by Elise Noble
“Okay?” Rafael asked quietly.
As okay as I could be under the circumstances. Even though my stomach was churning, I’d managed to eat most of the starter, and my anxiety had subsided to a tolerable level. But I still wanted the evening to be over. Was everyone else genuinely enjoying themselves? They certainly seemed to be, but it probably beat paperwork and meetings and surveillance duty. And being shot at.
“I’m okay.”
“Emmy’ll be here late once they’ve got Marshall, so I’ll walk you back to Little Riverley after dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that. This place is a fortress.”
“Yes, I do.”
The end. Trying to argue with a man like Rafael was basically impossible, and I knew it. Besides, I didn’t totally despise the thought of him seeing me home. It was oddly sweet, and I was feeling a bit fragile after what had happened earlier.
I snuck a glance over at the top table. As well as Black and Sofia, Georgia was there with her boyfriend Xavier, Verity had borrowed Knox for the evening, and Dan was sitting next to Marshall. The remaining two places? A brunette I didn’t recognise plus our secret weapon, Tripp Tolliver. Tripp had been selected for his undercover experience, his acting ability, and his physical appearance. While everyone ate dinner, he was studying Marshall, watching his mannerisms and memorising his voice because later, he’d become him for the journey back to Penngrove. Then he’d disappear.
And because he’d disappear from Marshall’s home rather than from Riverley, Emmy and Alaric could spend as much time with Marshall as they needed.
The main course arrived, and I ate as much of the cumin-crusted lamb as I could manage. Butterflies fluttered in my belly, and I wasn’t sure why. Worry about the panic attacks? Anticipation over what was to come? A general fear that I wasn’t good enough?
Oh, here we go.
Black rose and climbed the steps to the stage with Sofia at his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for taking the time to join us tonight for the inaugural Blackwood Foundation Awards. We’ve always believed in supporting smaller charities, grassroots causes that might not get much attention on a national scale. These organisations can make a real difference at a local level, and we’re proud to offer not only financial assistance to three such causes this evening but recognition for their valuable work as well. Firstly, I’d like to invite Georgia Rutherford from Hope for Hounds onto the stage.”
Everyone applauded, and Georgia stepped forward to receive a giant cheque for fifty thousand bucks. As a senator’s daughter, she’d once been used to the limelight, although I gathered she’d chosen to live a quieter life now. She gushed suitably, thanked everyone, and then it was Marshall’s turn.
“Truthfully, it was a surprise to be asked here tonight,” he said. “So often, the arts find themselves at the bottom of the pile when it comes to funding. Creativity has been devalued. But can you imagine a world without it? No books, no movies, no music, no museums. Our walls would be bare, sporting events would be played in silence, and the sounds of the radio would be a mere memory. Yet school budgets have been cut to the bare minimum, artists are expected to work ‘for exposure,’ and often, the only opportunity children have to access specialist tuition comes from the generosity of strangers. Not only will this grant help to secure the future of the Penngrove summer art camp, but it means we’ll be able to expand the program by offering places to children from neighbouring towns as well. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for believing in what we’re trying to do in our community. Art in all of its many forms helps to make the world more beautiful.”
Listening to Marshall speak, I almost believed he was what he claimed to be—a caring old guy who just wanted to make the world a better place for generations to come. But Emmy and Alaric were both certain he was the asshole who’d ordered his henchmen to shoot at them plus a whole boatload of undercover agents. One man had been seriously injured. Could a leopard change its spots? We were about to find out.
The third award winner did her thing, and a few minutes later, Black quietly led a group from the room—Sofia, Xavier, Dan, and Marshall. A moment later, Emmy’s sister rose from her seat three tables away and headed in the same direction. Despite Marshall’s crimes, I couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit sorry for him.
“They’re going to the gallery,” Mack murmured. Like Rafael, she was wired for sound, her earpiece hidden under an elaborate sweep of red hair. “Marshall won’t be coming back. Anyone know what’s for dessert?”
And that was that. Our job was done. Days of planning, weeks of preparation, and the bad guy just disappeared quietly into the night.
CHAPTER 4 - ALARIC
ALARIC MCLAIN PACED the half-decorated room beside the gallery, stepping around paint buckets and ladders as Emmy sat on a plastic-covered table and swung her legs.
“Chill, dude. It’s usually me doing the pacing.”
“Something’s gonna go wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Emerald’s involved. I’m not even sure I want to find that damn painting anymore.”
The last two months had been a roller-coaster ride. Alaric had met the second love of his life, then almost lost her along with the girl he considered his daughter. Over the years, Emerald had unleashed hell on the women he cared about. Emmy had borne the brunt of her wrath during the initial recovery attempt, then later Beth and Rune. Beth was still hobbling from an ankle injury. If so many people hadn’t put so much effort into catching Marshall tonight, Alaric could quite happily have collected his family from the guest house out back and gotten the hell out of there.
But Beth herself had urged him to finish this, and he couldn’t run, not again. All things happened for a reason, Rune told him, and she was right. That girl always had shown wisdom beyond her fifteen years. When Alaric left town after the initial Emerald fiasco, he’d ended up in the right place to rescue Rune, and his return to hunt for the painting a second time had led to him meeting Beth.
“While we wait for dessert, perhaps you’d like to take a look at our art collection?” Black suggested through Alaric’s earpiece. “We have a few nice pieces here. A David Hockney, a Modigliani, a Mark Rothko, plus an Andy Warhol my wife bought at auction several years ago. An impulse buy, wasn’t it, Diamond?”
Sofia giggled. “I went with a friend who wanted to buy a Marc Chagall, but something about the Warhol just spoke to me.”
“Did your friend get the Chagall?” Marshall asked. Out of politeness? Or because it made a good target for his gang of thieves?
“No, she got outbid at the last minute.” Sofia’s English accent wasn’t bad. “Bloody Russian oligarchs.”
“A crying shame. Chagalls make a good investment.”
Soft footsteps sounded in the carpeted hallway outside as Black’s band of merry men walked past.
“After you,” he said.
Alaric heard the clip of heels on a wooden floor. A quiet grunt. The rip of duct tape. Then silence followed by four sets of shackles ratcheting into place. Emmy pushed forward off the table.
“Sounds like we’re on. Can’t believe it took eight bloody years to catch this bastard.” She echoed Black. “After you.”
Killian Marshall sat on a lone chair in the middle of the gallery, blinking in the glare from two spotlights trained on him. Black’s theatrics? Or Bradley’s? Alaric guessed at the latter.
He saw the instant when recognition dawned. An infinitesimal widening of Marshall’s eyes. A slight stiffening of his spine. He knew why he was there. Good. That saved an explanation. Alaric tore the duct tape away from his mouth, and the second it came unstuck, the idiot started yelling.
“Help! Help! I’ve been—”
Emmy stepped forward and backhanded him hard enough to loosen teeth. “That’s for shooting at me, asshole. And yell all you want. This room’s soundproofed, and everyone present tonight is in on the plan.”
Marshall pondered that for a mom
ent. “My men would never betray me.”
“Perhaps not, but what makes you think they’re still alive?”
That shook him. He paled a few more shades.
“You killed them? In cold blood?”
“We’re asking the questions here. Let’s start with the big one, shall we? Where’s The Girl with the Emerald Ring?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Oh, please. You offered her for sale eight years ago, and our research showed that you always delivered the goods. We wouldn’t have played along otherwise.”
“You didn’t play along! You brought counterfeit money. Fake diamonds!”
“Did we? Or did you switch them as my friend here climbed on board the boat to make the handover?”
Marshall looked puzzled. Scared out of his mind, but genuinely perplexed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“When he left FBI headquarters, there was real money and real gems in that case. Where did they go? That’s the ten-million-dollar question.”
“FBI?”
“Answer me.”
“Look, I don’t know anything about that.”
Strangely, Alaric was inclined to believe him. There was still a possibility that Marshall’s former team had double-crossed both of them, but the six men with him had died on the old scallop boat, and during the search afterwards, the real pay-off was nowhere to be found. If Marshall had known it was on board, then surely he’d have taken it with him when he escaped?
Which left one last possibility—that the original contents of the briefcase had been stolen en route to Riverley the night before the exchange. Suspicion fell on Alaric’s former colleagues again. But that mystery would have to wait—right now, he just wanted to get Emerald back on the wall in the Becker Museum where she belonged. Maybe then she’d stop wreaking havoc on everyone connected with the case.
“But you did know where Emerald was on the day we first met.” Alaric took a turn with the interrogation. “Didn’t you?”
Marshall had two choices—either claim he never had the painting or admit that he did. And by all accounts, Marshall was proud of his professional reputation, such that it was.
“Pick your answer carefully,” Emmy warned him. “We’ll get the truth out of you. It’s up to you whether we do that the easy way or the hard way.” She glanced to the side and waited for Marshall to follow her gaze. Xavier had wheeled in a trolley full of surgical instruments plus several syringes that probably belonged to Sofia for good measure. “Some of my friends enjoy doing things the hard way, but quite frankly, I hate cleaning up blood.”
The last tinges of colour drained from Marshall’s face, and when Emmy ground a heel into his foot, he let out an unearthly howl.
“Talk,” Emmy ordered.
“Emerald was on the boat,” he whispered. “We brought her with us.”
So close. They’d been so fucking close.
In a room full of bad cops, somebody had to play the good cop, and now Alaric fell into that role.
“That wasn’t a great day for any of us. What happened, Killian? Looking at what you’ve done in Penngrove, it seems you’re a good man, and yet you’re fencing stolen goods?”
“Don’t you get it? I can’t do one without the other.” He looked past Alaric and focused on Black. “Did you buy this place with your own money? Money you made yourself? I bet you didn’t. You sit there with your inherited wealth and judge people, and meanwhile, the rest of us are out there doing what we have to in order to survive.”
That earned him another slap from Emmy. “I grew up on the streets. Now who’s being judgemental, motherfucker? Don’t talk to me about surviving.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
Alaric cut Emmy a glare. Now wasn’t the time.
“There’s surviving, and then there’s living in a compound surrounded by high walls and armed guards.”
“You think I live that way by choice? The job meant I dealt with unsavoury characters every day, so of course I took precautions. And you tried to kill me!”
“Nobody wanted you dead.”
“Your man shot first.”
“Only because one of your men tried to take me hostage. Look, what’s done is done. Can we all just agree that that day was a clusterfuck of epic proportions?”
“Have you ever had to explain to a mother that her son isn’t coming home, Mr. Delray?”
Joseph Delray. That had been Alaric’s alter ego back then, a champagne-swilling, pussy-chasing millionaire he’d rather forget.
“Yes, I have.”
“Then I think we can both agree it was a clusterfuck, as you so eloquently put it. Who’s going to speak to the parents of those poor men you killed today?”
“Nobody’s dead.”
“But she said—”
“No, she didn’t. Right now, your men believe they’re driving you back to Penngrove. You’ll get out of your car when you arrive home, and then you’ll disappear. If anybody starts looking for you, they won’t look here.”
Ah, the resignation of a defeated man. Alaric rarely took pleasure in breaking another human being, but for Marshall, he made an exception. The thief had been the bane of his life for almost a decade.
“So what will happen to me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how cooperative you are.”
“But I don’t know where Emerald is!”
“Then you’ll help us to find her. Who was behind the theft? Rumour says the School of Shadows was involved.”
Right after the heist, the whispers had started. The School of Shadows was the art world’s bogeyman, a many-tentacled monster that reached across continents to snatch priceless works of art and spirit them into the ether. It had been blamed for everything from last year’s Van Gogh theft to the disappearance of a pickled tarantula from the Tate Modern. Smoke and mirrors. Quite literally, in Emerald’s case. The thief or thieves had used mirrors to fool the laser alarm system, then set off a smoke canister so the security cameras wouldn’t capture their faces.
But Marshall merely nodded. “Yes, it was them.”
A bubble of excitement formed in Alaric’s belly. This was how the chase used to feel, back when he’d been an integral part of the FBI’s Art Crime Team, before he’d quit to bum around on a beach and ultimately form a private intelligence agency along with three friends who’d become equally disillusioned with their former lives.
“You’ll have to elaborate.”
“To do that, I’d have to start at the beginning.”
“Go right ahead.” Alaric walked to the far side of the gallery and dragged a high-backed tan leather chair across the floor until it was positioned in front of Marshall. Screeeeeech. He took a seat. “We’ve got all night.”
CHAPTER 5 - ALARIC
“I NEVER SET out to do anything illegal—you have to understand that,” Marshall said with a pleading note in his voice. “At school, I used to paint, but one lesson a week wasn’t enough, and my mom couldn’t afford to pay for extra lessons or materials. So I never developed the skills to create my own masterpiece. But I studied hard and managed to land a scholarship to read art history at Cambridge University. And from there, I went to work at Sotheby’s, and then for a small gallery in London.”
“Pemberton Fine Arts.”
There it was again—resignation, but this time with a hint of surprise. “You have done your homework.”
“It’s my job.” Plus the Pemberton gallery was where the second phase of this perhaps not-so-wild goose chase had started off. Beth was employed there too. At least, she had been until she lost her job for being a little too suspicious over the history of some of the paintings being restored by Hugo Pemberton, the gallery’s owner. “We also know you worked for Jago Rockingham.”
“Yes. By then, I’d realised that my talents lay in matching buyers with sellers rather than in authentication or restoration work. And working with Jago took those skills to another level.” Ma
rshall broke eye contact for a moment. “Until the day I met you, I’d always prided myself on being able to spot a genuine purchaser from a fake, but you fooled me. I suppose I should offer my congratulations.”
“It gives me no pleasure to accept them.”
A nod of acknowledgement. “Jago was a real character.”
“Until he got shot.”
“A true tragedy.”
“Perhaps he shouldn’t have aggravated the wrong person.”
“The police said it was a burglary gone wrong.”
“Sure. And you’re just a kind-hearted philanthropist. What did you do? Inherit his client list?”
Marshall sighed. For him, this was the point of no return, wasn’t it?
“I knew where he hid his ledgers. Jago had always been suspicious of computers, and he kept everything written down. Once the police released the crime scene, I simply let myself into his home and picked them up. And I already knew Hugo Pemberton would restore stolen paintings, no questions asked. He believes he’s doing the art world a service, that all great works should look their best, no matter their provenance.”
“He does it for altruistic reasons? Not for the money?”
“Hugo’s a terrible businessman. I once took him a torn Cézanne, and he fixed it for the price of dinner. A ruined masterpiece is worse than a stolen masterpiece, that’s what he’s always said.”
“Good grief,” Emmy muttered.
Alaric had to agree. Pemberton’s ethics were fucked. He’d happily handle stolen goods, yet he hadn’t hesitated to fire Beth and leave her in dire straits financially.
“So you think it would be better for the paintings Hugo restores to continue deteriorating?” Marshall asked. “To be lost forever? At least this way, there’s a chance they’ll eventually resurface for the public to enjoy.”
“How can you talk about public enjoyment?” Alaric asked. “You’ve had a hand in hiding hundreds of stolen paintings from view. Emerald was in a museum before you got involved. Anyone could walk in and see her.”