Blitzing Billy’s voice from my brain, I shrugged out of my coat. The layout of Nate’s apartment mirrored my own, except instead of being painted in bright lemony yellows, he’d done it in earthy greens and taupes. I liked it. I peeked into the living room and was drawn to a pair of Impressionist landscapes on the far wall.
“Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? Hot cocoa?” Nate called from the kitchen.
“Water’s good, thanks,” I said, hesitating halfway across his living room.
He joined me from the other end of the galley kitchen, water glass in hand, and following the direction of my gaze, smiled. “You like them?”
“They’re amazing. I love the way the light plays off the leaves. And the translucence of the colors is as stunning as the Blacklock my grandfather used to have.” The paintings were real too. Not prints. How did an apartment superintendent afford them?
“My great-grandfather was a collector,” Nate said, as if he’d heard my unvoiced question. “He left each of us a couple of paintings. My brother sold his at auction and bought himself a Porsche and a speedboat.”
“So you weren’t exactly kidding at the restaurant when you mentioned the outrageously valuable paintings kicking around your apartment. These have got to be worth a few hundred thousand easy.”
He shrugged. “I guess. Not that it matters. I’m too sentimental to part with them.”
“You’ve done a great job of caring for them.” The humidity in the room was perfect, unlike my too-dry apartment that guaranteed sparks would fly every time I touched a doorknob. And he’d mounted them on an inside wall, avoiding the temperature fluctuations endemic on outer walls in old buildings like this one. And they were out of direct sunlight, but . . . “Aren’t you afraid someone will steal them?”
Grinning, he punched a code into a discreet security panel near the light switch, then motioned me closer to the painting. “First of all, a thief breaking into the apartment of the building’s super isn’t going to suspect that the art on the walls is priceless. If he didn’t know anything about art, he’d probably leave it hanging where it is. If he tried to snatch it”—Nate grabbed the frame and gave it a hard tug—“he’d find himself out of luck.”
“He might slice the canvas from the frame.”
“True. But by then, the alarm sensors would have already alerted the police.”
Sensors? I hadn’t even noticed them. I ran my fingers along the frame, surprised by the level of security he’d managed to attain so discreetly. “Impressive.” Apparently, I could add security expert to his list of accomplishments too.
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a security expert,” he said, picking up the remote and rewinding the movie, seemingly oblivious to his uncanny ability to read my thoughts. “Or I wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping the four-legged riffraff out of the building.”
The mouse squeaked from his box.
“I don’t think he appreciates being called riffraff,” I teased.
Nate sat on the love seat and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Coming?”
My insides somersaulted. The love seat was the only chair in the room facing the TV, and he clearly expected me to sit beside him. Worse than that, the idea appealed to me more than it probably should.
I was really beginning to wish I’d let Barney Fife run Billy in.
14
The next morning I ate cold cereal over the sink, lubed with OJ instead of milk because I forgot to pick up more after dropping Zoe home last night, which also nixed my usual morning tea.
Harold sat in the center of the kitchen and yowled at me.
“Your bowl is half full,” I griped, in no mood for his idiosyncrasies after seeing every hour on my bedside clock last night.
I don’t know what preyed on my mind more, how edgy Billy’s unnerving tour into the male psyche had made me around Nate, or the thought of having to arrest Henry Burke for accessory after the fact if my suspicions of Cody ended up playing out.
Harold yowled again.
I slapped down my bowl, picked up his, gave it a little shake until the kibbles covered the bottom of the bowl, and set it back down. “You’ve got to be the finickiest cat on the planet. There are starving cats in China who’d—”
Ugh. Did those words really just come out of my mouth? I didn’t have my own kids yet, and I’d already become my mother. Thankfully, Harold was smart enough not to give me any lip about sending the stale food to Chinese cats if they were so hungry.
Or maybe he knew what they did to cats in China.
He sniffed at the food and then ate it half-heartedly.
“It can’t be any worse than orange-flavored corn flakes.”
Harold sat on his haunches and yowled something that sounded very much like “oh yeah?” then batted his paw under the stove.
“Oh, please don’t tell me we have another mouse.”
He batted a folded piece of paper out from under the stove and took a bite out of it.
“What have you got there?” I nabbed the rest of the paper before he could eat any more. It had writing on it, but not mine. Sorry I missed you.
My heart slammed my rib cage, my mind veering to last night’s anonymous note on my windshield. I waved the paper at Harold. “Where did you find this?”
He stretched out his front paw and proceeded to lick it.
“Okay, I’m being paranoid.” It could be a note any one of my friends slipped under the door. Except when I read it, I didn’t hear a cheerful “Sorry I missed you!” with light, airy Beach Boys music playing in the background. I heard a deep-throated “Sorry I missed you . . . I won’t next time,” followed by a devilish laugh with scary sawing violin kind of Psycho sounds in the background.
I dug the other note out of my coat pocket and compared the two. The one from my windshield was printed in pencil. The one Harold found was written in cursive ink. I squinted at it more closely. Were those initials at the bottom? “T. H.”
I gulped back the corn flakes inching up my throat. “The bald guy who sold me the painting in Buffalo had the initials T. H., Trent Hodges.”
The phone rang, making me jump clear across the room. For a second, I didn’t pick it up, thinking it was him. Don’t be stupid. I snagged the phone and edged around the kitchen wall into the hall, out of sight of the windows. “Hello.”
“Did you forget about me?” Zoe asked.
I glanced at my watch. 8:00 already! “Sorry, I lost track of time. I’m leaving now.” I raced to the bathroom and quickly brushed my teeth, then grabbed my purse and coat. My hand froze on the doorknob. What if he was out there?
I peeked out the kitchen window. No sign of anyone lurking in the parking lot. I snatched up the two notes, stuffed them into my coat pocket, and left by the hall door, then circled the building the opposite direction anyone watching would expect me to come from. The parking lot appeared clear, so I scrambled into my car and headed to Zoe’s.
“You look like a wreck,” Zoe said as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“Good morning to you too.”
“No, I’m serious.” She clicked on her seat belt, looking very concerned. “What happened?”
I debated lying, but the blender whirring in my stomach wouldn’t let me. I grabbed the notes from my coat pocket and plopped them onto her lap. “Those happened.”
“Is this what was on your windshield last night?” she asked after silently reading the “All work and no play” note. “Not a ticket?”
“Yes.”
She unfolded the note I’d commandeered from Harold and read it aloud. “Sorry I missed you. T. R.” She laughed.
“R? No, it’s an H, and what are you laughing about?”
“Because a gorgeous guy’s trying to get you to notice him and you’re petrified.”
“What? No!” I shot her a glance across the seat, swerved into oncoming traffic, and got barraged by horns as I swung back into my own lane. “What are you talking about?”
“Tan
ner R. Calhoun. Your special agent field-training buddy. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“You’re crazy. He’s ten years older than me. The only way he looks at me is in disbelief that I’m slow on the uptake.”
Zoe laughed again. “Exactly. And ten years is not all that much.”
“No, no. The initials are T. H., not T. R. Besides, Tanner doesn’t call himself T. R.”
“His business card says Tanner R. Calhoun.” Zoe scrunched her lips and studied the note again. “And this looks like an R to me.”
The knot in my stomach loosened a hair. “You think so?”
“Why? Who’s T. H.? Another prosecuting attorney who spotted you across a crowded courtroom? Another field agent who can’t stop himself from asking you out for lunch every chance he gets? Or wait, my favorite, another would-be felon trying to sweet-talk you out of arresting him? You know, any other single woman would be tap-dancing over getting notes like these. If you really don’t want to date, maybe you should stop playing so hard to get.”
“I’m not playing hard to get.” I stuffed the notes in my pocket. “Forget I said anything.”
“Ah, c’mon. I’m sorry. You know I’m just jealous. I haven’t had a date in weeks, and you have to beat them off with sticks.”
“Hardly. But hey, would you want to go ice skating?”
She grinned. “Yeah, I miss our guy-hunting escapades there.”
Oh boy. “I know this great guy Jax who’s looking for someone to skate with. Maybe I could set you up.”
“Really? Sure, I’m game. But don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re evading my question. Who’s T. H.?”
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I flipped on the turn signal at the intersection to pull into Forest Park. “T. H. are the initials of a guy I arrested.”
“Oh.” Zoe was silent for a long moment, and then her voice dipped into another long Oh. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t made any threats. I haven’t even seen him. I just get this feeling that I’m being watched sometimes.”
“Was that who knocked your aunt down outside your apartment?”
“The description didn’t fit, but it could’ve been someone he sent.”
A horn honked behind me. Glancing up at the green light, I turned.
“You should report him. Have someone tail him.”
My gaze skittered over the pine trees lining the road—perfect cover for a sniper. “What if I’m just being paranoid? My boss will think I’m not cut out for the job.”
“He’s not going to fire you. You’re a great agent.”
“How would you know?”
She grinned. “Because your aunt keeps telling me every chance she gets.”
Gotta love Aunt Martha. My cell phone rang as I pulled up in front of the museum. I tapped the screen. “What have you got for me, Doreen?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid. Cody never showed up at the university in Paris. Hasn’t been to any of his classes or checked into his residence.”
Yes! I mentally fist-pumped the air. Not that I was happy about not knowing where he was, but his going AWOL smacked of not wanting to get caught. He must’ve figured Burke would squeal on him. “Okay, thank you, Doreen. I appreciate your help.”
“Why do you look happy about this?” Zoe asked the second I disconnected.
“Is Burke scheduled to work today?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” I turned off my car and unfastened my seat belt. “I think I’ll have another chat with him.” I’d been replaying last night’s interview over and over in my brain. I could buy that he wouldn’t remember exact conversations he’d had six weeks ago, especially with all he had going on at home. And maybe I was reading too much into his defensiveness. Confronting him outside his wife’s hospital room had been pretty low. But criminals at their lowest were the easiest to flip.
As we climbed out of the car, Zoe pointed down the road. “I think that’s him.”
He was facing the other way, wearing a parka that hid his body shape, but his size and the color of his hair matched. And I didn’t like the look of the duffle bag in his hand. “Mr. Burke, hold up a minute.”
The man’s step faltered infinitesimally, but he didn’t glance over his shoulder and kept on walking.
I darted across the street after him.
A motorist slammed on his brakes and horn, then flashed me a rude gesture as he cruised past. Burke didn’t even react, except maybe to move faster. He tossed his bag across the seat of his car and jumped in.
I sprinted for the passenger door and caught the handle just before he pulled away from the curb.
He sped off anyway, taking two of my fingernails with him.
“Argh. Stupid flip handles.” Nothing to get a decent hold on. I streaked past Zoe back to my car. “Check your surveillance cameras. Find out what he stuffed in that duffle bag.” I jumped into my car and yanked it into a U-turn in front of another honking motorist. Burke’s car had already disappeared. I sped down the hill, a tight second to my racing heart. At Government Road, I glimpsed his aqua green sedan turning onto Washington Drive. If he wanted to disappear, he should’ve picked a less distinctive getaway car. Rather than flip on my siren and lights to pull him over and risk him speeding through Forest Park to get away, I lagged behind to see where he was headed.
He wound through the park roads to the east end and soon pulled into the hospital. Okay, hospitals had come a long way in sprucing up their interior designs, but I was pretty sure the admin wouldn’t accept a hot painting as payment for his wife’s hospital bills. Now that my pounding heart had notched down a few hundred beats, I supposed thinking he’d walk out of the museum with another painting in the middle of an ongoing investigation was . . . extreme.
I snatched a ticket from the parking meter, tapped my thumbs impatiently on the steering wheel as I waited for the bar to rise to admit me, and then parked nose-to-nose with Burke’s car. His gaze met mine through the windshields, and for a second I thought he might do something really stupid. Then he seemed to deflate and turned off his ignition. I jumped out of my car and walked around to his door.
He hesitated a fraction of a second before lowering his window.
“Why didn’t you stop back at the museum?”
“I don’t have time for more questions.”
“What’s in the duffle bag?”
“Huh?” He glanced at the bag sitting on the passenger seat. “Is that what you chased after me for? You think I stuffed something in the bag?”
“May I search the bag, sir?”
He yanked it from the seat and shoved it through his window. “It’s the contents of my locker. I went into work to ask for a leave of absence so I can be with my wife.”
I pawed through the bag, which contained a Clive Cussler paperback, a couple of granola bars, a polo shirt, and a pair of polished black shoes. “Thank you.” I handed it back through the window.
“Can I go now?”
“Cody never showed up for his classes in Paris.”
Burke’s fingers dug into the fabric of the duffle bag. “He didn’t?” A gamut of emotions flitted across his face, from wariness to confusion to relief, at which point his fingers seemed to relax a fraction.
It’d been over a month since Cody allegedly sold the painting. If the kid hadn’t already paid up, Burke wouldn’t be holding out any hope he still would. So since he wasn’t chirping like a bird, I had to assume Burke had already been paid and that learning the kid had gone to ground had inspired relief he wouldn’t crumble under interrogation.
“Don’t you find that strange?” I asked. “Everyone I spoke to about him said the trip was all he’d talked about.”
Burke nodded, a tiny v forming between his eyes. “Yeah, he was real excited about it.”
“Makes sense, though, if he was worried we’d find out about the theft.”
Burke’s gaze drifted to the hospital building. “
I can’t believe he stole anything.”
“What do you believe?”
His cheek muscle twinged. “That I failed as a security guard.” He returned his attention to me, his gaze intense. “But I don’t want to fail as a husband. Can I please go see my wife now?”
I opened his door for him. “Yes. I’m sorry to have kept you.”
He motored the side window closed, then pulled his key from the ignition and climbed out. “You’re doing your job. I understand that.”
“Okay, what did you find?” I groused, joining Zoe in the surveillance room back at the art museum. Yes, I was steamed. I was pretty sure Burke knew more about the burglary than he was saying. And I didn’t want to believe he was involved.
Zoe confirmed that Burke had come in to request an immediate leave of absence.
I squinted at the monitor for the camera feed she was rewinding. “What else did he do while he was here?”
“He was in the locker room for three minutes, talked in passing to two room monitors on his way to the lobby, and then stopped at the reception desk and talked to Petra.”
“Really? How long did they talk?”
Zoe rewound the feed and compared the time stamps. “Five and a half minutes. Looks as if she’s trying to encourage him that everything will be all right.” Zoe pointed to Petra on the screen. “See, you can read her lips.”
“Burke looks upset. Is there another camera view that caught his face?”
“No, her head is in its way.”
“Okay, I need to get to headquarters and follow up on some things.”
I stopped by the reception desk on my way out. “Good morning, Petra.”
“Oh, hi! How can I help you today?”
I smiled at her zeal. If Burke had been half as eager to stay on my good side, I might already have an indictment for Cody’s arrest. “What did Mr. Burke talk to you about before he left?”
Her eye contact faltered, her gaze shifting to her co-workers around the lobby, as if she was trying to figure out who’d talked to me about her.
I tipped my finger toward the camera on the ceiling.
She laughed. “Ah, I see. Sorry, I guess we’re all a little paranoid we’re telling tales on each other.”
A Fool and His Monet Page 16