Imperfect Forgery: (A Dark Romantic Suspense)

by G. D. Madsen

  The only reason I left the Bureau and became a private consultant was to get close to Evelyn's murder investigation. After all, I never doubted it was directly linked to the heist, despite no evidence supporting my conviction.

  Instead, due to my personal involvement, the Homicide Squad chief refused to have me, and I ended up helping solve stupid robberies.

  I storm out of my captain's office before I wipe the excited expression off the newbie's face with my fists, and head up the stairs to the Homicide Squad.

  "Greg," I call.

  The guy behind the desk is drowning in tons of papers, empty takeaway boxes, and God knows what else. Only the thick mass of his dark brown hair is visible in the midst of that mess.

  "Any new leads on Evelyn's case?" I ask.

  He doesn't even bother to lift his eyes off the paper he's reading. "Since when do I report to you, man?"

  "Since you swore to watch my back. Have you forgotten our pledge?"

  Greg glares at me instantly. "I am watching your back, as well as Brian watches over Lucas's. One loose cannon in the group of four is more than enough."

  "Can you blame him?" I raise my eyebrows. "After what Lucas went through?"

  "I don't blame him. I wouldn't blame you either. I'm just saying one vigilante is a handful already."

  "Who said anything about going rogue?"

  Greg stands up and crosses his arms over his chest. "Is the word "idiot" written on my forehead? Tell me again, why did you leave the FBI and come consult with the Chicago PD? And don't give me all this, 'Catherine is a good friend, and I wanted to help out' bullshit. My captain is not an idiot either. This is why you are not working with me. Let's stop pretending. Your only goal is to find those responsible for the heist and make them pay for killing Evelyn in ways that might not include a fair trial."

  He does know me well. I cannot wait to have the treacherous informant's scalp for sending Evelyn and me into the ambush. That night ended my carrier. I chose to listen to Evelyn instead of my intuition. I should have followed the procedure and received my superiors' approval instead of storming out to stake another possible heist.

  "Those bastards shot her in front of my eyes, and then tried to kill me. I deserved the suspension, but I did not deserve to be taken off the investigation." I clench my fists. "Fuck, this was my major case!"

  "Past tense, David." Greg shrugs his shoulders. "Evelyn's murder is my case – present tense. Why don't we end this conversation and do our jobs? Don't you have other cases to solve?"

  I had known him since Lucas and I were freshmen in university, and he responded to our ad about sharing a loft. He encouraged me to join the Police Academy after obtaining my law degree, so to hear him say this kind of sucks.

  "Did your mother never warn you this righteous attitude of yours would come back to bite you one day?" I smirk. "Oh, wait, she did."

  That woman did more than that, though. She chose her abusive husband over her own son. When Greg's father beat his mother unconscious, Greg was the one to call the police. Only the woman felt little gratitude and refused to testify. The guy walked free, and they both moved to Thailand, leaving their teenage son behind.

  Greg falls back into his chair. "That's low even for you, brother."

  "Sorry..." I suddenly feel shitty for poking my friend's wounds. "I'm desperate. I need something. Anything. This silence is driving me insane! Evelyn meant a lot to me once—"

  "She also crushed your heart. Don't start romanticizing that woman. Her ambitions nearly killed you that night."

  "Yes, Evelyn may have been a calculating bitch, but she did not deserve to become fish food."

  Gregory exhales with a whooshing sound. "I will let you know if anything happens, I promise. Until then, please stay out of this for your own good."

  Arguing with him is useless. He has always been the one ready to do the right thing, no matter what – a true cop in every sense of the word, even before he became one.

  I sometimes wonder where Gregory would have ended otherwise. Raised by his elderly American grandmother in Riverdale, Chicago, he had two options: face trouble or become trouble.

  Luckily the third choice presented itself after his little street gang was busted, and a retired cop took the boy under his wing. Greg fully embraced the new path – sometimes to an extreme, but his "by the book" attitude I can endure. Chasing the pile of stones around the city? Not so much.

  I brought this upon myself by letting anger influence my decision to leave the FBI's Art Crime Team instead of waiting for my suspension to end.

  ∞∞∞

  "Easier than stealing candy from a baby." I look at the red-haired woman in her mid-forties, sitting behind a large oak desk in her office. Today's partner, Anders, hands her the report, and Catherine studies it, her green eyes moving fast from one line to the other. "Those were simply teenagers having fun. They piled the stones in front of their school in the shape of a dick. If you ask me, it looked more artistic than the original display."

  Anders snorts amused by my comment. The captain only produces a sly smile. That woman is impossible to impress.

  "Look, I get it. You don't want to be here with us. You want to be two floors higher with Gregory, and honestly, you have proven to be a great asset at helping us solve cases like this one. I am ready to vouch for you, David, but I need guarantees you will not go all Rambo on this."

  "Catherine, they shot me in the back. They murdered Evelyn. It should be personal for this unit as well. She was one of you guys." I sigh, looking at her unreadable expression. "Besides, how would I ever go Rambo with Gregory on my ass all the time?"

  "I'll talk to his captain on Monday, and maybe we'll come up with something," she says, walking to the door. "Enjoy your weekend, gentlemen."

  I did not realize it was Friday until Catherine mentioned it. Time to leave the city behind and plan my next move.

  By the time I pull into the driveway of the house that only my best friends know about, it is almost pitch-black, but I hardly pay attention to it. I know this place like the back of my hand. After all, I spent my childhood here. The day I left this house, I also chose to go by my mother's maiden name, unwilling to be associated with my father's snobbish family any longer. Only because I truly loved the man, the name on my passport didn't change.

  My thoughts shift back to those days when Evelyn and I were happy together, or so I believed. Still, I never told her about the house. In fact, she never learned I was rich. The revelation of my legal surname was supposed to be a romantic wedding surprise.

  When she slapped me in the face with her decision to cancel the wedding due to my lack of ambition, I was glad I kept silent.

  I unlock the door to the house that was supposed to be a honeymoon surprise to Evelyn, drop a case folder and my phone on the console, and work my way in the dark to turn on the electricity. The phone begins to buzz, and for whatever reason, my stomach tightens with anticipation.

  Could it be her?

  The vibrating stops before I reach the console.

  "Damn it!" The screen taunts me with the words. It was her. When Lava called last week, it said the same thing: "private number".

  Relief washes over me when the phone begins to buzz again.

  "Hello, stranger," I say, positive it is her.

  "Hey..." Her voice caresses my ears. It sounds more profound than I remember it, most likely because I was drunk. What other explanation could I provide for the way my cock reacted to her laughter or my name on her lips?

  "I thought you forgot all about me." I want to punch myself in the face for sounding so cheesy.

  "No. Last week was just too much..."

  Lava does sound different. "Do you have a sore throat?"

  "I... Yes, but it is almost fine now. I am fine now." She sighs into my ear. It seems the girl was ill. "And you, David? Are you feeling better?"

  Fuck! No alcohol to blame for my reaction this time. What the hell has gotten into me? How can a voice make me ha
rd? I have no idea what she looks like, or how old she is. Double fuck. "How old are you, Lava?"

  "Why are you asking?" She sounds hesitant.

  "I am trying to figure out if I could be arrested for chatting with you," I reply, trying my best to ignore the throbbing in my jeans.

  Lava laughs. Her laughter is even sexier with her voice still hoarse. "I'm twenty-four."

  It's embarrassing how relieved I am to learn she is legal to end up in my bed.

  "And what do you do in life, Lava?" I ask, shifting my focus away from explicit images involving a woman I never met.

  "Not important. Would you mind if we remained strangers? Someone to talk when..." Her voice breaks, but perhaps it is due to her sore throat. "I just missed talking to you."

  Is she crying?

  "Can I tell you a secret?" I try to sound as soothing as possible. "I missed talking to you too." I lean against the wall and close my eyes. It has been a long week.

  "You did?" she asks so silently I can barely hear it. "I thought maybe you had forgotten about me. I was actually afraid to call you tonight."

  "Why?" I laugh. "I have a confession to make. I thought of you every day, and honestly, I was afraid you would not call me."

  "Then, we were both wrong." She chuckles.

  A rock lifts off my chest hearing her voice become steadier.

  "It's probably the first time I am glad to be wrong, but nonetheless, I would like to have an equal chance to call you."

  "You can't…"

  There is the breaking tone again. Shit!

  "I'm sorry, David, I just cannot give you my number. I—"

  "No, dear," I cut her off. I hardly know her, but for some weird reason, her sadness hurts me. "I am sorry I ignored your request for privacy. I'll try to behave starting now. Tell me, what would you like to talk about tonight?"

  Forgetting all about the lights, I find my way to the couch.

  "Tell me more about the Tuareg, please."

  "With pleasure." A smile takes over my face as I lay down in total darkness and begin telling her stories about my mother's family.

  Chapter 3

  Lavinia

  I put my phone away only when the screen goes dark and slowly get out of bed. There is no need to try to sleep. I will not rest until this bloody painting is flawless enough for the original artist to doubt.

  My whole body is still sore and exhausted from Father's continuous taunting, leaving me barely able to move and speak for days after.

  That night death evaded me, and for the first time, I am actually glad it did. I cannot understand what is happening to me. Even Father's punishment did not erase this determination to hear David's laughter again.

  Tonight, when Mauro went to see his father, I seized the opportunity to call the complete stranger, capable of awakening butterflies I presumed dead for a long time. Luckily, David did most of the talking, and his calm voice eventually drove the horrors of the past week aside.

  After a few painful gulps of tap water, the memories threaten to drown me anew. I cannot say which part caused the most damage. Was it Father's cruel foreplay of leaving me in the dark, dreadfully waiting for the moment he would descend into the basement and flinching at any sound until even my own breathing could spook me?

  Maybe his dark eyes stabbing me with fury did the trick. No, the fury did not terrify me. It was the anticipation in his eyes that made me plead for mercy yet again and receive the opposite in return. I gagged and choked on my spit when he invaded my mouth, but it was nothing compared to his favorite part.

  That came next.

  When a wet cloth covered my face, a pure need to survive caused an endless panic attack, while Father pounded my convulsing and drowning body.

  The rest of the night I spent naked and chained to the concrete floor was pure luxury.

  Does it really matter which of his monstrous techniques generated the most pain and humiliation? He succeeded. Again. I would not risk enduring another similar punishment, not for the stupid forgery, at least.

  I sigh, looking at the new blank canvas. I have to start painting from scratch again, and I better start now while Mauro is still out.

  He has not touched me for a week, which proves just how bad I must have looked, but trees don't grow into heaven, and I would be a fool to hope he would do the same tonight. Mauro will return drunk and violent, like every other time he came back from the mansion. Humiliated by Father and needing to humiliate me.

  Father's order not to leave bruises on my skin makes it worse. The invisible ones hurt the most.

  They never heal.

  They have no time to heal.

  They are the deepest, especially when left by someone I once considered my friend.

  I pick up the brush, but it refuses to obey. Curling my trembling arms around myself, I allow my mind to drift back to David, and replay every detail of our conversation. He talked a lot about Tuareg women and how cherished they were.

  Cherished. The word stings my eyes. Violence or lust is all I find when men look at me... Most often, the two combined.

  The memory of David's laughter, as he spoke about the French blood in his veins being too hot to allow his woman to keep lovers, causes butterflies to flutter their wings again, and for a moment, I dare to imagine what it would feel like to be his woman.

  Not in my lifetime...

  The door flies open, proving yet again that my life does not belong to me. Mauro stares at me like a raging bull, his red semi-open shirt matching his eyes, his dark hair far from the styled look he had when he left.

  "When I get home I expect you in bed, slut!" Mauro lunges at me and clutches a fistful of my hair, and his fingers instantly tangle in between my curls. He drags me to the floor, simultaneously undoing the zipper of his black jeans with a free hand. "Let me show you what happens if you make me search all over this fucking place for you again."

  His cock jolts in front of my face, pulsating and threatening.

  "Please, Mauro," I beg in vain. Our friendship has long been erased from his memory. "It still hurts..."

  "Even better!" He yanks my head up. "Open it!"

  I do... No matter what, he would win. It is only the question of how much he would hurt me to accomplish it. "That's right! I am in control here. Do you understand?" Mauro slams my face into his groin, and tears flood my eyes.

  "Do…" Another slam.

  "You…" And another.

  "Understand?!"

  He releases me, and I collapse on the floor gagging and nearly puking, desperate more than ever to keep David's voice alive in my mind. Mauro is still hovering over me, and I know he is waiting for my answer.

  "Yes," I reply breathlessly, clinging to the memory of the stranger's voice – the only thing keeping me from sinking into the dark waters of desperation.

  "Yes, what?" Mauro hooks my chin with his foot, the polished black shoe immediately steamy from my erratic breathing. "Yes what, slut?"

  "You are in control..." I whisper, although both of us know the only one in control is and has always been Father.

  Chapter 4

  Lavinia

  Even the air smells different when I am at the Academy, where there is no Father, no Mauro, no ultimatum to perfect yet another damn forgery. Here I can create my own art. I can allow myself to daydream without fear of being questioned.

  All good things end, though. I locate Mauro's car as soon as I step outside. He never grants me an extra minute after classes. When Father decided I should join the Academy to learn more about the specific techniques classic artists used, I had hoped for some liberty. I dared to ask Mauro if I could go out with classmates sometimes, but instead, he reported my wishes directly to our father, who made sure I would never attempt to dream about it again.

  Eventually, people stopped inviting me, and I became known as the unsocial loner with an obsessively controlling boyfriend.

  Yes, Mauro made sure of that too. Nobody ever tried to talk to me outside the building after he
broke a guy's nose for bringing me the book I had forgotten in the classroom.

  I drag my feet toward the parking lot where Mauro is waiting inside his old black convertible, music drowning the bird chirping and any other sound within a mile radius. I am about to count the remaining steps of freedom in my head when I spot a man walking in my direction.

  He moves with a kind of confidence I had rarely seen, his whole stature tall and visibly strong. The unruly dark hair, flying loosely in the warm spring wind, is the only proof he is not a bronze statue of a Roman warrior. The man brushes his hair off his eyes with one hand, tucking some of the strands behind his ear, revealing his blue gaze focused on me. Those eyes remind me of the sky in Rembrandt's stolen painting. My cheeks threaten to burst into flames when one side of his full lips curves into a teasing smile.

  This is when I realize I am literally standing and staring at him, my mouth agape. Embarrassment flushes my paint-stained face with more heat, and all I can do is look at my converses, still unable to move.

  Only when no more than a few steps separate us, do I force myself to look at him again, but the sight of Mauro storming our way sobers me up instantly. One glance at Mauro and panic replaces my embarrassment.

  "Get in the car!" Mauro grabs my shoulders and shoves me behind him. I stumble onto the lawn, trying to retain my balance before running off toward the parking lot, mentally beating myself for having caused another incident.

  I am so stupid. Any man is off limits to me, and would always remain such, so why do I care what he thinks of me? I will probably never meet him again, and if I do, he will certainly not look at me. My eyes burn, and I wipe a treacherous tear while glancing at the two men, praying I would not spot pity inside those eyes that captivated me.

  The loud music still playing inside Mauro's car prevents me from overhearing their argument, but the man does not seem the least bit intimidated. He might not be as wide as Mauro, but underneath his washed-out jeans and white shirt hugging his upper body, he is undoubtedly strong and muscular.