” Zoe said.
He glanced at the door Kathy had just left through. “Bridge had begun to lose its allure. But you didn’t hear it from me.” He picked up several pieces of cruise ship stationary. “Now, let’s go through this again, make sure I have everything clear.” He sat down at the narrow desk while Zoe perched on the edge of the bed. Mort resettled his glasses on his nose and made notes as he asked, “So when are you supposed to contact this Oscar, now that you have the painting that Mr. Gray wants?”
“He gave us a deadline of tomorrow.”
“And how are you supposed to do that?”
Zoe handed him the business card from her messenger bag. He centered it up on the desk in front of him. Mort scribbled away in silence for a few moments. Jack moved to the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe.
“You see, we thought that if we called the local police, it would be, well, a nightmare. It is a stolen Monet, after all. And we knew leaving the country with it wouldn’t be smart.”
“You could have called the FBI office in Dallas.”
Zoe pressed her lips together. No use beating around the bush. “I wasn’t sure they’d hear me out, and with Lucinda...” Zoe swallowed and forced herself to go on, “With her body in my backyard.”
Mort looked up from the paper and nodded. “I can see that.”
“But we didn’t want to give it back to Mr. Gray either. You know him?”
“I recognize the name, yes. He’s been on the Bureau’s radar for a long time.”
“So you know what kind of guy he is.” Zoe looked at the plastic bag covering the paintings. “First of all, it’s a masterpiece. If Mr. Gray gets that painting, he’ll sell it or stash it in that free port place Oscar mentioned. It might not be found for years, if ever. I know that’s the least important factor here. It is only a painting, even if it is a masterpiece. But that was part of it. Then there was Lucinda. If we gave the painting back, then Gray would get away with murder. And finally, if we gave it back, Mr. Gray might go back on his word. He said he’d take care of Lucinda’s body, and I wouldn’t be blamed, but once he had the painting—”
“He would have no reason to care what happened to you.”
“Yes,” Zoe said.
“No good choice, anyway you look at it.”
Zoe licked her lips. “So, we thought the only thing to do was offer it to the FBI.”
“Through me? I’m retired.”
“But you have connections. You still know people. And you knew our background, everything that had happened with the fraud case.” Mort gave a reluctant nod, and Zoe continued, “We’ll turn the Monet over to the FBI, and give them all the information we have about Mr. Gray. They can use it to catch him.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? Don’t you want immunity in exchange for the painting and your testimony?”
“But we don’t need immunity. We didn’t kill Lucinda or steal the Monet...oh, I see what you mean. We did steal it from Anna. But she’d stolen it, too.”
Jack spoke up. “Add immunity to our list.”
“Wise choice.” Mort ran his hand over his mouth as he looked at the paper. “Okay. So you’re thinking the FBI will take possession of the painting and set up a sting to catch Mr. Gray—all before tomorrow? On foreign soil?”
Zoe and Jack exchanged a glance.
“Are you saying they couldn’t do it? Or, that they wouldn’t be interested?”
“No. They’ll be interested. We better get to work. Why don’t you order us some coffee? It’s going to be a long night.”
***
AFTER the painting was secured in the largest safety deposit box on the ship, and Zoe had added the key to the long chain that hung heavy on her neck with her wedding ring, they had moved to Mort and Kathy’s cabin, which was bigger and had a balcony. Mort hunched over the desk and made several long phone calls, while Zoe and Jack sat on the balcony with Kathy, who brought her knitting with her and added several inches to a scarf while they waited. It was a pleasant evening, cool, but not cold, and they chatted intermittently, talking about Italy and the ports Kathy and Mort had visited on the cruise, but it was a strained conversation. They were all listening to the low mumble from the cabin through the balcony’s open sliding glass door.
Zoe assumed Mort was talking to his old colleagues in Dallas. It was close to six in the evening there, and she wondered how hard it would be for Mort to get in contact with the people he needed to talk to. With the difference in time zones, it would be at least three o’clock in the afternoon tomorrow in Italy before the workday started in Dallas. They couldn’t wait that long.
After the fourth call, Mort turned to the balcony. “Sato is in the air, on his way here.”
“To Italy?” Zoe asked incredulously.
“Yes. He lands in Rome at seven tomorrow morning.” Mort crossed the room and stood in the doorway to the balcony. “He got the information about the financial transactions—the ones you said Darius Gray mentioned—but Sato’s new partner thought something looked off. The analyst took another look and discovered the transactions were an elaborate red herring, set up to frame you,” Mort said, looking at Zoe.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Do they know about Lucinda?”
“She’s officially missing now. She’s not on the manifest of any airline that flew out of Dallas in the last week.”
“So they haven’t found her body?”
“No. There’s a team on their way to your house now to search the backyard.”
Zoe nodded, her glance slipping to Jack, as she said, “No going back now.”
Who was she kidding? Once she’d told Mort everything, their course had been set. They’d thrown their lots in on the side of the good guys. She just hoped it was the right choice.
Jack said, “It’s good that they discovered the financial transactions were falsified. Once they find Lucinda’s body, it will confirm your story.”
“I know, but somehow I don’t find it very comforting that a dead body is my proof. That’s just not good.” She stood and walked to the edge of the balcony where she leaned against the rail.
Mort cleared his throat and said, “The Italian police will meet Sato at the airport, bring him here. The original plan was for him to go to Naples, your last location that he knew of, but I’ve left messages for him to come here, to Capri.”
“What agency are the officials from? The ones who are bringing him?” Jack asked. “I only ask because I had some rather unpleasant experiences with the Italian police.”
“I understand your skittishness. You did have some encounters with people who should not be allowed to wear a law enforcement uniform, but you don’t have anything to worry about here. Interpol is involved and has sent a representative as well as the Italian Art Th
eft Squad.”
“They know about the painting?” Zoe asked, her hand tight on the railing.
“A payment for an invoice listing an Impressionist painting was the only transaction on the account of Verity Trustees. Once Sato contacted the Bureau’s art squad, they immediately got in touch with their Italian counterparts, who take art theft very seriously.” There was a knock at the door. “Ah, that should be my summons to the captain. I must explain why I am harboring two stowaways and arrange transportation to Capri for us. You might want to change. I think it will take some time at the police station.”
***
THE clash of voices woke her. She squinted against the bright florescent lights. She was in a Capri police station. She had a crick in her neck and her arm was asleep, but the upside was that she wasn’t locked in a cell.
Last night, after she’d thrown on the last of her clean clothes, a pair of white capri pants with a navy and white striped shirt, she, Jack, and Mort had boarded a motorboat under the disapproving eye of the cruise ship’s captain.
They left the paintings in the safety deposit box, which made Zoe nervous, although she knew it shouldn’t. “Until everything is agreed, it is best that they are in a secure, unknown place,” Mort had said.
Two Carabinieri officers, looking sharp in their dark uniforms with the red stripe down the leg, had greeted them as if it was perfectly normal to meet people at Capri’s Marina Grande at two o’clock in the morning. The officers, part of the Italian national military police force, drove them up a road that switched back on itself as it climbed up from the harbor between white stone walls. They stopped at a plain, oblong building perched on the hillside between the harbor and the sheer white limestone cliffs.
They were treated as guests, offered drinks, and questioned together. Zoe had a feeling this was in deference to Mort, a fellow law officer, even if he was retired. Jack’s ability to translate the essentials of their situation helped as well. In a conference room with a view of the harbor, she’d told her story to a revolving cast of officers, who all seemed to have different uniforms and different questions and concerns. “How many different police forces do they have here?” Zoe had hissed to Jack after their fourth round. Even the tax police had taken their turn.
“It’s Italy,” Jack had said with a shrug. “Of course, it is convoluted.”
Eventually, the questions tapered off and written agreements between her and Jack and the various police agencies were drawn up, spelling out that Zoe and Jack would receive immunity in exchange for the painting and their testimony against Gray.
When the last stack of paper was signed, their first Carabinieri interviewer returned, Lieutenant Colonel Russo, a fortyish man with a serious face, steady dark brown eyes, and a sweep of gray in his dark hair at his temples. Russo spoke some English. “Now we wait for the arrival of your colleague from the United States.” Since there was nothing else to do, Zoe paced the room for a while, but she couldn’t stay on her feet long. She had stretched out on a couch at the back of the room and drifted in and out of sleep.
She shifted and sat up, pins and needles stinging her arm as she moved. Jack was in one of the conference chairs, his eyes closed and his feet propped up in another chair. Beyond him, on the other side of the room, Sato and Mort stood with a new group of people, all talking and gesturing.
Jack opened one eye at the sound of her movement.
She dipped her head toward the far end of the room. “Sato’s here and—wait—it’s not a trick of the light. His shirt is actually wrinkled.” Every time Zoe had seen Sato he was perfectly turned out in immaculate designer suits. But now his tie was loose, and he’d removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. “This is serious.”
Jack dropped his feet to the floor as he scrubbed his face as the voices grew louder and arms flung wider to emphasize points. “Is it just me, or do things seem to be getting out of control?” Zoe asked in an undertone as she rotated her head, trying to work the kink out of her neck.
Jack listened, then said, “They’re debating the best way to take Gray down. They all have a different idea on how to do it.”
“Isn’t that a little premature? We don’t even know where he is...or if he’ll be there to pick up the painting himself.”
“He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get the painting,” Jack said. “He might want to see it right away.”
“Or, he might send someone to get it for him, like Oscar.”
“They’ll trail the courier and hope he—or she—leads them back to Gray.”
“But Gray could send an anonymous person to pick it up and take it straight to one of those free port places.” Zoe shook out her arm and noticed the time. “It’s ten,” she said, looking at Jack with wide eyes, then to the window where late morning sunlight slanted over the mix of rocks, trees, and houses that rose up from the vibrant blue of the water. “I have to call him soon.”
Sato, who had been in conversation with the dark-haired Carabinieri official, moved to Zoe and Jack. “It’s time to make the call.”
Chapter Twenty
––––––––
ZOE stared at the business card on the table, her cell phone gripped in her hand, trying to look like she was a normal tourist, enjoying coffee at a harbor-side café.
Jack sat on her right. Sato was at the next table, his gaze focused on his watch. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. She was sure she didn’t look much better after getting only a few hours of sleep on the couch, but the difference was that she didn’t specialize in sartorial splendor while it was Sato’s hallmark. She and Jack had arrived separately from Sato, and she was doing her best not to let her gaze slip toward him too often. Without looking up, Sato said, “I heard you weren’t anxious to contact me.” He spoke so softly that only Zoe and Jack could hear him.
Zoe put the phone down and wiped her palms against her pant leg. “If you were me, would you want to call the FBI office with my story?” she asked under her breath.
One side of his mouth turned up. “Point taken.” His smile vanished. “Okay. They’re ready. You can make the call.”
Zoe blew out a breath and dialed the number. In case Gray had a way to track where the cell originated from, they’d moved from the police station to the café. She’d caught a glimpse of two regular police officers strolling the street as well as the tax police. She was sure there were other police officers around that she couldn’t see.
The phone rang several times. She darted a look at Jack. Was she going to have to leave a message on voicemail? They’d gone over so many details about the call before they left the police station. She wore a wire threaded through the collar of her shirt that she’d been told was so sensitive that it would be able to pick up the voice on the other end of the call. She had rehearsed what to say, practicing phrases that would give the police as much time as possible to fine tune the plans before the hand-off of the painting.
The one thing she hadn’t prepared for was leaving a message. She had the urge to laugh and knew it was a reaction to the tension. What was she going to say? Your painting is ready for pick-up. Or, got the Monet. Call me. She squelched the giddiness and put on her serious face. Under the table, Sato made a sharp cutting motion with his hand. She ended the call before the recorded message came on.
She dropped the phone on the table and put her head in her hands, her elbows on the table. “He’s not going to answer. He’s figured out we’ve gone to the police,” she whispered.
Thoughts swirled through her mind sucking the momentary hilarity away and replacing it with panic. The agreements they’d made with the police...would they still be valid if Gray disappeared? If Gray wasn’t caught, they couldn’t testify. Would the police go back on the agreements? And what about the painting? Now they only had Zoe and Jack’s word that Gray had forced them to go after it.
A tightness squeezed down on her chest. Was it all going to fall apart?
The phone buzzed, and Zoe jerked away from it as it vibrat
ed. It was a text that read, “Dock 5. 1 p.m. Come alone. Bring the item.”
She realized that she’d read it aloud. As Sato stood, he murmured, “Wait until I’m gone, then pick up the painting and go to the restaurant as planned.”
Jack signaled for their check and paid for the coffees they’d barely touched. It was only a few steps to the dock where Mort waited, already seated on a boat that would take them back to the cruise ship. They still had their lanyards and showed them to the cruise ship attendant who stood at the gangplank. He waved them onto the boat, and as they’d agreed earlier, Zoe and Jack slipped by Mort, who was seated at the midpoint of the boat, without a word and moved to the back of the boat. This was the cruise ship’s tender, the small boat used to ferry passengers to and from port, so they had to wait a few minutes as a few other cruise ship passengers boarded. Once they were under way, Zoe scanned the other passengers. She was sure there had to be at least one police officer on board with them besides Mort, but she couldn’t pick anyone out who looked like law enforcement.
They cleared the harbor, and the wind whipped her hair around, blinding her. She scraped it off her face, twisted it over her shoulder, and held it there with one hand. Jack stretched his arm along the back of the bench and said in a voice that she could barely hear above the wind and engine noise, “You know they’ll want to use you as bait.”
“I’m not the bait, the painting is.”
Jack looked at her steadily. “You don’t have to do it. They can get a female police standin. Someone who looks like you.”
“Yeah, red hair is so common here.”
“They do have wigs in Italy.”
“What if Gray sends Oscar? He knows me. An imposter won’t fool him.”
“It’s not a good idea,” Jack insisted.
She twisted toward him. “Jack, I have to do it. There is no way I’m letting anyone else hold that painting. I don’t care how trustworthy they tell me someone is. A painting worth twelve million dollars might be too much temptation to resist.”
