A Fool and His Monet

by Sandra Orchard

  I kept my opinions of the senator’s questionable choices to myself. But as far as I was concerned, any senator who would use his political clout to interfere with a federal investigation couldn’t be trusted.

  “This is proof,” an oddly distorted caller’s voice came over the air, “that everyone has a price. The senator made himself out to be this champion of foster kids, but clearly someone with a different agenda must’ve gotten to him.”

  “What a crock,” Billy chimed in. “The senator’s vote one way or the other didn’t change the outcome. The bill still passed.”

  Reaching the Illinois border, I turned off the radio and turned on my GPS so the rugged Australian drawl of my GPS man could guide me the rest of the way.

  Of course, that earned me more laughter from the backseat. “Do women really get off on guys with an accent?”

  I glanced at Billy through the rearview mirror. “Let’s just say if I have to put up with a guy telling me where to go, I’d rather he didn’t sound like my brother.”

  Billy flashed me another of his dimples. “Or my captain. Yeah, I can relate.”

  Cody’s old address was near the nuts and bolts factory. A blue-collar section of town. Not the worst. Not the best. But neither was saying much. Row houses dominated the streets. Front yards were so shallow a resident standing on their front porch could shake hands with a passerby on the sidewalk. Not that it looked as if many people walked these streets, at least not for fresh air and exercise.

  “So who we going to see?” Billy piped up from the backseat.

  “I’m going to see the stepdad of a college student I’m trying to locate. You and Zoe can wait in—” The car lurched and thumped and then made a real racket.

  “Pull over,” Billy ordered.

  “It’s one of those manholes. I told you.” Zoe’s voice rose hysterically. “We can’t stop here. That’s what they want us to do.”

  “Chill,” Billy said. “Sounds like a tire. You got a spare in the trunk?”

  “Yes. And if you don’t mind changing it, I could pay my visit while you work. The address I need is half a block up.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “What do you mean no problem?” Zoe screeched. “He’s supposed to be our bodyguard.” Her panic would’ve been comical if three guys in ratty jeans and tattooed leather jackets didn’t pick that moment to swagger out of the shadows.

  “See!” Zoe yanked her black ski hat over her ears and palmed her can of pepper spray.

  Billy climbed out of the backseat, dwarfing the trio. “Can I help you boys?”

  The “boys” postured, throwing a glance in the car as I debated whether flashing my badge would make the situation better or worse. They must not have liked their odds, because they moved on with nothing more than a hand gesture in Billy’s direction.

  Billy poked his head back into the car. “Let me change the tire, then I’ll walk you two in.”

  I joined him around the back of the car, where he was busy kicking a pile of bent nails off the street into a storm drain. I glanced to the corner, my heart doing a nervous dip. “I guess Zoe was right about it being a setup,” I said, unlocking the trunk.

  “Looks that way.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  Billy pulled out the spare and the jack. “You can wait in the car.”

  “No, I think I’ll stay here and watch your back. Those guys didn’t get past the corner.”

  He squinted in their direction, then dipped his chin in a single nod. I imagined he’d seen a lot worse threats on his tours, but he didn’t try to talk me out of the offer. “Zoe says you work art crime cases.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any leads on your grandfather’s killer?”

  My heart jolted. It’d been over a decade and a half since my grandfather’s murder and ten months since I’d qualified as a special agent. And not even anyone in my family had seemed to make the connection. Or if they had, no one had dared voice it.

  When I didn’t answer, Billy stopped cranking the jack and peered up at me.

  “Not yet, no.”

  He nodded and returned his attention to the tire, this time taking the lug wrench to the nuts. “You will.”

  My throat clogged at the confidence in his voice as my gaze settled on his wind-chapped hands working at the bolts, that vague image of the intruder’s hands flitting through my thoughts. I’d done everything I knew to do—reported Granddad’s stolen painting to the Art Loss Register, distributed its picture and provenance to all my contacts with the date it was stolen—so yes, one day Granddad’s painting might turn up. It wasn’t uncommon to recover stolen art a generation later, after the original purchaser had passed away and the person who inherited it approached an auction house to determine its value. Of course, at that point, the chances of tracing the trail back to the thief would be remote. And as sweet as it would be to recover Granddad’s painting, I was more interested in nailing the man who took it—the man who killed my grandfather.

  Zoe climbed out of the car. “You guys almost done?”

  “Yup.” Billy lowered the jack, then tossed it and my flat into the trunk. “Let’s park closer. Then”—he glanced toward the corner where the three guys were still lurking—“I’ll wait by the car while you two go in.”

  Cody’s address was a three-story apartment building at the end of the block. A single glass door opened into a lobby sporting two rows of mailboxes with numbers but no names. Half the boxes looked as if they’d been jimmied open. The walls were cement block, the floors were chipped tiles—the same kind my public school replaced when I was in grade six.

  “I’m impressed that a kid from here got into Wash U,” Zoe said.

  “Yeah, if he made good on selling the painting, apparently he doesn’t believe in sharing the wealth with his folks.”

  The heavy bass of rap music reverberated through my chest as we walked the hall. Thankfully, it wasn’t emanating from apartment 124. I knocked, and a clean-cut man in a white dress shirt and navy blue slacks opened the door. “Mr. Caldwell?”

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.” He started to shut the door.

  I blocked it with my foot and produced my badge. “I’m Special Agent Serena Jones. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  He opened the door again but didn’t invite us in. “What’s this about?”

  “We’re looking for Cody Stafford.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “We need to talk to him.”

  “He’s not here. Moved out two years ago.”

  “To attend university, we know, but do you have contact information for him?”

  “No.”

  “When’s the last time you heard from your stepson?”

  “He ain’t my stepson anymore. His mother walked out on me two months after the kid left.”

  “Can you give us her contact information?”

  He recited her cell phone number from memory. “At least that’s what it was two years ago. I haven’t talked to her since she left.”

  “He returned to town on New Year’s Eve. Can you give us the names of friends he was likely to visit?”

  “Haven’t got a clue. Is that all?”

  “Yes, thank you for your time.” I tried the number he’d given me, but the maddeningly familiar “You have reached a number that is no longer in service” message immediately responded.

  A neighboring door opened and an elderly man poked his head out, his gnarly hand clutching a walking stick. “I couldn’t help overhearing your questions about Cody.”

  “And you are?”

  “Jethro Wiley.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with Cody, Mr. Wiley?”

  His whole body seemed to jitter, likely from Parkinson’s or simply old age. “You should ask Ariel in 234. She’s friendly with most everyone, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ariel.” I jotted down the name and apartment number. “Okay, th
ank you for your help.”

  As we headed upstairs, I glanced out the entrance’s glass door. Billy was leaning against my car, arms crossed, looking every inch a bodyguard.

  Ariel answered her door in a skimpy outfit, blowing on splayed fingers. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she said, turning away from the door without making eye contact. “My nail polish isn’t dry yet.”

  Clearly she’d been anticipating someone else. I explained who I was.

  “Sorry, can’t help you. Cody wouldn’t give me the time of day, much less a forwarding address. He thought he was better than everyone else. Never came to the parties. Nothing.”

  “Do you know who else he might’ve come to town to see?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Okay, thank you for your time.” I handed her my card. “If you see him or hear anything about his whereabouts, please give me a call.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” She carefully pinched the card between her thumb and finger, being careful not to let it touch her wet nails.

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Zoe whispered as we headed down the stairs. “What kind of teen says no to a girl like that?”

  My shoe slurped off a sticky step. “One with standards, maybe.” Or something big up his sleeve.

  “But if he didn’t come to town to party with old friends for New Year’s Eve, why’d he come?”

  I glanced back at her. “Maybe he didn’t. We only have Irene’s word on it.”

  Zoe grabbed my arm and pointed out the glass door. “Look.”

  My heart tripped. Billy—big, strong, built-like-a-tank, here-to-protect-us Billy—was backed up against my car, his arms in the air.

  13

  “What do we do now?” Zoe hissed in my ear, her back glued to the stairwell wall in Cody’s former apartment building.

  I couldn’t see who was holding Billy at gunpoint beside my car, and I sure didn’t want him to see me before I had a plan. I motioned Zoe to stay back and, with gun in hand, edged closer to the glass door.

  Billy turned toward my car and braced his hands on the snow-covered roof.

  “What on earth?” I stepped closer. “It’s a cop!” Two actually. I holstered my gun and pulled out my ID. One cop held a gun on Billy as the other cuffed him. Not that I blamed the cop for the preemptive measure. I’d want Billy cuffed before I frisked him too. The man was built to do serious damage. The Barney Fife lookalike holding the gun looked a little too edgy to risk charging out, so I raised my hands, my badge clearly visible, and slowly pushed through the door. “Excuse me, officers. What seems to be the problem? I’m FBI agent Serena Jones and that’s my car.”

  Fife swung his gun in my direction, not looking like he believed me. “You’re not from this district’s agency.”

  Really? A beat cop knew the agents that well? “No, I’m from St. Louis.”

  The cop who’d been frisking Billy took my ID and scrutinized it under his flashlight beam. He wore a winter jacket, but his hands and cheeks were red. “What are you doing in East St. Louis?”

  “Questioning the stepfather of a missing witness.”

  “We caught this man breaking into your car.”

  “Actually, he’s a friend, William Cox.” I motioned to Zoe huddled inside the apartment’s entrance. “He and another friend came along to keep me company. Bill volunteered to stay with the car after we noticed a group of shady-looking teens hanging around the street corner. The car is FBI issue. The ownership’s in the glove box. You’re welcome to check it, Officer . . . ?”

  “Davidson.” Officer Davidson returned my ID, then opened the passenger door and rummaged through the glove box. He emerged a moment later and nodded to his partner to holster his weapon. “We’re sorry for the trouble, Special Agent. People who drive cars this nice in this neighborhood and who have bodyguards the size of this guy are usually drug dealers.”

  “Please, call me Serena, Officer Davidson, and no need to apologize. I appreciate your diligence.”

  He grinned. “Name’s Phil. Who you looking for? Maybe we can help.” He unlocked Billy’s handcuffs, and Billy threw me a scowl as he turned around, rubbing his wrists.

  “I’d appreciate any help I could get. Our witness is a nineteen-year-old Wash U student, Cody Stafford, who used to live in this building with his mother and stepdad. I’d been hoping to find someone who’s still in contact with him.”

  “We’ve got yearbooks at the precinct for all the local high schools. If he was on a sports team or part of a club, you might track down the other members and ask them.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Zoe must’ve figured it was safe to come out now that Billy was uncuffed. “What’s a great idea?”

  “Officer Davidson suggested we look for friends of Cody in the high school yearbooks.”

  “Tonight?” Billy asked, his irritable tone declaring he’d lost his enthusiasm for the game.

  “No, it can wait until tomorrow.” If Doreen came through with Cody’s new contact information in Paris, I might not need to bother at all.

  Officer Davidson pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. “If you want to leave me a number I can reach you at, I can take a look through the books at the end of our shift and call to let you know what I find.”

  I fished a card from my wallet and pressed it into his hand. “Thank you, Phil. That would be a tremendous help.”

  He tucked the card into his inside coat pocket, then tipped his hat. “No problem. Drive carefully. The roads are getting slick.”

  Officer Davidson and his partner waited for us to climb into my car and start the engine before heading to their cruiser parked a few car lengths away.

  I glanced at Billy in the backseat. “Sorry about the manhandling.”

  He shrugged. “When you cooperate, they treat you decent enough.”

  As we cruised past the officers, Davidson waved.

  Zoe shook her head and made a disgusted snort. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make men trip over themselves to help you?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Billy spoke up from the backseat. “She looks us in the eye when we’re talking to her. And she remembers our names and smiles when she uses them.”

  “Really?” Zoe half turned and looked over the seat at him as if hanging on his every word.

  “Sure. Most guys figure any woman who smiles at him is interested.”

  I squirmed at the suggestion. Was that really what guys thought? I choked on a gasp. Was that what Tanner had been getting at with his does-Nate-know-you’re-not-dating question?

  Zoe shifted her attention to me. “Do you do that on purpose?”

  “No!”

  Billy’s low-throated chuckle rumbled through the car. “You sound like you don’t want a guy to be interested.”

  “She doesn’t,” Zoe said. “I always figured it was the challenge that made guys swarm around her.”

  “Could be.” Billy met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Men do like a challenge.”

  I arrived home to frightened squeaks and Harold hovering over a mouse in the live trap. “You’re clearly not as big on challenges as Billy,” I grumbled. Another mouse was the last thing I wanted to deal with right now. But I wasn’t about to hand it over to Harold on a stainless steel platter. And unless Nate figured out how the critters were getting inside, the little guy would probably be back by morning if I plopped it outside.

  I dropped my bag on the counter, then hunkered down beside Harold and scrutinized our captive. “I think it’s the same one we caught before. Don’t you?”

  “Me-ow-ow,” Harold said. Translation: yeah, let me show this intruder the door permanently.

  I slipped my keys into my coat pocket and picked up the trap. “Not on your life. I’ve seen you in action. You’ve got the shakiest gun in the west. We’ll let Nate handle it.” I bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs and knocked on Nate’s door on the floor below mine.

  “Hey.”
Nate’s eyes lit as his gaze touched mine. “What can I do for you?” His gaze dropped to the trap. “Oh, we caught another one, did we?”

  “I’m not so sure he isn’t the same one. See that nick in his right ear? The first one had that too. Otherwise, I would’ve just let him outside myself.”

  “Huh, okay, I guess I’ll have to take him to Forest Park tomorrow to help him find a new piece of real estate.”

  “And figure out where he got in.”

  “Yeah, which could be tougher than I’d thought.”

  Voices drifted through his open door, and I cocked my head to listen, FBI nosiness on autopilot. Then I smiled. “No way. You’re watching The Great Escape?”

  “Yeah. You know it?”

  “Sure do. I love old movies, Nate.”

  “Yeah?” He propped an arm against the doorjamb, making irresistible look way too easy.

  I suddenly realized I was committing the grave sin of smiling and using a man’s name, and I faltered.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, mentally cursing Billy. “My grandfather was a movie buff and we used to watch one every weekend. The Great Escape was one of his favorites.”

  “Cool.” Nate’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  Oh, crud, now I probably sounded like I was hinting to join him! Hastily, I thrust the trap toward him. “You better not let Squeaky watch it. Might give him ideas.”

  Oh, that was brilliant. Yeah, I was so suave with men. Not. Billy and Zoe were deluded.

  Nate’s laugh rumbled through my chest as he stepped back, fully opening the door. “You and Squeaky should join me. Movies are always more enjoyable when you share them with someone.”

  I wavered, my arm still outstretched, holding the cage that Nate hadn’t relieved me of. It was getting heavy.

  “C’mon,” Nate prodded. “I’m pretty sure I even have popcorn.”

  “Deal,” I said, against my better judgment. Watching an old movie sounded like exactly the kind of distraction I needed. Nate finally took the trap, and I trailed him through the door. Wow, a pet sitter, a tea connoisseur, an art enthusiast, and an old movie buff. This man could be dangerous if I wasn’t careful.