“Why?” Nate asked. “What’s your getting assaulted outside Serena’s apartment have to do with her job?”
“Probably nothing, but that won’t stop her mother.”
I winced. What if it hadn’t been a botched burglary attempt? What if it had been Baldy or one of his goons trying to break in? It was one thing to accept risks for myself, but what was I going to do if the bad guys went after my family too?
Aunt Martha patted my hand. “You should thank me for not letting those paramedics truck me off to the hospital or we’d have never been able to keep it a secret.”
I gave her a warm hug. We’d shared lots of secrets over the years, but the idea of keeping one that might jeopardize her well-being made my stomach sour. “I couldn’t bear it if you or anyone else got hurt because of me.”
“Nonsense. Don’t be using me as an excuse to quit.” She patted the chair beside her. “Now sit and tell me about your new case.”
“Oh, before I do that, I need to go out and answer the investigating officer’s questions. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with any luck, by that time she’d be on to a new topic of conversation.
Nate splashed milk into the bottom of Aunt Martha’s teacup. “No problem. I’ll keep her company.”
“Maybe I’ll have a cup of that tea when I get back too,” I said. “I have more china teacups in the cupboard by the fridge.”
Nate grinned. “You were afraid I didn’t know how to make a proper cup of tea, weren’t you?”
Surprised by how well he had me pegged, I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right. Most guys tend to plunk a teabag in a mug and pour water over top.”
“Yup, your aunt cured me of that habit. After I tasted how much better her tea tastes, I figured there had to be something to the ritual.”
A pet sitter and a tea connoisseur. Nate was full of surprises.
I headed back outside, and by the time I caught up to the officer I’d talked to earlier, Tanner was already plugging him for details. “When did you get here?” I asked.
“A few minutes ago. Your suspect’s neighbors weren’t talking.”
Figures. “Have you learned anything new?” I asked the officer.
“A neighbor saw the assailant run through the schoolyard at the end of the street. I’ve been advised that he may have had another motive for trying to get into your place, besides burglarizing it?”
I scowled at Tanner, who’d obviously done the advising. I wasn’t about to name names. Not of suspects in an undercover investigation.
“If we had a name,” the officer pressed, “we could pick up your suspect, compare his shoe treads. Put him in a lineup.”
“I wish I could give you a name, but I can’t.” The assailant’s description didn’t even match Baldy’s or Sidekick’s anyway.
“Okay, well, I guess I don’t need to advise you to take extra precautions.”
“I will. Thanks.” I waited while the officer climbed into his cruiser, then turned to Tanner. “What were you thinking? I can’t drop the names of suspects from an undercover investigation.”
“I know, but they needed to know this shouldn’t be written off as some high school kid trying to score easy money.”
“It could be!”
“Is that what you think?”
I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. I crossed my arms. “I don’t know.”
He sighed. “I’ll ask Wainwright to track down your two Buffalo suspects.”
I frowned. “Ask who?” I didn’t recall meeting anyone named Wainwright, in Buffalo or elsewhere. I was usually good with names, but apparently I’d been too spooked, thanks to the key card fiasco.
“You know.” Tanner fixed me with a speculative look. “Vin Diesel. Fast and Furious? The movie?”
“Oh! Him.” Okay, I wasn’t losing it. I was pretty sure no one had told me the guy’s real name.
“Yes!” Tanner did a fist pump.
I stared, then blinked as comprehension dawned. “Really? You’re wasting your highly developed FBI skills on figuring out which movie star I think people look like?”
“Yep,” he said, looking smug.
“Well, get out of my head. It’s creepy.” Although . . . I had to admit he’d managed to momentarily distract me from my fears.
Tanner’s look turned serious. “Just be careful, okay?”
I held his concerned gaze for a moment before looking away. “Always am.” Giving him a mock salute, I headed back inside.
Nate poured me a cup of tea as I walked in and shrugged out of my coat. “Do they have any leads?”
“Not really.” I repeated the rundown the officer had given me as I took the tea and sat at the table next to Aunt Martha.
“Enough about that,” she said, patting my arm. “Tell us about the suspects you interviewed today.”
“Aunt Martha, you know I can’t talk about my cases.”
“Oh, c’mon. Good detection is all about thinking outside the box, and no one thinks further outside the box than me.”
“I’m not sure where you got that quote from, but I’m pretty sure Holmes and Miss Marple would say good detection was all about keen observation and deduction.”
Aunt Martha gave me her “pretty please” look.
Okay, after the tussle she’d had on my doorstep, the least I could do was humor her with a few minor case details to puzzle out. “Promise me not a word leaves this room?”
She held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I looked to Nate, who was leaning against the counter watching us, sipping tea, his long legs stretched in front of him. He lowered his teacup and mimicked my aunt’s promise.
I gave them a sketchy overview of the crime.
“And what did the suspects have to say?” Aunt Martha asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry. Loose lips sink ships.”
“Exactly, so if you loosen yours, maybe we can help you sink this guy.”
“What makes you think it’s a man?”
Aunt Martha’s lips stretched into a gleeful grin. “You think it might be a woman?”
“Maybe.” Okay, I probably shouldn’t encourage her, but it felt good to see her glowing again.
“Oh, I bet she travels a lot. Smuggles paintings out of the country in her luggage and sells them before anyone knows they’re missing.”
Nate watched Aunt Martha’s animated theorizing, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“What did she say when you interviewed her?” Aunt Martha jabbered on.
The woman was irrepressible. “Actually, the suspect wasn’t home,” I admitted, and then because Aunt Martha was so eager to vicariously experience the exciting life she assumed I lived, I relayed my adventure chasing Linda’s brother.
“So you think she’s skipped town? Are you going to check her credit card records? Find out where she’s been?”
“I don’t have enough probable cause to obtain a search warrant for banking records.”
“But she could be long gone before you know it. If she used to be a flight attendant, she can fly for free. Might not even show up on the radar.”
Aunt Martha cupped her chin and tapped her finger to her cheek, looking as if she was deep in contemplation. Suddenly she whisked her finger into the air. “I’ve got it. She’s really a spy and her job at the museum is just a cover. You know, like that traveling shoe salesman who was really a CIA agent and his family didn’t even know it.”
“That was a movie. Not for real.”
“But that’s how they operate.” Aunt Martha said this very matter-of-factly, as if she had firsthand knowledge of such a person.
Nate nodded. “It’s true. When I applied to join the CIA, they told me not to tell my family I was even applying.”
I gaped. Nate was average height and build, not Navy Seal toned like Tanner. Then again, CIA agents were spies, not SWAT guys on atomic steroids. And with those hypnotizing blue eyes and that inscrutable smile, not to mention his tad-too-long windswe
pt hair begging for a woman’s touch, Nate could sell me shoes, state secrets, whatever he wanted. “You applied to the CIA?”
He laughed. “I’m kidding.”
Only his wink to Aunt Martha left me wondering.
“Do any of the guards look good for the theft?” Nate asked, changing the subject. “That’s who I’d be looking at.”
I shrugged, thinking of Mr. Burke. “There’s one gentleman that I almost wouldn’t blame for pinching them. He’s utterly devoted to his sick wife and they’ve long since hocked all their valuables to pay medical bills. But if he managed to steal and then sell the stolen items, there’s no evidence he put the money to good use.”
Aunt Martha suddenly dropped her foot to the floor and sat ramrod straight. “Sick how?”
Uh-oh. I’d tried to be generic enough in my descriptions so that the pair of them wouldn’t be able to narrow in on anyone specific.
“She have cancer? Heart trouble? Alzheimer’s? Need a transplant?” Aunt Martha tilted her head, her eyes widening. “She does, doesn’t she? I can tell by your face.”
Harold circled in Aunt Martha’s lap, then, failing to find the sweet spot again, stretched long and slow, all the while giving me the evil eye, as if it was my fault.
“You can’t tell by my face. And I’m not at liberty to say.”
“But you know there’s this band of organ thieves going around pouncing on hapless business travelers, right? They spike a person’s drink, then sneak into his hotel room later and hack out the person’s organ, then leave him in the bathtub with instructions to call 911 as soon as he wakes up.”
I buried my face in my hands and shook my head.
“It’s true!”
I shifted two fingers and peeked between them.
Nate’s chest was jiggling, his lips pressed so tightly together they turned white.
Except the frequency with which Aunt Martha got hoodwinked by such stories wasn’t funny. It drove my father—reasoning professor that he was—downright batty. I wasn’t far behind. “Let me guess,” I said drily. “You saw it on last week’s episode of Undercover CSI.”
“No, a friend emailed me a warning about it. A smart friend.” She punctuated the last part with an indignant foot stomp. “Not someone who falls for those email hoaxes.”
“Aunt Martha, it’s an urban legend. Don’t you think you’d hear about that sort of thing on the 6:00 news if it were true?”
The light blinked out of her eyes and she ducked her head. “Well, I suppose.”
“I told you to always double-check those kind of emails on the Snopes website. If I recall right, in that case, what they think started the legend was a Middle Eastern man’s claim that he’d had an organ stolen from him while visiting England. What investigators actually found was that he’d advertised to sell one of his organs and traveled there for that purpose.”
“So people do buy organs! That’s what I was getting at.”
“Help me,” I mouthed to Nate.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and twin dimples poked his cheeks.
Oh, he wasn’t going to be any help at all.
Aunt Martha plucked Harold off her lap and plunked him on the floor. “I know just who to ask to get an inside scoop too. Lou.”
“As in Lou Petrolli?”
“Of course.”
I splayed my hand over my forehead and groaned. Lou was an old family friend who happened to own an Italian restaurant on The Hill. And Aunt Martha seemed to think that anyone with an Italian name had to somehow know someone who was connected to the mafia. Not that Lou had helped matters. When she once complained about the city ignoring her calls about blown streetlight bulbs or something, he’d said in his deep, mysterious voice that if she wanted, he knew people. I fought to keep my voice even. “Aunt Martha, I’m a federal agent. If anyone in St. Louis was negotiating the sale of body parts, I’m pretty sure I’d have caught wind of it.”
Nate chuckled.
“But you love Lou’s deep-fried ravioli.” She patted her hair as if she were preparing for a date. “And his tiramisu.”
Not fair. Aunt Martha knew I couldn’t say no to Lou’s tiramisu—layers of sponge cake soaked in coffee and liqueur with powdered chocolate and mascarpone cheese. My stomach grumbled just thinking about it, and Aunt Martha donned a smug smile.
“Nate, you should come too,” Aunt Martha said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We might need a bodyguard.”
His eyes danced with laughter, as he no doubt pictured being greeted by my Glock yesterday morning. “Your niece has formidable self-defense moves. I think you’ll be fine.”
“Please join us,” I said. “My treat. A thank-you for taking care of Harold.” Secretly, I hoped Aunt Martha’s restaurant suggestion was merely a ploy to score an Italian dinner. Not to set me up with Nate or to go on an organ hunt. Saturday night at my parents’ house was steak night, and Aunt Martha had never been a fan. Hard to chew with her false teeth, she’d once confided. But in case she actually intended to grill Lou about organ-selling middlemen, I figured I’d need a second pair of hands to keep her away from the people with the straitjacket.
7
If The Hill was a food, it would be spaghetti, or maybe pizza, or ravioli or manicotti. Well, anything Italian. The kind of food you share with a boisterous group of friends or family and that’s guaranteed to put a smile on your face. As the hostess led us through the dimly lit restaurant to the last remaining empty table, I couldn’t believe my eyes or good fortune. I was 95 percent certain the blonde sitting at the table in the back corner, wearing the pricey designer dress and an even pricier diamond necklace, was Linda Kempler. I pulled out my phone to search the photos I’d downloaded.
Nate caught my elbow and nudged me forward. “Everything okay?”
I looked from the photo on my phone to Linda. Yup, definitely Linda. “Yes. Thank you. Everything’s perfect.” I slid into the booth opposite my aunt and Nate gave me an odd look. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit on that side?”
I glanced toward Linda’s table—a perfect view. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
He slid in beside Aunt Martha. “Okay, but I thought cops never sat with their back to a room.” He leaned across the table and added in a stage whisper, “Especially when their aunt might ask the wrong person the wrong question.”
Aunt Martha swatted his arm. “Watch it or I’ll make you pay for dinner.”
He rubbed his arm, grinning. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“No, it’s my treat,” I said. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re bribing a federal agent.”
“Ri-i-i-ght,” he said, his incredibly expressive eyes twinkling with amusement, “because someone might think I stole the outrageously valuable paintings kicking around my apartment.”
“Exactly.”
“Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Lou’s.” A bubbly, dark-haired waitress handed us each a menu. “My name’s Lori and I’ll be your server this evening. May I start you off with a drink?”
“Just water for me,” I said, doing a quick survey of the other customers. There was an eclectic mix of diners, from seniors and businessmen to a table of college students, who were probably here for the all-you-can-eat spaghetti, to couples like Linda and her date. His Armani suit and polished shoes screamed wealthy, and from the look of the pale line circling his slender ring finger, he was either recently separated or pretending to be.
“Someone you know?” Nate asked.
“Just a museum employee I didn’t get a chance to interview today.”
“A suspect?” Aunt Martha chimed in. “Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, she couldn’t have paid for that outfit on a museum salary.”
Oh, I’d noticed all right.
“More likely she entices rich boyfriends to treat her,” Nate said, his voice tinged with disgust.
Aunt Martha flashed him a sympathetic look.
Okay, what was t
hat about? Nate was hardly the kind of guy who’d have his heart broken by a gold digger.
The waitress cleared her throat.
“Oh, hot water and lemon for me,” Aunt Martha said, then excused herself to go to the restroom.
Nate tapped the top of his menu to mine, snagging my attention again. “So, when did you first decide you wanted to be a federal agent?”
“A few months after 9/11. The day the FBI recovered the Norman Rockwell painting of the Boy Scouts, with the World Trade Center in the background. Did you know that over a hundred million dollars worth of fine art was destroyed during 9/11?”
“No, I had no idea, but I imagine a lot of the offices were decorated with valuable paintings.”
I nodded, my gaze straying back to Linda and her date. He looked like the kind of guy who’d have expensive art on his walls. “Their loss was nothing compared to the lives lost, of course, but the art that survived became compelling symbols for many people.”
“Including you?”
His soft question jerked my attention back to his face.
He looked at me expectantly, his gaze as soft as his question had been, almost as if he knew he was treading into risky territory.
“Yes, including me.”
He nodded. “I remember seeing pictures of a sculpture still standing amidst the rubble of Liberty Park. It was of a businessman looking into his briefcase, and it became a kind of makeshift memorial.”
“Yes! It was a J. Seward Johnson sculpture called Double Check. Every time I saw it, I cried.” Tears welled in my eyes just thinking about it. I blinked them away. “The businessman reminded me of my grandfather, I guess. He’d been a businessman, but he also loved art and nurtured my love of it.” The recollection drew my gaze back to Armani guy’s hands.
“He gave you a special gift. Art shows us ways of seeing the world that science can’t.”
“Exactly! Most law enforcement officers don’t put a high value on art crime investigation, because they think only the rich are losing, but we all lose a piece of our common heritage. For me, the return of that Rockwell painting helped reclaim a small piece of the American ideal we all lost that horrible day.”
A Fool and His Monet Page 8