Marked Masters (29 page)

I'd racked my brain over this very
question and decided there was only one possibility. "We both felt
leery of the place as soon as we got on the roof, but I think if
Jack had actually known something was going to happen by then, he
would have warned me. I believe he must have set motion detectors
when he did the recon of the outside of the building when we first
arrived. Maybe with audio capability, so he heard some of the
chatter before they stormed the place."

"Notice a receiver in his
ear?"

"I didn't think to look. Sloppy, I
know. I should have planted my own sensors, anyway. I think I was
lulled by the wine and great dinner." And maybe the kiss—but I
wasn't going to mention that to Nico.

"Good enough. I will get on this
and let you know something as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

When our call disconnected, I
scooped up the Fendi and dug around for my cache of business cards.
The one for the Miami detective was right behind the one for the
CIA guy with the New York accent. I held a card in each hand and
contemplated my next move. Miami PD likely had a more vested
interest in news about Tina, but the CIA possessed the
international reach this problem needed. However, equally important
was the fact the CIA guy was already pursuing the human trafficking
case, so he would not likely be as tuned in to what was happening
in Florence, anyway. Pros and cons weighed, my decision was much
easier.

"Roblo." The detective answered on
the second ring. Thanks to the magic of time zones, it was barely
dark in Florida.

"Detective, this is Laurel
Beacham. You interviewed me at the Bricknell condo where a woman
identified as Tina Schroeder was killed on Friday morning. Are you
still working that case?"

I could hear the suspicion in his
voice when he dragged out his, "Yes. Who is this again?"

Briefly, I identified myself and
gave him a synopsis on what had happened since he and I met in the
lobby of Tina's building. After I finished, there was silence, then
I heard a squeak and assumed he leaned back in his chair. A sigh
followed.

"So much for my plans to watch the
Dolphins play the Broncos tonight," he said finally.

"That's the beauty of on-demand
streaming, Detective. Always ready later when you do have time to
watch."

"Yeah, I'll remember
that."

"I'm inferring from your tone that
this is a new and interesting development?"

"Did you really have any doubt?"
He chuckled, the sound warm and deliciously deep. "Nothing like
answering the phone just before I'm set to get off duty, only to
learn the puzzling murder case we've been pursuing all day has now
developed into a fleeing suspect and/or a witness who is actually
alive and attending parties in Italy." Then his voice moved a shade
sharper in tone. "You guarantee this is her? I mean, we already
figured out we had the wrong identification. Our corpse is someone
decades older—"

"Likely her mother," I
interrupted.

"Hmm. Okay." He stayed silent for
a moment, and I waited. If I tried to talk him into anything, I
risked any advantage I had in piquing his curiosity. It was his job
on the line if I wasn't right, after all. Another minute into the
wait and he asked, "Do you have any proof I can take to my
superiors?"

I thought of the glass Jack had
slipped into his jacket pocket at last night's event and wished
once more that I'd tried to stash it in my clutch at the
restaurant. "We had fingerprint proof, but it went with my
partner."

"The one taken away by the Italian
police, who you believe are following the orders of the man
responsible for Tina Schroeder's getaway?"

I smiled. "Couldn't have said it
better myself. You catch on quick, Roblo. I like that in a
detective."

He chuckled again, and I imagined
his head shaking as he said, "Let me see what I can do. Is there
anything else you think might help me?"

I provided Nico's direct number
and explained what I'd tasked him to do since we'd last talked.
Then I also gave Roblo the CIA guy's direct line. "He's actually
working on a human trafficking job we turned over to him, the FBI,
and Interpol. But Jack seemed pretty chummy with the three of them,
and you might get some help there too, but it may be extremely
limited due to their current workload."

"No doubt. Just who exactly is
this Jack Hawkes guy anyway?" he asked.

My mind raced over the
possibilities: spy, recovery agent, military intelligence. Or, like
I'd heard last night, a thief who'd been highly sought by the
Italian police for some time. I could have said any or all of these
options. Instead I replied, "When you find out, I'd appreciate if
you'd let me know." Then I said good-bye and disconnected from the
call.

As the scene shifted to the
possibility of action, however, I could only wait until these new
feelers found something for me to use. That still left me with an
excess of energy in the middle of the night and no way to expend
it. Not being able to contact Jack also made me think of the
photograph and how I didn't know of a way to reach
Margarite.

I was going to
tell him about the photo tomorrow.
Then I
looked at my watch and corrected.
Make
that today.

The photo was another wild card.
Someone had to have added it to my bag while it was getting kicked
around the gallery. I hadn't seen Margarite at the event, but a
young version of her was obviously the older of the two beautiful
ingénues in the shot. If the photo was hers, and she wanted me to
have the picture, she could have easily given it to me on the
yacht. Was it because the other woman in the scene, my mother, was
also topless? Did she think it would offend me? If so, she
obviously had never heard about any of my college
exploits.

Or was it because of the man? The man who
resembled Rollie and who stood talking to the enigmatic Margarite
and my mother? A man older than the women yet still close enough to
their ages to have had an assignation with either of them. Or
not.

Damn! Who knows?

And why was that the first thing that popped
into my head?

Rollie. I mentally ran through his
error-filled conversational snippets. Had he really made a mistake
with the way he used "photograph" for "picture," or was the slip
actually his clever foreshadowing of a plan to secret the compact
and its contents into my possession?

Was I meant to focus on the photo? Or the
brief message on the back?

Maybe Nico could locate a phone
connection to the Folly Roost or find its sailing itinerary
somewhere. He needed to run an exhaustive check on the yacht
anyway, in case it tied in some way with Jack's
background.

In contemplating timing again
though, the photo had to have occurred during my mother's and
father's engagement period. Given Margarite's story on the yacht, I
couldn't imagine Grandfather taking such a strong interest in my
mother's extracurricular activities otherwise. My darling grandpapa
was a bit of a prude about keeping the family name pristine. My
father's antics after Grandfather's death would have absolutely
killed the dear old man if he hadn't already been deceased. As much
as I loved my grandfather, and as much as I knew he adored his
daughter-in-law, if the scene in the photo happened while my father
and mother were only dating, I knew in my heart Grandfather would
have ended the couple's contact. On the other hand, if an
engagement was already public, that would be the leverage my
wonderfully sneaky grandmother could use to keep my grandfather
from any act to rock her son's happiness. I loved both my
grandparents and still missed them every day, but they were truly a
pair.

No time to get maudlin.

Was the connection to Moran? Was
it Margarite? My mother? Or as I'd originally supposed, did my
"pass" from Moran stem from debts incurred by my father? Did
Grandfather know about the photograph and that Moran—or someone who
looked very much like him, a son perhaps?—smiled and spoke to the
two women that day on the beach? Was Moran's connection, even if
fleeting, Grandfather's true worry about the sojourn the two women
took in the sun? It seemed impossible now that Margarite revealed
the story only a couple of short nights ago. Would she have slipped
it into my purse secretly because she didn't want to explain a
Moran connection? Or did she safeguard it to prevent my
grandfather's wrath over what impact a topless photo revealed later
could do to my mother's very proper family reputation?

My mind backtracked through every
moment of the last couple of days and came back time and again to
the fact that nothing made enough sense to be conclusive. Yet if I
had to make a leap of faith, I would jump toward the idea that
Rollie planted the compact. I had no real facts to back up the
idea, other than the knowledge he actually was on the spot and
Margarite remained unseen if she attended the gallery gala. Yet in
the tangled web of my thoughts, Rollie made the most
sense.

But that still doesn't answer
why.

I realized I would be beyond
senseless soon if I went another night without enough sleep. I
crawled into bed and fought the covers and my demons the rest of
those predawn hours, with terrible dreams of Jack calling for help
and Tony B laughing hysterically. Despite my good intentions to
rest, I rose early, bathed, and dressed in the same jeans and top
I'd worn the day before. It seemed like years ago. My hair went
into a tight ponytail, and I was ready.

I grabbed what was left of my euro
stash, an emergency credit card—just in case—and stuffed the money
and my phone in a back pocket. Nico hadn't sent new reserves as
promised. I needed to call later and remind him. No matter. I had
to do something fast, or I would go crazy.

My landlady met
me downstairs with a key. She was dressed all in black and held a
lace scarf in her other hand. Loosely translating her Italian, but
mostly following her hand movements, I determined she was going to
Mass and lunch somewhere with friends. I took the rounded silver
key she pushed at me and nodded understanding. "
Grazie
."

A nearby bar offered my best
source for a quick cup of coffee, and as I walked, I called Jack
again. Same answer. Straight to voice mail.

While I drank coffee, I searched
my e-mail and found the directions Nico sent for the Vespa place
and quickly ran it down. Jack told me to play tourist, and this was
the next best thing. If I were questioned later as to why I didn't
wonder about my partner's absence, I could point to the rental
receipt that showed a lone reservation made by Nico the day prior
and claim I'd never intended to see Jack the day after the
event.

Papers signed, international driver's
license copied, and I was the proud possessor of a tiny blue
scooter for the day, with no real idea where I was going.
Nevertheless, I felt relieved Nico paid for the entire day's fee. I
had options, even if they had little substance at the moment.

A display of baseball-styled caps that
carried the rental company's logo stood at the end of the counter.
I asked the price, and my attentive clerk, Enzo, flashed a gorgeous
smile and said, "
Signorina,
is yours."

"
Mille grazie.
" I put a hand on his
forearm.

His smile broadened when I put on the cap
there in the store. He reached up to reset it a little and let his
fingers touch my cheek. Bless his heart. He had no idea I was more
interested in hiding my face in public than I was in knowing him.
I'd have to remind Nico to send Enzo a big tip as compensation.

The bigger problem with wheels but
no destination is that it gave me more time to think about what
little I knew of Jack and our current predicament. I honestly knew
nothing for certain about him. He could be a thief—I'd certainly
accused him of being one often enough. But there was more to him,
and a lot more to find out before I could decide one way or the
other. Unfortunately, the GPS on my phone only gave me a roadmap of
the city. Not of Jack's soul.

Florence is approximately forty square miles
and divided into five main districts pretty much identified and
named by nearby churches. I'd spent quite a bit of time in the city
with my grandfather and my father on art trips or short holidays.
Flavia and I had also come to Firenze together on a quick backpack
tour the summer before I left for Cornell, even though she was
already out of university. Our family connections always kept us
fairly close, which was one of the reasons we were all together in
Florence the night
The Portrait of Three
disappeared.

I headed toward the Viale Giovanni Amendola,
planning to ride for a while. The grid allowed easy connections
from one road to another until I could discover where serendipity
led. One part of me enjoyed the freedom, which helped shake off
some of the residual stress from last night. If not the darker
worries. I wanted to stop thinking about everything. Too close to
it. Too many questions, not enough answers.

The noise and traffic helped me shut my mind
to anything but the sights around me. The wind battered my already
exhausted body and made me thirsty. I eventually exited the
roadway, parked, and began walking. Tried to look like a simple
tourist. Had a pastry at a lovely café. Gave directions to a couple
of lost tourists. Somehow I ended up almost back to the spot where
I began. I grabbed another coffee and called Flavia before I
thought twice about what to say to her. Did I simply want to say
hello? And why hadn't she tried to call me?