Bodies Of Art Mystery: Marked Masters Part 9

Jack dodged another truck, then asked, "So how did it get into Tony B's office?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"You have no proof he killed her, right? Just supposition."

I shrugged and played the light over the maker's mark that appeared on the bottom of the object. "His goons broke my phone so I couldn't call for help, then transported me in the trunk of their car. A big black Mercedes, by the way. Can we please not use this brand of car for a while?"

"Your point is valid. We'll go with Audis or BMWs next time," Nico responded. "You see anything on the snuffbox?"

I pa.s.sed the small treasure between the seats so he could have a look for himself. "Check out the marks and then stash it in your backpack so you can check it out better when we get to London. Now though, take a moment to look closely at the marks. There's something wrong with them, but I'm not sure what."

He took my flashlight and within seconds said, "It's a fake. Created by a counterfeiter in Florence. Either Simon switched this one with the original, or Max's initial source on this piece is bogus."

Florence. Italy again. My original rendezvous to pick up the snuffbox was in Italy, and now this Florence connection after I'd found the missing article with Tony B. What did it mean? Well, I knew one thing for sure-we weren't going home to London until we made an exploratory detour to check out this new connection.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Jack asked.

"We are, if you're thinking that we'll find some answers with a side trip to Italy."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking."

As Nico zipped the snuffbox into his pack, I asked, "Can you get the three of us on the first flight to Florence?"

"Already on it," he said, activating his phone. "Destination the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola."

CHAPTER TEN.

Airport restrooms were never my favorite places to change clothes, but at least they provided privacy and access to mirrors and water. The Fendi went onto the hook of the lavatory door as I regretfully removed the linen suit. The lovely outfit lasted less than a day in my care. Not that it was my fault, but the designer threads really weren't made to double as protective clothing in a great escape. The Fendi already looked a little road weary as well. Maybe I needed to find a designer who worked in Kevlar for all my clothes and accessories. The one amazing survivor was Ca.s.sie's Hermes scarf. My grandfather may have worn Rolex, but he always owned Timex stock and quoted the catch line of its ads, "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking." Forget that old watch commercial-good silk is the stuff that can really take a licking.

At least I had my gray dress from the day before, tightly rolled up in the bottom of my bag. Thank goodness for st.u.r.dy knits, even if the dress and I could both use a good shower. Nothing but those dratted air dryers hung on the wall, so once I could come out of the stall, I used the insides of the linen jacket to scrub my hands, legs, and feet. My poor feet had taken the brunt of the landing since I was barefoot when I skidded to the ground. The pockets on the linen jacket had been useless for holding anything but served as perfect padding to go between my sc.r.a.ped heels and the Manolo Blahniks. Finally, I shoved the remaining material into a trash receptacle, gave the Hermes scarf a good hand washing, and tied it on the strap of the Fendi to dry. A quick cosmetic redo left me once again feeling more human. Nothing like a confident shade of red lipstick to straighten a girl's backbone.

The guys saved me a seat at the gate, but Jack was pacing when I got there.

"What took you so b.l.o.o.d.y long?"

Ah, he cared. Or it bugged the alpha male when he wasn't in complete control. Naturally, I a.s.sumed the second option.

"Well, I hope the time I spent was worth it." I smiled. "I'm trying to look less like a bag lady."

He reached for my hand, and I shied back when he touched my sc.r.a.ped palm. After examining the skin, he said, "Let me see if the boarding clerk has a first aid kit."

"No need." Nico dragged his black backpack from the seat beside him and rummaged around until he found adhesive bandages and a small tube of antibacterial ointment.

"Thanks." I took the items and sat in the chair that originally held the backpack. "I probably need to slather this ointment all over my feet, more than on my hands."

Nico shrugged. "Feel free. It is yours."

I started with my hands and got Jack to set the bandages across the worst of the sc.r.a.pes. Then I found a couple of cotton b.a.l.l.s in the Fendi and applied the rest of the ointment to my feet. I think Jack was afraid I was going to ask him for a foot ma.s.sage, because he suddenly found a reason to leave.

"How about if I go and find us some coffee?" He didn't even wait for a response and took off trekking down the concourse.

I tried to get comfortable in the plastic seats in the regular waiting area of the Miami International, but I was not a happy camper. We'd made a group decision on the way to the airport to stay away from the airline club lounges. That was likely the first place Tony B would send spies to look for me. I reminded myself survival was preferable to deep upholstery, and the tingling of my feet and hands at the moment helped reinforce my resolve.

Nico b.u.mped my shoulder with his to get my attention.

"What?" I asked.

He never took his eyes from his phone as he spoke. "I will be trailing off when we hit London Gatwick for the transfer to Florence. I have a few things to check out. Call if you need me, but I am not much for fieldwork, you know."

I did know. As good as Nico was in helping with my recent rescue, and instrumental since the cell phone and chute he gave me truly saved my skin, actual involvement in the nuts and bolts of a recovery was not something in which he usually partic.i.p.ated. "Still, I'm glad you didn't just give me the event pa.s.s in Miami and leave."

"I try never to leave things half finished."

"Just know I appreciate you."

"I do." He raised his curly black head, and his dark-brown eyes shifted from the screen. "But given what did happen during the event, I am not crazy about putting you on a commercial jet to Florence right now, with Tony B probably checking all flights out of Miami."

"We've already boycotted the lounges. What else do you suggest?" I'd watched Nico long enough to know when he was working a new angle.

He pressed his screen a couple of times, then typed a text message before he answered. "Here is what I have planned." He pressed another b.u.t.ton, then his head jerked in the direction Jack had disappeared minutes before. I looked at the screen and realized he had a tracker on Jack. Sneaky.

Nico fired off a string of quiet curse words, then spoke rapidly. "He is on his way. Listen carefully. Your ticket and mine are booked together under a Beacham account. Jack's ticket is on a separate revenue stream to keep Tony B from putting all of us together. When we hit Gatwick, I leave, and you will be met by a scruffy rock-and-roll roadie who is going to take you to a private jet. If Tony B checks, it will look like you stayed in London. The heavy metal group Whyte Noyse is performing in Rome, but they have a private party plane chartered that will drop you at the Florence Peretola Airport en route."

"Sounds loud." I loved rocking out to the ear-bleeding cuts on Nyght Noyses, but I'd heard many things about the group, and none sounded any quieter than their music. There went my chance to grab any sleep as we skipped through time zones. "But it does sound much safer. How did you manage it?"

"Their English publicist, Patricia, loves my body." His grin was almost evil.

"She's not the only one."

"Who's not the only one?" Jack settled back into the chair beside me, offering us a choice from a trio of cappuccinos.

"One of Nico's conquests. He's leaving us in London to stay on her good side." I winked at Nico. He frowned and turned back to his cell phone screen, so I twisted in my chair toward Jack. "Any plans once we get there?"

"I'm working some sources," Jack said. "While we're cramped on a plane for fifteen hours, it will give Cecil and Max ample opportunity to work their lines of communication. They should at least have something for us to see once we reach our long layover at Gatwick."

Cecil is Jack's boss, the counterpart to my pain-in-the-a.s.s Max. I'd never met Cecil, but from the negative murmurs that repeatedly escaped Jack's lips, the two superiors seemed of the same penny-pinching type. However, no one could hope to reach and sustain their level of responsibility without making connections along the way. I counted on those connections to make a difference in our present situation.

Jack leaned around me to address Nico. "Wasn't there anything more direct?"

Nico shrugged, never taking his gaze or his thumbs off his phone screen when he answered. "Best I could do in a rush. Can only get to Florence Peretola from Gatwick. Flight out of Heathrow would have been faster, but you would need to go to the Galileo Airport and have the longer commute in from Pisa. Thought this was better. Plus, gives you both time to get some clothes at home."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, there is that." It appeared Jack was getting both tired and cranky.

I glanced down at my own outfit, wrinkled from being worn all of yesterday, stuffed in the Fendi when I left the yacht, and pulled out for another go after ruining the lovely linen suit when I played Rat in the AC Maze and then Rocky the Flying Squirrel. The burner phone was in my hand to call and ask Ca.s.sie to put me an a.s.sortment of clothes together, until I changed my mind and let the cell drop back into the Fendi's dark depths. I didn't want Jack hearing our discussion, and I had no idea where she should meet me at Gatwick.

"Nico, can you text Ca.s.sie for me and ask her to bring a rolling bag with a good selection of clothing? I don't know what I'll need in the next few days, but since I'm back to recycling yesterday-wear, I can use a little of everything. Be sure and give her a good idea on where she can either leave the bag for me, or meet me. Right?"

He lifted his chin when he realized what my words implied. "Got it. I will add a phone number in case she needs it."

"She has your number," Jack said.

"Not the burner number, remember?" I knew, however, that Nico meant the number of either the publicist or the roadie. Something Jack didn't need to know. But his question reminded me. "Ask her to bring me a new corporate cell phone too, to replace my smartphone. Have her key in the list of 'gotta have numbers' I always keep in my directory. She has the list already from when I borrowed her phone last time."

Nico nodded as his fingers flew over the touch pad.

Minutes later, they called our flight. I didn't think it was an accident Nico had us scattered throughout the plane. He may have picked our plane for exactly this reason. I enjoyed a first-cla.s.s seat, but he and Jack had to stick it out in coach. Jack tried to sweet talk the attendant into an upgrade, but the flight was overbooked as it was, and we were just squeaking in. I turned off all gadgets, stowed my gear, and settled in for a nice quiet ride across the Atlantic, hoping for a little shut-eye along the way.

My seatmate was even more antisocial than I felt. He threw his bag into the overhead compartment, then removed his suit jacket to place it carefully on top, grunting something I perceived as a h.e.l.lo. I offered a tight smile, regardless of the meaning. He sat down, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and seemed to feel the world had disappeared from his dimension. I couldn't have been more pleased. Outside, the storm was gathering quickly and the winds growing stronger. I hoped our pilot got us to cruising alt.i.tude quickly to avoid the sudden drops that happened on flights like this. I needed a distraction.

"Do you happen to have a copy of today's Guardian?" I asked as the attendant pa.s.sed to close the drapes between our section and coach.

"I'll check in just a sec."

Everyone thinks they have to bring their own reading material, or make do with what is in the seat pocket ahead of them. Laurel Beacham Travel Tip Number One-never touch anything left in the seat pockets. Ick. All those horror stories that sound like someone's imagination, they're not only true, they're worse. However, when people on flights leave magazines and newspapers behind as they depart, many hand them to attendants on their way out for other pa.s.sengers to use. I really wanted to see tomorrow's Miami Herald, but since that wasn't possible without a time machine, I figured I may as well catch up on news from back home. Well, my new home anyway. I still felt a bit unbalanced thinking of London as home instead of New York, since the promotion was so recent. Yet given the fact I was on the go two-hundred days or more each year, it really shouldn't have felt like a stretch.

The takeoff was rocky, and the initial climb as I expected, but the attendant did find an almost complete Guardian. I forced myself to concentrate on the pages. News from London was typical: another royal brouhaha with some news outlet illegally hacking phones and Twitter feeds, and Parliament was in the middle of some familiar shenanigans-same old same old. I only scanned the details to be able to make polite c.o.c.ktail talk at parties. Also to make sure I didn't offer the wrong quip if I ever ran into one of the guilty parties. That's the real purpose of staying current with the news.

Ah, but here was something interesting. An international real estate ad offering a luxury palazzo apartment. Sixteenth-century Florentine architecture, and in the shadow of the Pitti Palace. I knew Nico was working on accommodations for us, and while this was likely out of my price range, I wondered if Max could pull some strings to make me an elegant squatter while the apartment was still in the "showing" state. If not, it might be worth schmoozing my contact at Sotheby's to see if he could run interference for me with its international real estate division. Lots more goodies than just rare art were handled by prestigious auction houses these days. I folded that page of the paper, then shoved it into the Fendi. When the flight attendant came around with our lovely filet mignon dinner on real china-I think coach had chicken in heat-and-eat trays, poor Jack and Nico-I pa.s.sed along the remainder of the newspaper for the next traveler.

Dinner was fine. Even my seatmate roused himself for the three or four minutes it took him to inhale the steak and a bourbon. As he drifted back to sleep, I devoured a surprisingly elegant chocolate dessert and contemplated stealing the one still sitting on the sleeping lug's plate. Even I wouldn't give up chocolate for sleep. But I saved my stealth talents for another venue. Not because I didn't want the brownie fudge concoction, but because the attendant came by and picked up his dishes seconds before I made my move.

The beauty of eastward travel is the way the journey erases time zones along the way. In our case, the five hours between U.S. eastern daylight time and London. When traveling after noon, it means darkness comes even more quickly. My eyes dimmed long before the lights were lowered. The attendant offered a real pillow and blanket-I did love first cla.s.s-and I was set.

"Laurel, wake up."

I felt like I was swimming out of cotton wool. When I finally got my eyes nearly open, Jack sat where sleeping lug had been snoozing. Nico stood in the aisle looking nervous.

"What? Are we there already?" I stretched to look around but saw everyone else still seated in the dimly lit cabin. I leaned back against my pillow and felt my eyes close.

"Laurel! Wake up! You have to see this!" Jack's voice hovered just above a whisper, but the urgency of his tone snapped me out of my slump.

"Hmm? Are we landing?"

"We're a couple of hours away. But Nico pulled security footage from the Browning event. You need to watch this." Jack queued up the video.

"How did you get-"

"No questions, Laurel, just look at what Jack is showing you." Nico pointed to the screen, then crossed his arms. "I was trying to find out when Tony B left the event. I saw who he was talking to as you were taken away."

"Yeah. This guy look familiar to you?" Jack held the screen closer to my face. I watched the Danger Twins drag me for just a second before we disappeared out of the frame. In the top half of the screen, I saw the clutch of "beautiful people" mill around in the lobby, their mission to see everyone and be seen by the same. Jack tapped a fingertip at the upper right-hand corner, and I finally saw what they meant. Tony B b.u.t.tonholed a younger man, laughing and slapping the fellow on the shoulder. His skinny b.i.t.c.h of a wife walked over and pointed in the direction where my image had disappeared a minute earlier. My Favorite Felon leaned in then and whispered something in the other man's ear. That's when I got my best look at who Tony B exited the building with a moment later.

The other guy was Rollie. Devin Moran's grandson and heir apparent to the mastermind's criminal empire.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Our party broke up when my fellow first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger returned from the bathroom and wanted his seat again. Nico took his phone and trekked back to coach. I a.s.sumed Jack would do the same, but no.

I heard a ding sound overhead, and the Fasten Seat Belts sign flashed back on.

"Look, mate." Jack stood and pulled out his wallet, counting out a bunch of bills. "I'll pay you to trade seats with me. What will it take?"

"I don't want to change seats," my frumpy fellow pa.s.senger said. His voice was so deep I almost couldn't understand him. "I want first cla.s.s. I bought a first-cla.s.s ticket. And I'm staying in first cla.s.s."

The guy slid back into his seat and Jack tried once more, but I could see the effort was fruitless. My lug was there to stay. I held up a hand. "Jack, see if one of your neighbors will change with me, and I'll-"

The flight attendant interrupted us. "Excuse me, ma'am." She turned to Jack. "I'm sorry, sir, but the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. We're hitting some turbulence, and you need to return to your seat."

Jack deflated for a moment. I gave a crooked smile and shrugged. He swept his gaze in a semicircle, and I knew he was going to try to bribe another pa.s.senger. Which, of course, told me he really wanted first cla.s.s more than he wanted me in coach to talk. But the attendant pulled rank instead. "Sir, I really must insist you go back to your own seat immediately."

The plane waffled right then, and Jack fell against our seat backs. He took the opportunity to tell me, "We need to talk about this. Figure things out. Do some planning."

I nodded. But while a jillion thoughts shot through my brain, the only one that seemed to set up residence was the message Moran had tried to kidnap me again. I'd gotten away the before thanks to quick thinking, the rush hour crowds in the London Tube, and an innocent businessman who would likely forever stay clear of women in high heels. More importantly, this time Moran's hired help didn't seem as averse to actually getting rid of me.

Had Rollie been in the office while Tony B kept me trapped? I'd felt so convinced when I met Rollie a couple of weeks ago that he was just some really nice French guy, only to learn later he was not the innocent he appeared to be at first glance. So what did I think now? I mean, besides what an idiot I was for not seeing through his persona.

Truthfully, I felt frozen. Like someone had tased my brain. Rollie had actually been there onsite when the kidnapping occurred in Miami, talking to Tony B as it all went down. Obviously things were stepping up somewhere in the game plan. This had to mean we were either getting close or Moran saw us as a growing risk.

This new information also meant it was going to be d.a.m.ned difficult getting away from Jack at Gatwick. I needed to take every advantage I could. Not just to be contrary, as he always thought, but to make it take as long as possible for Tony B to connect up Jack and me. Rollie and Jack already met, and I had little doubt Moran knew who Hawkes was in detail. But us being together again would simply confirm we were still working new angles of the same job. A job whose outcome likely meant the fall of Devin Moran's empire.

An hour or so later, the plane touched down, and I was out of the fuselage and off the plane long before the guys had a chance to waylay me. Oddly enough, I could thank my a.n.a.l seatmate for the perk. Though he wouldn't accommodate Jack earlier, he allowed me to slip around him when he held up the line moving forward as he again donned his suit jacket and withdrew his bulging carry-on from the overhead compartment.

I texted Nico to explain to Jack. We needed no scenes in an airport to grab attention, and I had no doubt after the Rollie footage that Jack would be even more determined to play my bodyguard. I could give him my logical ideas on why splitting up was even more critical, but he wasn't going to buy it unless the idea came from his brain. Too late.

As promised, a scruffy type who was bearded and disheveled in well-worn jeans and a black leather vest, and pretty much met everyone's stereotype of a rock-and-roll roadie, stood just past customs with a sign that read L. BEACHAM. I waved to show him I'd arrived and queued up at the shortest customs line.

While some of the contents of my bag usually elicited a few interesting questions, I sailed through this brief search and interrogation unscathed. Traveling light had its benefits.

The roadie held up a large wheeled bag I recognized as my own and said, "A pretty la.s.s with pink-tipped hair left this for you."

"Yes, that was Ca.s.sie."

"Okay then. Let's roll." He tossed my bag like it weighed nothing, and the luggage landed in the back of a waiting golf cart. I a.s.sumed a full bag of luggage was nothing after manhandling huge electric amplifiers and stage boards. He waved me toward the pa.s.senger side, and I hopped in beside him. I turned back and saw Jack run into the customs zone just as we zipped toward the exit. I untied the scarf from my purse strap and covered my head. A second later I'd added my sungla.s.ses. I'd have to take them off to climb the stairs to the plane. But since it was a rock group's charter, my disguise could easily be chalked up to a publicity-shy celebrity instead of my wanting to stay incognito in case any of Moran's watchers manned the airport.