Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  "Have you been to the gallery since your dad left?" she asked curiously.

  "I drove by once—a long time ago. But I didn't go inside."

  "So this would be the first time…"

  "Since my dad left, yes," he said tightly.

  "Are you ready to face your past?"

  "I have to be," he replied, flinging her a quick look. "And I will be."

  Chapter Thirteen

  He wasn’t even close to ready, Flynn thought, as he parked the SUV near Gallery Row on the Coast Highway. He hadn't been to Laguna for the Sunday Art Walk in years. Seeing all the gallery doors open, the paintings displayed along the sidewalk, and the pop-up booths for wine tasting, brought back a lot of memories. He'd often helped out at the gallery on Sundays when tourists came to see the amazing art from both famous and local artists.

  Art was as big an attraction in Laguna as the nearby beach, and there was tremendous competition between the galleries to have the best and most innovative artists showing their work.

  "This looks fun," Callie murmured, as they got out of the car.

  "We're not here for fun," he reminded her.

  "I know. But it still looks like a nice event. I came here once a long time ago with my parents. I remember my dad bought this huge painting of a stormy sea and a ship battling the waves. In the far corner of the painting, the storm turns to sunshine. My dad said he liked the feeling of turbulence and then triumph. He thought it was a perfect representation of life. You fight your way through the storms, and on the other side, the sun is waiting for you. That painting hung in our living room for a very long time. I wonder what happened to it." She paused, giving him an apologetic look. "Sorry, that was my own little trip to the past."

  "I like your trip better than mine."

  "You'll get through this storm."

  He grinned. "How long are we going to work that metaphor?"

  "As long as we need to."

  He barely heard her answer as they approached the gallery. There was a young woman on the sidewalk, talking to some customers. The front door was wide open. And inside he could see Gretchen's blonde hair.

  "She's here," he murmured. "I need to do this alone, Callie. Maybe you should wander around, take a look at the art, have a glass of wine."

  Disappointment filled her eyes. "I'd rather hear what Gretchen has to say."

  "She'll be more forthcoming if I'm on my own."

  "Fine, but I'm not going far, and I won't stay outside forever."

  He didn't need forever; he just needed ten minutes. He had no interest in staying in the gallery any longer than necessary.

  When he stepped over the threshold, Gretchen's gaze widened. She'd been talking to her husband, who was looking down at a computer on the desk. She grabbed his arm and tipped her head toward Flynn.

  He moved across the room. "Hello, Gretchen—Stephen."

  "I can't believe you're here, Flynn," Gretchen said, a wary light in her eyes.

  "I can't quite believe it, either." His gaze swept the room, which still felt incredibly familiar.

  While his father's gallery had focused on abstracts and impressionistic art, the paintings in front of him were modern and eclectic, including pop art and cubism. Despite the differences in the displays, he could still see his father wandering through the room, talking to customers, making sure every piece of art was displayed in the most perfect light. And when there was a sale, he'd include a bottle of champagne with the customer's new purchase, as if bringing a new painting home was a reason to celebrate.

  "What do you want, Flynn?" Stephen asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  He cleared his throat, bringing his mind back to the present. "I want to talk to you both about Arthur's murder."

  "We already gave our statements to the other FBI agent," Stephen said.

  "I have follow-up questions. Let's start with you, Stephen. You ran into Arthur in the stairwell ten or fifteen minutes before he went over the railing. You spoke to him. What did you say?"

  Stephen appeared taken aback by the question. "I—I don't remember. I probably just said hello."

  "Did Arthur say where he was going, who he was meeting?"

  "No. I didn't ask. Why would I?"

  "Stephen barely knows Arthur," Gretchen cut in.

  "Then why don't you tell me how you knew Arthur, Gretchen? Why you exchanged a dozen or so calls with him in the past two weeks?"

  Before she could reply, the young woman who had been watching over the sidewalk sale came into the gallery. "Mr. Vale, I need some help out here," she said. "A customer has some questions."

  "Excuse me," Stephen said, looking thrilled to leave the conversation.

  "Well?" he prodded.

  Gretchen gave him an unhappy look and then motioned him toward the office, clearly wanting to get him away from a group of customers who had just entered the gallery.

  "Arthur was interested in a local artist by the name of Imogene Rocca," Gretchen said as they moved into the office that had once belonged to his father.

  He deliberately kept his gaze on her, refusing to allow himself to be distracted by the memories.

  "Imogene had a show here a few weeks ago," Gretchen continued. "Arthur wanted to buy some of her paintings. I arranged for him to have a private viewing, and he became quite interested in a piece in her studio that she had not yet finished. He told her he'd like to buy it as soon as it was done. I was keeping him apprised of the progress."

  He frowned, thinking that the unfinished art scenario with this female painter sounded very much like the situation with Marcus Vitelli. "When did Arthur become so interested in unfinished work by young artists?"

  "He prided himself on being able to discover new talent."

  She was acting as if she had nothing to hide, but he wasn't quite sure he was buying her story. "Why were you so involved? Why not have Arthur make his own contact?"

  "I got a cut for being the go-between."

  "And that's all you were talking about—nothing else?"

  "I don't know what you want me to say. And I really don’t like what you said to Stephen. Just because he ran into Arthur in the stairwell doesn’t make him guilty. I know you never liked him, but you can't pin a murder on him because of that."

  "You're right. I didn't like him. He was an ass to me when I was a kid, especially when my father wasn't looking. But I don't pin crimes on innocent people, so if he's innocent, he has nothing to worry about. You, on the other hand, might want to think hard about whether you're answering my questions truthfully."

  "Why would you think I wasn't?" she countered.

  "Were you having an affair with Arthur?"

  She gasped at his question, her gaze darting to the door.

  "Don't worry. Stephen is still outside."

  "You're crazy, Flynn. You're trying to get back at me for not lying to protect your father."

  "And you're deflecting. Answer the question."

  "No. We weren't having an affair. If Juliette told you that, then you have to understand that she's a jealous woman with a history of paranoia."

  He wasn’t sure he believed her, but he decided to switch gears. "When I saw you at the museum on Friday night, you told me we needed to talk. Why?"

  "I just wanted to catch up."

  "Gretchen, if you have something you need me to know, tell me now. I am going to find Arthur's killer, and if you have valuable information, you need to share. Otherwise, you're obstructing justice."

  "You're different, Flynn. You're a lot harder, tougher, almost cruel. That's not who you used to be. And it's hard for me to believe you became an agent after how the FBI came for your father."

  "My father was a thief, and I'm not a kid anymore. I take my job seriously, and you'd be wise to remember that."

  "All right." She took a quick breath. "When I saw you at the event, I was shocked, not just because it has been so many years since our paths crossed, but because I thought I saw your father last Thursday. It was just before cl
osing. I glanced toward the window. It was almost dark outside, but I could see him so clearly."

  His gut churned. "Did you go out and talk to him?"

  "No. We just stared at each other, and then he walked away. It was unnerving."

  "Are you sure it was him?"

  "I know it was him. His face was older, and he didn't have a moustache anymore, but his eyes—so blue, just like yours—were exactly the same. Why do you think he would come back here, Flynn? Isn't the FBI still looking for him? Isn't he still a wanted man?"

  "Yes, he is. I don't know why he'd come back. Maybe he just wanted to see the gallery he built."

  "I'm sure you think that Stephen and I turned your dad in, but we didn't. We were as surprised as anyone when the FBI showed up. We had no idea what your dad's side business involved."

  "But you benefited more than anyone by his disappearance. You ended up with this gallery."

  "We did, but it took us years to rebuild our reputation, to prove that we were honest art dealers. This is our gallery now. It has no ties to your dad."

  "You and Stephen are tied to my dad. As long as you're here, there will always be a connection."

  "Have you ever heard from your father? I can't imagine that at some point he didn't reach out to you. He loved you so much."

  Her words were like a knife to the gut. "He didn't love me. He left me and my mother. He abandoned us so he could save himself."

  "He was terrified of going to prison. He wasn't a man who could be locked up."

  "He should have thought of that before he became a thief."

  "I know he hurt you. That's why when I saw you, I felt like I should tell you that he might be back in town." She paused. "And the fact that he's here, and now Arthur is dead…it doesn't feel like a coincidence."

  "My father never killed anyone."

  "That you know of. I admired Sam a lot. He was my mentor, and I thought he was spectacularly good at his job. But I realized after he left that I never knew him. You figured out the same thing. Can either of us really say that he couldn't kill someone?"

  "Why would he?" he countered.

  "I don't know. But then, I don't know why he did half the things he did. I need to get back to the showroom. It's a busy day."

  "Fine, but next time I call, answer the phone or call me back. Otherwise, I might start thinking you still have something to hide."

  "That sounds like a threat, Flynn."

  "It's a fact," he said harshly.

  "I'm not your enemy, Flynn. I'm sorry you seem to think I am."

  She led the way out of the office, and he followed, deliberately keeping his gaze focused on her back. She joined a group of customers in the showroom, and he headed outside. Stephen was nowhere in sight, but Callie was leaning against a parking meter, sipping wine from a plastic glass.

  "How did it go?" she asked. "You were gone awhile."

  "I'll tell you in the car. Let's get out of here." He urged her toward the SUV, eager to put his father's gallery behind him.

  Callie followed, dumping her wineglass into a recycle bin. Then she hopped into her seat as he started the engine.

  "Before we go," she said, "I think you might be interested in this." She handed him her phone. "Stephen was talking to his sales associate on the sidewalk. Then he got a call and he seemed agitated. He walked down the street, and I followed him. He moved to that car and had a conversation with a person who I think you might recognize."

  He stared down at the photo. "That's Gerard Bissette."

  "I couldn't get close enough to hear what they were saying, but Stephen seemed upset. I took some pictures, thinking they might be helpful."

  "Did they see you?" he asked sharply.

  "No. I may not be an agent, but I can stay out of sight when I need to. It probably doesn't even relate to the case, but I figured it wouldn't hurt for you to see this."

  He was both impressed and annoyed. "I told you to wander around and have some wine."

  "I did have wine. And I did wander around. I also saw what I saw."

  "I just hope they didn't see you. This is a dangerous situation, Callie."

  She met his gaze. "Flynn, I know that. I know that better than anyone. And they didn't see me. So, get over it. And, by the way, you're welcome."

  He handed her back her phone. "Thank you."

  "A little late, but okay. Now what happened with Gretchen? Did she tell you anything?"

  "She claimed Arthur was interested in a local artist—Imogene Rocca. Like Marcus Vitelli, apparently Arthur was encouraging Imogene to finish a painting that he wanted to buy. Gretchen claims that Arthur fancied himself as someone who could discover new talent."

  "He did think a lot about himself," she said dryly.

  "She also said she thought she saw my father outside the gallery last week. Seemed to think Arthur's death and my father's reappearance were connected."

  "Do you believe her?"

  "I honestly don't know. But my father has no ties to Arthur. They never met before he took off and fled the country."

  She stared back at him. "But they both knew you. And if your father stole art, and Arthur was buying stolen art, then there are ties all over the place."

  He frowned. "You're right. I just wish you weren't."

  She gave him a compassionate smile. "I know how you feel. I wish for a lot of things I can never have. But whatever the truth is, you'll deal with it. You'll get through the storm."

  He smiled. "We're back to the boat?"

  "I was trying to lighten the mood."

  "Nice job." He pulled out of his parking spot, eager to put Laguna Beach in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As they drove toward the desert town of Palm Springs, Callie decided to get Flynn's mind off his dad. "I read through some of Arthur's trust this morning," she said. "My mom gets a sizeable flat sum payment and the condo in Hawaii. She can also stay in the Pacific Palisades house for one year before it's put up for sale. The proceeds from the sale will go to Arthur's foundation as well as the bulk of his other assets, but the Piquard Museum and other arts organizations will be receiving donations as well. Oh, and Layana's studio was also noted in the trust, which was updated four weeks ago."

  "Interesting. And there was no mention of the Palm Springs house?"

  "No. And since the trust was updated recently, it wasn't like he just hadn't had a chance to put the house in there. Although, there were a bunch of LLCs listed that I didn't recognize. You should probably take the binder and go through it. I should have brought it with me, but you can get it when you take me home."

  "A month ago," he mused. "I wonder what spurred the change."

  "I have no idea. I did put in a call to the lawyer. But since it's Sunday, I'm not expecting a return call until tomorrow."

  "Will your mother be unhappy with her inheritance?"

  "I don't think so. Although, she might be sad to move out of the house. She really loves that place. But it won't be the same without Arthur. There might be too many memories there." She paused, thinking about all the changes headed her mom's way. "Going back to work at the museum might be problematic, too. She met Arthur at the museum, and the fact that he died there…I can't imagine her being able to walk across the grand hall and not see his body on the marble floor."

  "That would be difficult."

  "I feel like she's going to be lost in her head again. When she gets out of the hospital, she'll probably need to live with me, or I might have to move into the Palisades house until it's sold." That thought depressed her. She'd gotten used to being on her own, to having a life that didn't include her mother. She'd probably have to reduce her hours at the restaurant, too, which wouldn't make the owner happy. She might even have to get another job.

  "Hopefully, her doctor will be able to help her get through this," Flynn said quietly.

  "I want to believe that; I've just been down this road before."

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. "It's a rough road,
isn't it?"

  "Very rough. Lots of unexpected potholes and surprising curves. But I love her. She's my mom. I can't abandon her. Anyway, let's talk about something else. What did you do this morning?"

  "I started my day in the ocean."

  "Seriously? You went surfing today? It's cold."

  "I had a wetsuit. I do my best thinking on the water."

  "Did you catch any waves?"

  "A few."

  "I'm sure you needed a break. You've been on this investigation nonstop since Friday night."

  "That's how we roll when we catch a case. The truth gets more difficult to find as the days pass. By the way, Savannah and Lucas are going through Arthur's house this afternoon to see if there's anything we missed."

  "I can't imagine Arthur had more than one hiding place."

  "Probably not. But I don't want to leave any stone unturned. I did get some happy personal news this morning."

  "Well, don't keep it to yourself," she said. "I wouldn't mind hearing something happy."

  "One of my agents, Bree, is pregnant. She hosted a brunch at her house this morning. I thought it was just for her husband's birthday, but it turned out there was a big announcement. We'll have a new addition to our team family in about six months."

  "It sounds like your team is close."

  "We're a tight group, which is partly because we've known each other since we went through Quantico together."

  "Really? That's unusual, isn't it? For a class of FBI trainees to stay together?"

  "We were scattered across the country for almost four years, but once I was allowed to build my own team, I went to the people I trusted the most. We all have different skills, and I know how to use those skills to get the job done."

  "There's no jealousy from the others that you're the boss now?"

  "They're used to it. We were broken into teams at Quantico, and I was one of the leaders."

  "That doesn't surprise me. You seem like a natural born leader."

  "Damon Wolfe was the leader of a rival team. There were six of them and six of us, and we went head-to-head on a lot of training missions. I hate to admit that they came out on top a lot, but we put a few W's in the win column."