Marked Masters (2 page)

Please, please, please leave. I don't have
much time left.

Just as my limbs started to cramp from
standing so still, I saw one give the "move 'em out" swing of the
arm, and both teams returned to their respective cars. I didn't
start breathing again until I saw the revolving lights stop and the
headlights turn back down the boulevard.

It was hammer time!

The master suite was exactly where I
expected, and I was probably feeling a bit too cocky as I closed
the door behind me and pulled from my pocket the sharp little tool
used to extract canvasses from frames. I spun around and approached
the bed—and got my next shock of the night. A gorgeous baroque
frame hung on the wall over the headboard…but it was empty.

I froze. There was no backup plan for this.
Where else could the portrait be?

A check of the closet and under the bed
offered no answers. I started running through rooms, scanning each
wall, behind the sofa and chairs. Nada
.

In the study I found bookcases filled with
volumes and vases, but no portraits. I circled the desk, hoping for
a clue. The ultraprecise Omega chronometer on my left wrist gave
one quiet beep, warning me to pull up stakes and run before it was
too late.

My gaze fell on a leather-bound journal atop
the desk. Across the front, embossed in gold, were the words "My
Women."

His little black book? Or his blackmail
roster? Either way, taking it might give me some ammunition to
offer Mrs. Gleeson if the worst happened and the blackmailer came
after her again. He'd obviously stashed the portrait someplace
else. Maybe Kat spoke to someone besides me about this, and he'd
gotten wind of a rescue attempt?

Either way, I needed to fly. The book went
down the front of my leotard, and I slipped out the side door I'd
originally planned to use for entry to the house.

Vaulting the back wall wasn't even a
challenge. I was so pumped I probably could have vaulted the whole
house without too much difficulty.

I was behind the steering wheel of my car
and digging the book out of my clothes, trying to figure out what I
was going to tell Kat, when a voice behind me said, "See anything
interesting, love?"

If I could have reached him, Jack Hawkes
would have been dead.

"Damn it, Jack! Don't do that!" I turned in
my seat and instinctively swung backhanded to try to slap the grin
from his face. He caught my arm without even trying.

"A bit nervy, aren't you?"

Jack Hawkes remained a mystery no matter how
creatively I tried to corner him on personal details. Maybe some
level of UK agent, likely MI-6 by the way he operated, but I
couldn't be sure, because he treated his background as something on
a "need to know" basis. However, I always had the feeling he didn't
want to explain rather than he couldn't. I'd learned early on to
not let down my guard to people who didn't act completely
trustworthy, and Jack tipped the scale soundly on my distrust
meter. He was a perpetual pain in my backside and, reluctantly at
times, my "partner against art crime" before I'd gone on this
side-mission to help a college friend.

He and I were currently thrown together as a
team to stop what may be the art heist of the century. At the close
of our last mission, Simon Babbage, a new person of interest in
major art thefts, immediately fell off the intelligence grid after
we learned he betrayed Beacham Ltd. and was a confederate of
criminal mastermind Devin Moran. The single crumb of information
Simon left behind was a reference to a safe-deposit box in Orlando.
Our legal team moved heaven and earth for Jack and me to peek
inside, and we unearthed only a combination of numbers, a pristine
map of the European Union, and a reference to Miami. Our next stop
in this little adventure. Simon always made regular trips to south
Florida, so it made sense to head that way and ask questions. We
didn't know if the numbers had anything to do with the heist, but
we suspected Moran was behind any plans in the works, so finding
Simon was a priority. There was also a missing snuffbox that was
rumored to contain a microchip with plans of the heist. Naturally,
we were on the lookout for both of those items as well.

On the other hand, I hadn't expected to see
Jack's face until our Miami flight the following morning, and the
sight of his broad-shouldered frame filling my backseat now was
just unnerving enough to give my voice an edge. I did not trust
him. At all. The fact he was there instead of at the hotel simply
ratcheted up my anger and unease.

"I'm pissed off is what I am!" I waved a
hand. "It's…over. And I failed. What are you doing here
anyway?"

"Oh, a little shopping. Senator Gleeson
asked me to pick up an old canvas for him."

"What?" I stared as Jack pulled an item from
behind my seat back.

There it was, a gorgeous nude infamous only
because of the later-years reputation of the artist. Kat's mother
was young and lovely, and the body of art should never have gained
its now notorious reputation. "It's beautiful. A true work of
genius."

"It absolutely is. Sorry I scooped it out
already and you had to leave empty handed."

A second scream of sirens erupted from
somewhere several blocks away.

"I'm guessing you went out the side door,"
Jack said.

"Yes."

"The neighbor to that side apparently has a
predilection for night-vision goggles and very nicely alerted the
police to my exit right before you arrived on the scene."

"Explains why they didn't try to get inside.
The neighbor saw you leave."

Jack nodded.

I reached between the seats to run a gentle
finger along the artist's confident brushstrokes. "How did you know
I was going to take this?"

"I didn't."

"Then why—"

"The senator's aide was a Rhodes Scholar,
and we met when we were at university together."

"So the senator already knows?"

"Has for years. He's been waiting for his
wife to bring it up but was afraid of saying anything until she
spoke first. Whenever her bank account ran low, he knew she'd had
to make another payment, and he would find some excuse to give her
more. But he'd recognized the signs lately that things were getting
out of hand, so he hired a private detective to learn the man's
schedule. Tonight seemed the best opportunity to make a move,
especially since we're leaving in just a few hours."

I nodded. "That was our thinking too. Kat's
and mine. The Gleesons' daughter and I were college friends as
well."

I pulled the book from my neckline. "But I
didn't exactly leave empty handed. Found this in his study when
trying to discover where the missing portrait was. I think it may
be more blackmail victims. We were concerned that taking the
portrait would point too much toward Mrs. Gleeson, so I'm hoping
this information defrays the risk."

Jack turned on the dome light and grabbed
the book.

"Hey, give it back."

"No, this is evidence—" He whistled.

"What?"

Jack held up a hand to silence me, then
turned a couple more pages. I tried to snatch the book back, but he
jumped across the seat, and my fingernails only scratched the
cover.

"You're going to tell me what that is,
Hawkes."

"A minute, please."

Finally, he stopped shifting pages and
looked up, his face a mask of disbelief. "A detailed report on
human trafficking activity coming through Florida, then going out
across the U.S. He's documented everything: who his clients are,
what they've paid, which countries the women came from.
Everything."

"Wow." This was nothing like I'd expected
when I took the journal. "So does it go to the FBI or
Interpol?"

"Probably both. You drive. I'll send someone
to pick up my car later." Jack pulled out his cell.

I should have called Kat to give her the
high sign, but I needed to process a lot of this first. To figure
out how to tell her the blackmailer had more to worry about than
the loss of his moneymaking portrait, and do so without giving away
state secrets. I also had to find a sensitive way to reveal that
her father knew but had kept the knowledge secret from her mother.
There could be many reasons why, both sincere—and creepy.

Kat and I were scheduled to meet in the
airport short-term parking in a few hours. The plan was to hand
over the portrait, letting it go practically unnoticed from my car
trunk to hers before we split up—me for my southbound flight and
Kat to turn the painting over to her mother.

"I'd like to give the portrait to Kat
instead of the senator's aide," I said when Jack hung up from his
hushed-voice call to Interpol. "I'll tell her that her dad knows,
but I think this needs to be a family conversation instead of one
originating with an employee."

"Agreed. Is she meeting you at the
airport?"

"Yes."

"We'll have a greeting party for the journal
once we get to Miami. The suits are definitely interested."

I smiled into oncoming headlights and merged
onto the freeway. "Our low-tech blackmailer has just become an even
lower lowlife."

"And you, my love, have gained the prize
that will give hundreds of innocent women their lives back."

"One nasty bad guy down, one art criminal
mastermind still to go."

* * *

A few hours later—both of us changed out of
our burgling black—Jack and I were sitting in the Miami airport
waiting for our flight. His left forearm appropriated our shared
armrest, and every time he moved a little, I smelled a new cologne
he was wearing, some kind of pleasing sandalwood scent that
lingered. Dressed in his standard suit, this time brown with white
shirt, he livened everything up by adding a bright-teal silk tie.
The color perfectly matched his eyes, and I wondered what woman had
given it to him. Of course, Jack tended to appear naturally
comfortable in any setting, which was one of the reasons I had
difficulty trusting him.

I saved the article I'd hurried to finish
writing, then pulled up my e-mail to Flavia, attached the file, and
hit Send. The subject was one near and dear to my heart—women and
art. Several months ago I'd promised a piece to the Association for
Women's Advancement in Art. An old friend, Flavia Bello, ran the
organization. If I'd had the money, I would be a benefactor.
Instead, I happily completed the occasional article for its
newsletter.

Working on it with Jack around was proving
to be a bit of a pain. Interminable waiting at the airport for a
flight only made him more fidgety. Finally he'd left my side long
enough to acquire drinks and snacks, and I'd taken advantage of the
blessed silence to finish up the article.

Writing short pieces about artists and their
work was a sideline I did to keep myself focused on art, instead of
staying totally immersed in foundation business and the challenge
of constantly trying to return masterpieces to the public view.
Sometimes the writing work paid. Sometimes it didn't. Despite my
current financial state, it was never about the money for me.
Through generations of my family's love of creative expression and
my own art history degree at Cornell, my niche in life had been
determined from the moment of my birth. And I kept up my side of
the façade.

Unfortunately, in the past weeks' craziness
I'd totally forgotten about the article until Flavia forwarded a
reminder e-mail along with information about the upcoming
fundraising event featuring women artists and subjects.
Grandfather's name and the Beacham Foundation still held sway in
the social community, hence my ready access to most events. I
reread the invitations and sighed. Florence, Italy, this Saturday
night.

I slid my computer back into my bag, stood,
and stretched. I couldn't help thinking about Kat and the
conjectures and decisions she would make in the coming weeks after
the realization sank in that her father knew all this time and did
nothing earlier to stop her mother's nightmare. Losing trust in a
life you thought you knew is something I understood from personal
humiliation, and I would call to check on Kat from time to time,
see how she handled things. But it was a journey she needed to walk
on her own. It wouldn't make it easier, but having made that
solitary journey myself, I knew it to be true.

The silent tears she shed as I told her were
only the beginning. Like her, I had a father who had deeply
disappointed me. Unlike Kat's, mine did so in a wholly spectacular
manner that not only deprived me of my last possibility of familial
support but snatched away forever the environment I'd known from
birth until age seventeen. I survived by acknowledging I could no
longer count on anyone but myself, built a personal armor around my
heart, and developed a trust-radar and lie-detector system the CIA
would envy. Hopefully, Kat would not have to do the same.

Relax. Close your eyes.
We had new
things to worry about.

Tinny music emanated from the iPod of the
kid sitting next to me, and I drowsily wondered at the volume the
device was cranked up to—his head nodding and earbuds
blasting—since I had no difficulty determining the music as
Nirvana. I dozed a bit before jerking myself awake to glance at my
watch.

Jack had been gone twenty minutes too long.
His errands should have taken only "seven" minutes, a direct quote,
but he'd been gone twenty-seven—now eight—as I watched my minute
hand move to that number. If my watch was correct and the airline
hadn't rescheduled the flight, we were due to board in little more
than fifteen minutes. Anyone else and I would have shrugged the
tardiness off and waited for his return. Since it was Jack,
however, waiting wasn't an option. If he discovered a new lead and
was reconning solo—without telling me, to keep me in the dark—I
wanted to find out. Now. If that wasn't the case… Well, I needed to
make sure he didn't need backup.