Alpha Adventures: First Three Novels

by K. T. Tomb

  “Your friend,” she said to Travis with a knowing look in her eye, “he is unaccustomed to the female body, yes?”

  Travis could only smile. He knew all too well how poorly Adam’s attempts with the opposite sex usually went.

  “My name is Travis Monnahan,” he said. “We’re looking for Lucas Gaston. Is he here?”

  A man in a fleece bathrobe appeared.

  “Oui. I am here. I am expecting no one. Who are you?”

  “Like I said, Mr. Gaston, my name is Travis. This is Adam.”

  At that moment his sat phone buzzed.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” and he quickly checked the phone.

  Followed and almost mugged—watch yourselves. Sav, the text message read. Travis barely contained his glee, knowing Savannah had finally joined up with Thyri; then he quickly re-read the text, and had to contain his distress at hearing they had almost been mugged.

  Just meeting Gaston now. We’ll be careful. T.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Monsieur Gaston, we would be much obliged if we could come in. We’d like to discuss something of a sensitive matter with you.”

  Gaston smiled. Adam still had not taken his eyes off the, for all intent and purpose, naked woman.

  “Of course,” Gaston replied. “Come in. American? I believe you say ‘make yourselves at home,’ yes?”

  “That is indeed what we say,” Travis replied.

  The woman moved out of the way, winking outrageously at Adam, retreating into the house. Gaston sucked his teeth at what Travis assumed was his girlfriend, and the four of them moved into the house. Travis noted that, to her credit, the lady had curves in all the right places as she turned slowly and sashayed suggestively toward a clear spot on one of the beaten and sunken-in couches.

  Travis and Adam stood awkwardly just inside the now-closed double doors, looking at the mess in front of them.

  “Sit wherever you would like,” Gaston indicated the expanse of the room. Adam, Travis noted happily, had finally stopped gawking at the woman and was looking at an old oak writing desk. Travis thought he heard voices coming from somewhere else in the house.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

  Gaston looked at him.

  “I did not say anything, yet. I was about to ask what you would like to drink. Wine, French vodka, champagne?” He smiled to himself at that. “And of course, brandy.”

  “Nothing for me,” Travis said. “Actually, do you have water?”

  Gaston looked at him strangely, and turned to the woman lounging on the couch. She was clearly put off that Adam had focused his attention elsewhere.

  “I will get you a bottle of the sparkling water. The water that comes out of the tap is mierdre.”

  “Maybe,” the young woman said in a husky voice, “some Americans have some self-control after all,” and looked at Travis meaningfully.

  The hint was not lost on him. He made a noncommittal sound in his throat; it elicited a knowing smile from the woman. Travis mentally noted not to drink the water.

  “And for your friend?” Gaston asked, noting with amusement Adam’s ardor for what could only be the antique furniture scattered throughout the sitting room.

  “What was that?” Adam said, finally speaking for the first time.

  “I was asking you what you wanted to drink,” Gaston said, eyebrows raised. “Would you like to know what we have, or would you like a surprise?” He glanced over at the woman on the couch again, smiling.

  “Oh—that’s not what I thought you said. Uhmm. I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Adam replied, looking confused.

  “Oui,” Gaston said and left the room, presumably to find beverages for everyone.

  In the ensuing moments, Travis was content to take in his surroundings. Looking around, he noticed Adam attempting to engage the lady on the couch.

  “I apologize; I never caught your name,” he said in what he thought sounded like a sexy voice. Travis just shook his head. Adam sounded more like what a dog whining for a treat would say if it could speak English.

  “Beatrice,” the woman replied, holding out a hand. She emphasized every syllable in her name, clearly happy to be the center of attention once again. Adam took her hand and clumsily kissed it, the way he thought a suave person might do.

  “Enchante,” he said to the woman.

  She leaned forward, her head awkwardly close to Adam’s belt buckle. She said something so low Travis did not hear it; he hoped Adam would not get noticeably excited. That would be an embarrassment for everyone. Apparently she had invited Adam to sit down in the small amount of clear space on the couch next to her. Adam sat down, and Travis became even more alert for a disaster in the making. She leaned over and began speaking in Adam’s ear. Travis was sure it could not be appropriate, based on the flush creeping up Adam’s neck. At almost the same moment, Gaston came back into the room. He put the drinks down rather violently, and started shouting in French at the woman. She was immediately cowed, and Adam, having some social sense, stood up and moved away from her.

  Gaston looked like he was about to hit her. Travis could almost see the gears turning in his head. There were people here. He clearly did not want to be seen striking Beatrice, although Travis had a pretty good idea she had been struck before.

  Gaston quickly composed himself. “My apologies,” he said to the room at large. “I lost my temper there.” He got up and offered everyone a beverage, quickly occupying the small amount of space next to Beatrice on the couch. Travis and Adam just stood quietly, and Adam thought he heard someone say something.

  “What? I didn’t catch that,” he said out loud. Gaston looked at them strangely.

  “There is no one else here, c’est ne pas?” He looked at Beatrice for confirmation. Travis thought he caught a flicker of hesitation, but Beatrice quickly replied, “C’est vrai, it is only us!” and smiled at the men in a disarming manner. “Perhaps a TV got left on in another room. Lucas is always forgetting to turn them off after himself.”

  “So. You gentlemen have something to talk with me about, no?” Gaston asked.

  “Yes,” Travis said.

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” Adam replied.

  “Well then, let’s get on with it!” Gaston said.

  “We work for Mrs. Rodange. She received a call from you, claiming you want to help recover the missing vases,” Travis said.

  Well, that was blunt, Adam privately thought.

  Neither of the people in front of them reacted with much surprise.

  “That is true,” Gaston cavalierly responded. “I take it she hired you to help with the search?” When neither man offered a confirmation, Gaston continued. “Yes. I would like to help. For a price. You see, the vase is extremely valuable—not only to certain buyers, but sentimentally as well. That vase should have been in my family’s possession a long, long time ago. Are you familiar with the history of the Swarovski vases, monsieurs?”

  “Yes, we are,” Adam said. “I’m an antiques specialist—I buy and sell them for a variety of clients. Conservatively, one of those vases could be worth a couple billion. Conservatively,” he added for emphasis.

  “Like he said,” Travis added, “we know what we’re looking for.”

  “Ah, good, good,” Gaston said. “Saves me time explaining. You see, I will commit what manpower is at my disposal to recovering the vases. With a written agreement that the vase with the Gaston family crest carved on it be returned to me, and that I take immediate ownership of what is rightfully mine.”

  “I’m sure you know that, while employed on behalf of Mrs. Rodange, we could not possibly agree to that type of bargain without consulting her first,” Travis said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.

  He wanted to avoid a confrontation as much as possible. His hackles were up. Everything here seemed wrong to him on some level; the disarray of everything juxtaposed against the obvious wealth that went into a place like this. The fact that he ke
pt hearing voices that he was sure were not in his head, or from some TV that had been left on in another room.

  No, we’re not here alone, but Gaston doesn’t want us to know that. He’s hiding something, he decided.

  Both Adam and Travis thought for a moment. It seemed like Gaston did not have much to add. Other than Travis’ mounting paranoia, which had more to do with not getting shot again than anything else, he decided that Gaston was being as honest with them as they could expect, at least as far as recovering the vase was concerned.

  “I think that does it, Monsieur Gaston,” Travis said. “We will relay your proposal to Mrs. Rodange. Should there be any progress, is there a number we can call?”

  “Oui,” Gaston replied, and gave Travis the number. “Won’t you gentlemen stay a while? Keep us company?” and he produced a sizeable snuff box which he put on the table in front of him.

  He began laying out lines of white powder on the tarnished silver tray previously occupied by the beverages, and immediately inhaled one. Beatrice followed closely behind.

  “I think we’ll just go. Long drive back and all that,” Adam said, and headed toward the door. Travis was close on his heels.

  “Monsieur Travis,” Beatrice called after him, “must you leave? I was hoping you would stay the night.”

  Neither Travis nor Adam replied. As the doors were closing, Travis swore he heard what sounded like a hand connecting with a face, hard. He flinched, but without looking back, he and Adam got in the car and headed down the drive.

  “Listen,” he said to Adam. “I don’t think we can head straight back just yet. I think Gaston already had this ‘manpower’ he spoke of steal the vases. Perhaps he wants to make this bargain with Rodange so he can regain possession of the Gaston vase. Think about it—if she agrees, all he would have to do is give her the other two back, and he gets to keep his.”

  “You could have something there, Trav,” Adam said excitedly.

  “Adam, come on, you know how much I hate you calling me that,” Travis said as curtly as possible.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, bud,” Adam said. “I just thought that since Savannah does it, it’d be ok if I called you that too.”

  Travis did not bother explaining why Savannah could get away with calling him Trav and Adam could not. Savannah wasn’t just a pretty face to him anymore; she had single- handedly pulled him from the edge of the abyss after their ordeal at Lake Baikal and again after the job in Japan. Neither Adam nor Thyri had been around, but Savannah had been a constant, a compass.

  He can be so dense sometimes, Travis thought.

  “As I was saying,” Adam picked up his train of thought. “What do you think we should do? There were definitely other people in the house with Gaston and Beatrice. Why he lied about that is the question.”

  “Yeah, I definitely heard voices. What we need to do is get in there, unnoticed, and take a look around. If I’m right, then he has the crystal in his possession. We can retrieve the vases, get out and be done with this case,” Travis replied.

  He was excited. It was the first solid lead anyone in the group had been able to produce so far. From what he could tell, the girls hadn’t made it to the Liebowitz estate because of their attack.

  “Here’s what I think we should do.”

  Adam began to outline a plan that would hopefully get them into the Gaston residence without being noticed.

  Chapter Five

  The building Thyri and Savannah were approaching was more than a home. It was in excellent condition as well, making Savannah think of a strange combination between the Art Institute of Chicago and Buckingham Palace. That one fleeting thought of Britain made Savannah twinge at the memory of Fiona. She had not appreciated Fiona’s ability to get the group into trouble nor the extra work required to get out again, but she did miss her fiery spirit. It’s a shame she’s gone; no one deserves to die like that, Savannah thought as she fought back tears.

  Thyri could tell that the building was old; clearly preceding the turn of the century, but it looked like a new build. There were none of the characteristic vines creeping up the walls, which indicated to her meticulous care and grounds keeping. Surprisingly, the gate was standing wide open; not a security guard or modern intercom buzz-in system in sight. The women looked at each other quizzically, walked up the driveway to the magnificent front door and knocked. They were promptly rewarded with the sound of footsteps. The doors opened soundlessly and a man in a uniform stood proudly before them with questioning eyes.

  “Oui? Comment puis-je vous aider?” the man said.

  “Ahh… Nos noms sont Thyri Ragnarsson et Savannah Summers,” Thyri replied in her best French accent. “Parlez-vous anglais, sil’vous plait?”

  “Oui, d’accord,” the butler replied in the arrogant manner of most Luxembourgians when asked to speak English. English was the third, and least popular language spoken in the country; Belgian and French being the preferred choices.

  “Thank you,” Savannah said quickly, hoping to disarm the man with one of her brilliant smiles. It seemed to have only a minimal amount of the desired effect.

  “We’re here to see Monsieur Liebowitz. Is he available?” Thyri asked.

  “I am not certain,” replied the man that Thyri and Savannah pegged immediately as the butler. “I will see if he is. Monsieur Liebowitz is a very busy man.”

  The way he said it indicated that, even if he was available, Liebowitz did not take kindly to drop-ins from strange women, regardless of how much disposable time he had available.

  “Thank you again,” Savannah said, trying to pile on even more of her southern charm. The man almost smiled.

  “You may wait here, while I go and see if Mr. Liebowitz has a moment, but I do not think it will be more time than that,” the butler said.

  “Well, tell him that we know what he’s lost, and we’re here to talk to him about it,” Thyri said, cold politeness radiating through her words.

  The butler gave her an inquisitive look, turned sharply on his heels and disappeared into the house to look for Liebowitz. He left them standing in the foyer, taking in the plush surroundings.

  “This could prove to be more difficult than we thought, Savannah,” Thyri said. “These people certainly seem to have their shit together.”

  Savannah was surprised at the use of the expletive. It took a lot to get Thyri to the point where she swore in regular conversation. Savannah hoped Thyri could keep it together long enough for a fruitful conversation with the head of the Liebowitz clan.

  In short order, the sounds of two sets of footsteps approached; they echoed off the marble tile and through the vaulted ceiling of the hallway. The butler clearly looked his part now compared to the austere figure cut by Mr. Liebowitz. Though in his sixties, he did not look a day older than forty, dressed smartly in a dark charcoal three-piece suit, Italian leather loafers, and a black and white checked tie. He was fit and trim; it was obvious that he took as good care of himself as he did of his estate.

  “I am Monsieur Liebowitz. I was engaged in a rather important business call when my butler told me that you have some rather important information for me. Let’s talk!”

  He did not bother with pleasantries but instead, turned around sharply and began walking back down the hall.

  “Follow me,” the butler said to the women, almost embarrassed by his employer’s treatment of them.

  They were lead to a very minimally furnished sitting room, boasting only a few armchairs, a coffee table, and a number of photos of Mr. Liebowitz on big game hunts all over the world. One of the pictures showed him shirtless, holding a boomerang next to a dead kangaroo and a number of aboriginal guides in the back country of Australia. Thyri tried not to stare, but Mr. Liebowitz noticed her anyway.

  “That was taken a number of years ago. The aboriginals I hunted with assured me that there was no better way to track a kangaroo than to blend in with the desert; so that’s what we did. I was lucky enough to make that catch on the first day o
f our hunt. They’re rather delicious when prepared properly.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Thyri said, trying to match his cold matter-of-fact personality. “I’ve never eaten kangaroo.”

  “A pity, that,” Liebowitz said coldly. “Now, what do you ladies want to discuss?”

  “Mr. Leibowitz, we’re here to discuss the crystal vases,” Thyri said, pausing to see the reaction on his face.

  The man took a seat next to an empty fireplace and reached for a smoke box on the small table beside the chair. He opened it and took out a long cigarette, which he held to his lips and lit. Thryi and Savannah seated themselves opposite the man and she continued.

  “We know that your family once owned one of the Swarovski crystal vases originally created for the publishing house, Liebowitz, Rodange and Gaston, Inc. We also know that Rodange eventually gained possession of all three of them and that over the past century a family rivalry has been in place, with the three factions making numerous attempts to steal the pieces from each other. We also know that, unfortunately, all three of them are now missing,” Thyri stated.

  “Yes, I’ve heard much the same story,” he acknowledged. “Get to the point, Ms. Ragnarsson. I am a busy man with many other matters requiring my attention.”

  “Did you steal them?” Savannah said bluntly. “The rivalry between the three families has been friendly up until this point, but your family has a cut-throat reputation when it comes to business. How far would you go to recover your third of the treasure?”

  Liebowitz laughed. It was filled with spite and amusement.

  “Neither of you strikes me as being silly,” he said, “yet I find your accusation just that; silly. I have, among other things, a spotless reputation, both personally and in my many business dealings. Never have I gone to the lengths you are suggesting, nor would I. How could anyone trust me, if I did something that garnered the attention of the police and possibly outside investigators such as yourself? Furthermore, if I did have the vases, I would not be sitting on them idly. I would flaunt them to the world, especially to Rodange, so that she would know exactly who had gotten a one-up on her.”