Bodies Of Art Mystery: Marked Masters Part 1

MARKED MASTERS.

by RITTER AMES.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

One of the quotes on the wall of my writing corner is by Goethe, "Be bold...and mighty forces will come to your aid."

I always keep this quote in mind when I'm writing in Laurel Beacham's POV, because she has a job that requires strength, ingenuity, and the confidence to know others can provide backup if she calls.

As an author, I've found my own mighty forces to give me confidence while writing this series. From copyeditor extraordinaire, Pat Wade, to a phenomenal street team who keeps me on the writing straight and narrow, and who constantly let me know they are ready for Laurel's and Jack's next big adventure. I don't have room to list everyone here or I would go over my maximum word count-which I've fought a lot for this book. Though, truly, my street team is why so many readers out there even learned about this series: through word-of-mouth referrals, Facebook shares, and from writing online reviews. Readers, you are all my true heroes. I thank you, and I am thrilled you are always there when I call.

Finally, I want to thank Lyndsey Lewellen for always producing a fabulous book cover. She is a design genius, and I'm always thrilled when I see her next new concept for my work. The one she created for this novel is astounding. Again, thank you, Lyndsey.

CHAPTER ONE.

Two black-and-whites screamed to the curb, paralleling each other and blocking off any possibility of retreat. Brakes screeched. Sirens blared. My blood pressure ratcheted up a notch. The flashing lights alone set my heart pounding so hard I could swear the beats showed through my black Lycra.

One step and I bled back into the shadows of the house's side wall.

A simple pickup on a limited time frame. That's what the job had been. My objective was a medium-sized nude, which had reclined over the headboard of a blackmailer's bed for decades. A painting and headboard currently residing inside the townhouse that was the focal point of this Orlando PD team.

"He's been extorting money from my mother since before I was born," Kat Gleeson had explained earlier in the afternoon. "The blackmailer picked up the portrait at a sale after the artist died, playing a hunch it would be worth bigger bucks later. Mother received the first demand as soon as my father started in political life. Laurel, you have to help us."

A longtime friend from my Cornell years, and daughter to Senator Gleeson, R-FL, Kat called me, frantic, to meet for lunch after hearing I was in the city. When I'd said my Miami flight was first thing in the morning, she'd turned from frantic to panicked, and I promised to be at her favorite c.o.c.ktail bar in ten minutes time. I'd met her there.

Now, twelve hours later, this new dilemma forced me to contemplate an alternate route inside the house for the nude painted when Kat's mother was an ingenue and the artist undiscovered. In his later years, before his final drug overdose, the once up-and-coming artist became best known for his erotic subjects and a penchant for the rock-and-roll lifestyle of the 1970s. Now, a single moment captured in brushstrokes kept Kat's mother chronically worried and perpetually broke.

As political pundit-buzz hummed about Senator Gleeson's prospective run for the presidency, the hush-money stakes had risen sharply. The next installment had hit a price Mrs. Gleeson couldn't deliver without her husband's knowledge and cooperation.

"She's devastated," Kat had said as she'd toyed with her second mojito. I'd decided if my friend's ragged expression in any way resembled her mother's, devastated was probably putting it mildly.

In the past few years I'd gained the reputation as the best person to call when a legitimate piece of art went missing. I'd climbed the ranks of the Beacham Foundation, from internship at the New York office during college, to field work and troubleshooting the last five-plus years since graduation, rising in the eyes of the art world as my skills sharpened and the wins mounted on my record. However, people who knew me well-or like Kat, had known me in my wilder college days-were also aware of my "special" talents, and that I always stayed ready to jump into a nonwork venue when a wrong needed to be righted. I dubbed these pro bono efforts my "reclamation projects." Given my more visible status since a promotion a few weeks ago to head of the London office of Beacham Ltd., I knew such forays may have to be reduced in the future, but there was no way I could turn my back when someone like Kat appealed to me for help.

My prep time on this particular reclamation was understandably limited, but the facts that came back were solid-the owner was a Luddite who didn't know a silent alarm from a silent movie. An absolute anachronism today, but the attribute served him well as a blackmailer since the practice left little risk of his digital fingerprint getting lifted anywhere.

What had alerted the cops?

The head-to-toe unrelieved black I wore dovetailed into the shadows and afforded me a bit of invisibility. I contemplated the peripheral shrubbery but waited to see the officers' game plan. A peek at my watch, hidden by the hood of my sleeve, showed less than a half hour to either accomplish what I came to do or cut and run.

Car doors slammed and voices rose as authoritative tones ordered a blue scramble to search for whatever tipped them off to the location.

Another scan of the back wall showed the bas.e.m.e.nt window I'd initially dismissed as too small for a final escape. But it could get me into the house as long as I sucked in my gut and visualized being very, very small. I also had to maneuver without being seen or heard across the white ribbon obligatory to so many Sunshine State homes; the oyster-sh.e.l.l path that ringed the grounds around the house walls like fluorescence in the moonglow.

They drew their guns and headed for the porch. I made my move, using long-latent childhood gymnastic muscles to clear the wide, crushed path and stick a quiet landing on the tiny strip of gra.s.s along the foundation.

I pulled the penlight I'd stashed in my bra and scoped out the bas.e.m.e.nt in two-point-six seconds-or thereabouts. Any longer carried too much risk, but the quickly lighted view told me I'd be dropping about six feet onto bare cement. That was doable.

The extended beam of a Maglite flashed from around the corner as I started feet first down the rabbit hole. When my soles. .h.i.t concrete, I reached up to softly set the window back into a closed position. Then I crouched into a dark ball and held my breath. Even with the locked window, I heard the cop's feet pa.s.s by, then stop. He flashed his light through the gla.s.s, across the cellar, floor to ceiling. I hugged the wall tighter and hoped he wouldn't try to look straight down.

"Nah." I heard him talking into his radio. "There's a tiny window back here, but it's locked, and I can't imagine anyone getting through it anyway. Over."

Still, it wasn't time to sigh in relief. The mark was due home from a NASA event soon. No need to look at my watch again to know the minutes were flying. I continued to hold my breath until I heard the oyster sh.e.l.ls crunch when the cop resumed his recon.

A cursory scan for infrared, trip wires, or motion detectors came up zero. The house was as technology-free as I'd been told. No doubt I was taking a chance going in before the cops left, but if I'd stayed outside I was pretty much guaranteed to get caught. And a ride in the back of a squad car to explain why I was dressed in black in a dark yard near midnight was not on my agenda for the evening.

The open floor plan in the living s.p.a.ce made it relatively easy to navigate without lights. Moonlight streamed through huge windows dressed in nothing but sheers. I kept to the beige and taupe walls and the larger pieces of furniture as much as possible, using the moving shadows of the cops outside to know where and when to scoot to the next spot. So far, the boys in blue only appeared to be doing reconnaissance, leaving me to hope for a rapid departure when they found the house secured. At least I hoped it was completely secure. I hadn't had time to do a whole house perimeter before they showed up.

I crept up the stairs, and the landing opened to a full-wall window that overlooked the front yard. Staying back as far as possible, I watched the blue crew huddle again at the curb.

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 c.o.c.ky as I closed the door behind me and pulled from my pocket the sharp little tool used to extract canva.s.ses 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 p.i.s.sed 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 doc.u.mented 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 a.s.sociation 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 faade.

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 Sat.u.r.day 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.