Bodies Of Art Mystery: Marked Masters Part 18

"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 gla.s.s 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 ingenues 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 a.s.signation with either of them. Or not.

d.a.m.n! 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 "pa.s.s" 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 Ma.s.s 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 cafe. 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 h.e.l.lo? And why hadn't she tried to call me?

Suddenly thunderstruck, I felt gut punched. Why hadn't she told me about her connection with the historic gallery? She just gave me the new name in the e-mail and left it at that. The frightening realizations continued to grow. How Tony B was at the gala. How Tina disappeared. A chill ran through me, and I moved to end the connection before she answered. But the call went straight to voice mail. She would see that I'd phoned, so I said, "Wanted to let you know I'm in Florence. Great event last night. We'll try to get together next time."

It seemed prudent not to request a return call.

The brave little Vespa sat waiting at the curb, but even it looked sad. The buzzing scooter hadn't done its magic. I just felt stung. So much for being a good girl.

The Vespa ate up the miles back toward the city center. At the first public spot offering me a park-and-leave option for the scooter, I took it. I loved the little wasp, but for what I needed to do now, I would accomplish much more on two feet.

I left my hair in its ponytail, since fewer people had ever seen me this way, and pulled my cap brim down lower over my brow. A good trek later, and I had eyes on the palazzo. A huge truck sat out front.

This could be a simple pickup, or something much worse. I took off at a fast walk toward the bell tower, wanting to run but unwilling to risk the attention I might receive if anyone currently monitored the area. At the ticket booth, I was one euro short of the price. d.a.m.n! So close. I whirled around to beg a euro off a pa.s.sing tourist, when the ticket taker asked, "Signorina, you are back today? Alone?"

He remembered Jack too. So much for my disguise. I turned and smiled. "S. I wanted to go up again." I pointed to the top of the tower, then held up my right index finger and thumb pinched together. "But I am short."

"S." He waggled the fingers of his right hand in a gesture that told me to hand him my euros. He counted the money and stuffed it in his cash drawer as he handed me a ticket. "Enjoy."

"Oh, grazie, grazie." The feeling of relief was incredible. I raced to the top much faster than the day before and shot over to the window I'd originally used to spot the palazzo.

Nothing. Everything on the roof was gone. No awnings, no crates. Even the lights we used had been pulled loose, and only some dangling wire remained. I felt sick.

How would Jack and I be able to prove what had gone on in the palazzo with no evidence?

As I stood there, I watched the huge truck that had been outside, and which was hidden from above by the height of the palazzo, suddenly appear below as it turned and rumbled away. So many rules governing what vehicles could be on these streets, and the allotted usage times. Maybe I could use the information to track the truck and its owner.

If I'd ignored Jack's instructions and called Interpol last night, could they have gotten a warrant in time? If they believed me. If Tony B didn't have someone there on his payroll as well. No, I knew that a search warrant that quickly without preliminary work was a ludicrous thought. Besides, admitting I knew anything about the palazzo to authorities could risk making Jack's situation worse. I didn't know how, and I could only rely on his warning in the dark, but the facts didn't change. And from the looks of things below, Interpol would not have arrived in time with a warrant, and the Florence police would have held it all up anyway since they'd raided the place last night and left it intact.

My brain started making lists and plans. Things I needed to accomplish once I had more information. So much yet to do.

The walk back down was infinitely slower. My brain couldn't stop running through all the loose ends. When I suddenly recognized the replica of Michelangelo's David, I realized I'd traveled all the way to the Piazza della Signoria without any conscious memory of the walk. How could I be so stupid? The tourists were legion around me, and anyone could have grabbed me as I meandered around brainless as a zombie.

To spend the rest of the afternoon gazing at the lovely public statues was my preference, but I needed a less open place where I could think in peace and a little more relative security. After the ugliness of the night before, I also needed to see something truly beautiful.

Bird droppings, colored red and purple by the grapes and berries the local birds devoured, decorated this outdoor copy of David. Two pigeons roosted regally on the shoulders of the statue. I had mixed feelings, half-mirth and half-irritation at the almost blasphemous treatment of the publicly accessible copy. Then realized I could see the original in its own perfect, protected setting, and I changed idea into direction. I headed for the Accademia Gallery.

Another short walk, this time with my mind kept firmly on my task, and I reached the Accademia. When I saw the ticket taker, I panicked again, until I remembered the lone credit card in my front pocket. I needed to risk the chance that someone could track me here. I'd be gone before they had time to try anything.

I entered the hall leading to what was likely the world's best-known sculpture. The crowd was typical for a weekend viewing, but I didn't have the sense of claustrophobia so easily achieved when too many bodies try to enter the same s.p.a.ce. I took my time and looked at the double row of unfinished Michelangelo sculptures standing guard along the walls leading into David's octagonal s.p.a.ce. The struggling sculptures stopped in mid-movement, showing the art trying to break free of the marble. Michelangelo said he didn't create his sculptures, that G.o.d had put them inside the rock, and it was his job as an artist to help them break free. No explanation was given about why those prisoners were left half trapped, but their place in history remained as secure as the half-completed gatekeepers standing watch in the anteroom of the masterpiece.

I wondered who guarded Jack, where he was, and if his would be a story where the man became a strong beacon or a prisoner trapped forever by the circ.u.mstances that made him.

The colors of the hall soothed my soul. Well, actually the lack of color. I felt some of my tension roll away as I let the light-beige and eggsh.e.l.l palate wash over me. I stared at David and wondered for the millionth time what it would be like to create something like this. A cla.s.sic masterwork for the ages. Even in the use of symbolism by making the right hand a little larger to denote the hand of G.o.d and his power in our lives. A masterpiece, a message, a metaphor.

From my Sunday school years, I recalled David was a lad in his early teens. Maybe fourteen? But this was no high school freshman on the pedestal before me. Michelangelo captured more than the beauty and confidence of youth, but also the resolve to make the right thing happen.

So what was the way to make the right thing happen for me, for Jack, and for this mission that seemed to change constantly? I drifted backward so I could stand next to a wall, out of a straight line of sight as new arrivals entered.

It was known that Michelangelo dissected cadavers to get a greater knowledge about human anatomy. This would have been a punishable offense just a generation earlier, but to him and other great renaissance masters, their art wasn't simply about beauty. It included the science and nature beyond the art and splendor as well. They believed there were an infinite amount of parts that made up and celebrated life, and the masterpieces they produced proved up their theory.

What did I need to strip away to see the true measure of what seemed an insurmountable task? What did I need to dissect to see the truth?

I could only imagine what happened to the gla.s.s Jack lifted at the gallery. Our only tangible proof of Tina still being alive. I still had no clue about why she faked her death, but I remembered my spontaneous thought last night about her running away from Jack. Was there a connection between them my subconscious picked up that my conscious mind didn't recognize? If so, however, why would Jack point her out to me as he did when she'd gone to such great lengths to disguise her appearance? No, that had to be a dead end.

Tony B definitely had to be a part of her great illusion, however, as well as the puppet master behind last night's carabinieri/polizia raid. I knew without a doubt he'd intended for me to be led away in cuffs-either with or instead of Jack. I was tired of his taunts and the way he bullied his way to upset my plans-our plans. How badly were we upsetting his plans that he was so focused on toppling the two of us?

My gut feeling absolutely concurred with what I'd told Detective Roblo. The actual dead body was Phyllis. She'd had enough surgeries to pa.s.s as someone much younger, at least for the time necessary to let Tina escape Miami in a fast boat and catch a flight in Atlanta or the Bahamas. Which led to the question: who killed her? One of Tony B's minions? Or Tina?

I contemplated the statue's slingshot and wondered again about Jack and his resolve last night to protect me. I hugged my torso and told myself Jack was the underdog hero in this, and for once I had to listen to him and let him work with whatever pitiful pile of rocks he had for his personal slingshot. Stay out of it. Let him rocket his humble weapons on his own. But like David, I knew Jack had an inner resolve, even if he wouldn't answer any of the personal questions about himself I hurled his way. As hard as it was to trust him in the little things, I realized in that moment I'd always been able to trust him when my safety was at stake. Though, that didn't mean I couldn't work the periphery, to have options in place if he had the opportunity to use any.

I pulled out my phone to text Nico and asked him to find an Italian lawyer completely unaffiliated with the foundation. We could at least see if Jack had legal representation already. And if Nico couldn't do that, I said to find a good, reputable private investigator operating in Florence to provide us with updates as the proceedings progressed. I hit Send and heard an immediate ping nearby.

Nico pushed at his phone screen with a finger as he walked closer, then opened his arms and drew me into his embrace. Thank you seemed too little to say, so I quipped instead, "Thought you hated field work."

"I do." He released me from the hug and used a finger on my chin to tip my face upward. "But I do not mind doing pickups. Especially when they are beautiful blondes who are easy to track by GPS. Let us go collect your things and get back to London."

I pulled away from him and stood tall. "First, you're going to tell me how to find that little b.i.t.c.h, Tina. We aren't leaving Florence until I have the chance to question her."

"Or beat the information out of her?"

"I'll just point out her physical flaws." I smirked. "That will hurt worse than my fists."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Nico hustled me out of the Accademia Gallery and raised a hand to stop me every time I tried to speak. Outside, he scanned the periphery and kept a hand on my elbow as we hurried through the crowds. We walked a block or so before he slowed his pace and asked in a soft voice, "Why do you think she remains in Florence?"

"Has Tony B left the country?" I asked.

"No. I find no property recorded in his names or that of his wife, and he has no hotel room booked in his name. But according to his pa.s.sport he is still in Italy. When I checked his cell phone records, his calls showed he was in Florence and busy online until last night and is currently en route to Pisa."

"How-" I waved a hand. "Never mind."

We were a few blocks away from the start of vehicular accessibility, and I turned on the next cross street so we could more easily find a taxi. "We'll head for my pension and get my things. It doesn't have any Internet facilities, so we'll go and camp out in your hotel room while we make plans."

"I came straight from the airport."

"Then we know what our first order of business is."

"Right. Secure a hotel room."

We were close enough to the traffic to hear distant engine noises when I spotted our tail, dressed casually in jeans and a dark-brown leather jacket, following us from the other side of the avenue. I remembered him from the Accademia Gallery when Nico's phone pinged and I'd shifted my gaze his way. I used shop windows to follow his progress, making sure before I spoke. When Nico pushed me into a cigar shop a moment later, however, I knew my observant geek noticed the shadow too.

I knew enough Italian to understand Nico ask the shop owner if we could exit out his back door. "No," I said. "I have a better idea."

Minutes later, we departed from the store with a small bag that held the lighter we purchased as a cover. I'd pocketed the euros Nico gave me and briefed him in the store on where the Vespa was parked. At the next corner, I took the bag and waved gaily as he frowned and took off at an angle toward the location of the parking area.

He'd made me promise, actually made me hold up a hand and swear, that I would stay close to other people as I walked and keep my eyes open to dangerous traps. Like I didn't have sense enough to do that myself. I didn't argue though. He was concerned, and I understood why. And though he wasn't happy about it, once he'd listened to the quick plan I sketched out, he agreed it was our best option.

When we split up and I was the person followed instead of Nico, without any hesitation from the shadow I might add, it meant our suspicions were valid.

I arrived unscathed at the outer end of the pedestrian zone. My watcher's duties apparently were to pursue rather than intercept. I was relieved by this revelation but not particularly rea.s.sured about my future safety. When I arrived at the road I recognized as the one leading to the parking area, I pretended to window shop and drifted down the sidewalk in the direction toward where I'd left the Vespa. I wanted to give Nico time to move the scooter into position to watch for us. We'd decided not to call or text when he was ready, in case my shadow got too close at the wrong time. Once enough time elapsed, I quickened my pace and noticed my "friend" doing likewise.

The blue front fender of the Vespa peeped out from the cover of a shrub, so I a.s.sumed Nico was ready for the second phase of our plan. I watched for two empty cabs coming at the same time and hailed the first one.

As expected, the other cab was quickly flagged down by my tail.

I gave the cabbie the address of the pension. I was paid up for several more days, and I intended to leave today without a good-bye to my landlady. I wanted her to be able to honestly say she expected me back at any time. A look at my watch made me send up a quick prayer that her priest was long winded and her lunch a lengthy affair. We were working on instinct and serendipity here and had to take every advantage.

The taxi soon pulled to the curb in front of my pension, and the other cab drove a bit further on but stopped where someone in the backseat could easily observe my destination.

As I paid my fare, I asked, "Can you come back for me in thirty minutes?"

He c.o.c.ked his bald head to one side. "Thirty minuti?"