Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  "You're telling me that Victoria also deals in stolen art. Is anyone legit?"

  "Plenty of people are; plenty of people aren't," he said with a shrug. "Victoria is very ambitious. She started out wanting to be a famous artist, but she wasn't any good. I told her a long time ago that she had a brilliant mind for business, and she could be running the art world if she went in that direction. It took her a while to realize I was right. I thought she had given up her art completely, but it turns out that her obsession was still there, just below the surface."

  "You're calling her a serial killer—Victoria Waltham, the director of the Piquard Museum, a beautiful, smart, capable woman."

  "I know exactly what I'm saying, Flynn. I also know Victoria better than you do."

  "Just because the painting was in her house doesn't mean she painted it."

  "I considered that, but after Arthur died in her museum, the same way those other people died, I knew it was her."

  He wrestled with the idea his father was trying to sell him. He'd never liked Victoria, but she had a very successful career, and he was still trying to figure out a motive. "Does Victoria know you saw the painting?"

  "I didn't take it or remove it, but she guessed I stole her painting by Jovani. Arthur told me she asked him about me a few days before his death."

  "You talked to Arthur last week?"

  "Yes. On Tuesday. He called me again on Thursday, but I wasn't available. Next thing I knew, he was dead."

  "So, you didn't know he got the belladonna painting."

  "Not until you were in Palm Springs, and I saw you carry it out of the house."

  "I can't believe you were there, and I didn't see you. Were you also there when someone tried to kill me?"

  "No. When I arrived, I saw a guy run out of the house and jump into his car. I heard the sirens a moment later. I wish I'd gotten there sooner."

  "How did you get there at all? Did Arthur tell you about his secret art stash?"

  "Yes, I knew about it. And I had a feeling you'd end up down there." He paused. "I know Victoria didn't kill Arthur herself, but I believe she's the artist of the belladonna painting. The question is—what do you believe?"

  "I have no idea."

  "I have nothing to gain by pointing the finger at Victoria, Flynn. In fact, I could have said nothing instead of putting myself in jeopardy, but I want to honor my friend and protect you."

  "I need a way to tie that painting to Victoria besides your word."

  "An x-ray would tell us a lot about the painting, including whether or not she painted over another piece, something that might have had a signature. I'm assuming the bureau will have someone conducting those tests."

  "Yes, but it will take time."

  "Time you don't have." His dad paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "I have to say that something feels off about this murder. It's not as precise or as clean as the others."

  "No, it's not," he agreed. "I reviewed those files again yesterday. The crimes were perfect—no clues, no traces of evidence anywhere. She could be losing her touch. Or she didn't know Arthur took the painting to Palm Springs, to his underground bunker. She thought she'd be able to retrieve it from his house after he died." Flynn paused as his phone buzzed. He didn't recognize the number for the incoming text.

  But the photo made his heart stop. Callie was lying on a floor on her side, her hands tied behind her back, her eyes closed. The message said: She's not dead yet. If you want her back, bring the belladonna painting to the Hollister Sculpture on Mulholland Drive at noon. Come alone. Otherwise, she dies.

  "Oh, my God," he murmured, staring in horror at her picture. She was supposed to be at the hospital with her mother. She was supposed to be safe. He never should have left her alone, not even for a second.

  "What is it?" his father asked.

  "Callie has been kidnapped. They want to trade her for the painting." He had to fight the fear racing through his bloodstream. There was no time for emotion. "I'm supposed to hand it off at noon." He glanced at his watch. It was ten. He had a little time, but not much.

  "You can't do that. The painting is the only way to prove Victoria's guilt. It's your leverage."

  "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job." He paced around in a circle, his brain whirring with options, all of them bad. He couldn't play this out to the kidnapper's demands. There was no guarantee Callie would be let go or kept alive, even if he did turn over the painting. He had to find another way.

  "Can I make a suggestion?" his father asked.

  "No." He blew out an angry breath. "Yes."

  "We find her before the meet."

  "That's great," he said sarcastically. "I didn't think of that. Got any idea where she is?"

  "Let me look at the photo again."

  He handed his father his phone. "It has to be a place Victoria has access to. But it wouldn't be her home. I don't think it's the museum. Damn! It could be anywhere." He felt more overwhelmed than he'd ever felt in his life, because the victim, the person in trouble was Callie.

  He couldn't stand the thought of her being hurt, and in the photo she appeared to be unconscious. He prayed she was still breathing.

  "There's something about the pattern of light falling across Callie's face," his dad muttered. "I can't see the window above her, but I'd venture a guess that it's stained glass, patterned in some way."

  He stared at his dad in amazement. "You think she's in a church?"

  "No, I don't. See that by mark by her foot? It's the frame of a painting." His father handed him back his phone.

  He hadn't even noticed the tiny black square at the bottom of the picture. "How can you tell it's a frame?"

  "Because I'm good at details, especially when I'm looking at a room."

  "Casing a house, you mean."

  His father shrugged. "We all get our skills somewhere. The floor is stone, but it's also stained. The splotch of blue by her head looks like old paint to me. The wall is aged." His dad paused, his expression thoughtful.

  "I don't have time for this. I need to go to my office, get my team."

  "Wait a second, Flynn. I know where she is. There's a warehouse in downtown LA. It was originally a stained-glass artists' co-op, but it was converted into a warehouse about ten years ago. The space is now used by museums, galleries, and dealers to store art being transported through the Los Angeles area. It's not expensive art. Most of it is worth nothing, although occasionally there are pieces of interest."

  He stared at his father in suspicion. "It's amazing that you can tell me exactly where Callie is based on some light pattern and a dark square. Maybe you wanted to be here when I got the text so you could send me in the wrong direction. This could be a setup."

  His father gave him a disappointed look. "You're very cynical. I guess that's my fault."

  "You guess?" He shook his head. "I'm done with this conversation and I'm done with you. I need to find Callie."

  "Then you're not done with me. I once broke into this warehouse. I know all the doors, all the windows, all the inside specs. As I mentioned, the security system is minimal. I doubt Victoria will have more than a few people with her. All the previous murders were done with a very small footprint. I can help you get Callie back, Flynn."

  "I have a team I can call in."

  "You don't need a team. You just need me."

  "I don't need you," he said automatically, even though at this moment, he probably did need him.

  "You can hate me later. Let's go."

  "Fine. But you better keep up, because I'm not slowing down for you."

  He jogged down the pier to his car, his father right on his heels.

  As he started the engine, he couldn't help thinking that the last time they'd driven together had been when he was sixteen and practicing for his driver's test. A hell of a lot had happened since then.

  Could he really trust the information his father was giving him?

  He didn't think he had a choice. If he didn't act on it,
Callie could die. If he did act on it, and it was wrong, she could die, too. He had to rescue her before the swap, catch her kidnapper unaware. It was his best chance to get her back alive.

  His gut churned at the thought of losing her. He couldn't let that happen. She had a whole life to live. She had so many things to do, so many dreams, and he wanted to share in each and every one of them. They'd only just found each other. This couldn't be the end. It just couldn't be.

  "We'll get your girl back," his dad said.

  "You better be right about this." As he got onto the freeway, he texted the kidnapper back, agreeing to turn over the painting.

  Then he punched in Savannah's number and filled her in on the details of the meet, asking her to get a team in position at the installation on Mulholland. While she wanted to send backup to the warehouse he was headed to, he didn't have time to wait for anyone. They'd be at least twenty minutes behind him, and every minute counted. If Callie wasn't in the warehouse, then he could still get to Mulholland in time for the swap.

  "Good idea," his dad said as he hung up. "Make it look like you're going ahead with the meet."

  "I don't need your approval, nor do I want it."

  "Got it. But can I just say—"

  "No. Don't say anything."

  "I'm proud of you, Flynn. You've grown up to be a good man."

  "Someone had to balance out your sins."

  "Is that why you joined the FBI?"

  "I don't know why I'm even talking to you."

  "Because we're here—together."

  "For now," he said. "But not forever."

  "No," his father agreed. "A long time ago, I made a terrible choice that made forever impossible."

  "But you don't regret it, do you?"

  "I regret hurting you and your mother, but I had to run. I wouldn't have survived in jail. I would have rather died. Maybe you would have had more respect for me if I'd killed myself."

  His jaw tightened. "Don't play the martyr. You're a criminal. You knew what you were doing every step of the way. You chose to play with danger, and it was never just about the money."

  "You're right. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I like the thrill as much as anything. It makes me feel alive, powerful, and in control. You're not so different from me, Flynn."

  He didn't want to believe he was anything like his father, but there was a small part of him that thought he might be.

  "Is there anything else you want to ask me, Flynn? Because once we get to the warehouse, things are going to happen fast, and you're going to let me walk away at the end, right?"

  "We made a deal," he said tersely. "Unlike you, I keep my promises. Even though it could cost me my job."

  "No one knows we're together, do they?"

  He almost wished he could say he'd already reported his father to the bureau. But they were past the point of lying. "Callie knows. She's the only one."

  "You trusted her enough to tell her about me?"

  "Yes."

  "She must be important. Did you know her before Arthur was killed?"

  "No, I didn't. But now I feel like I've known her forever."

  "I felt that way about your mother."

  "Until you left her."

  "She had a better life without me. She wouldn't have moved back to England. She wouldn't have written her books. She would have been trapped in a life waiting for me to get out, to come back. She wouldn't have left me. It wasn't in her to do that."

  "Now, you want to pretend you were selfless?"

  "No. I was selfish. I never should have married her or had a baby with her, because I was living in a house of cards, and they all fell down. My only excuse was love. I was blinded by it. I wanted to have the family that I'd always dreamed of."

  "But you also wanted to be a thief."

  "Yes," he admitted. "I know I've disappointed you, Flynn."

  "Disappointment doesn't begin to cover how I feel about you."

  "I understand. I can never make it up to you. But I can help you stop a serial killer. I can help you get justice for Arthur, and I can help you save the woman you're falling in love with. That's why I came out of the shadows."

  "Or you could be lying about everything."

  "I could be, but I'm not. I wish you could believe me."

  "I wish I could, too."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Callie opened her eyes, blinking in confusion, as her brain tried to process where she was, what was happening. Everything was fuzzy. Her head didn't hurt, but her vision was blurry. As she tried to reach for her eyes to rub the sleep out of them, she realized her hands were tied behind her back. She was half-lying, half-sitting on a cold stone floor, and in front of her were stacks of crates and a couple of paintings propped against the wall. The room was small, no more than ten by ten, with a tall window with diamond-paned glass that held specks of green and coral.

  It was strange to see such a pretty window in what amounted to a large closet or storage area. Where the hell was she?

  She didn't remember that kind of window on the museum building or at the gallery where Flynn had gone to meet Gretchen, but she was in some place connected to art. She just wished she knew how she'd gotten here.

  She remembered standing outside the hospital, waiting for her car, when someone had grabbed her and pressed something against her nose so she couldn't breathe. Then she'd been shoved into a van. Had she seen her kidnappers? She didn't think so, but there had to have been two of them—the driver and the one who had come up behind her.

  She sat up, her gaze taking in as many details as she could. Along with the high window that would be difficult to reach, there was one door. She managed to get to her feet and walk over to the door. She turned around so she could wrap her hand around the knob and try to open it, but the knob didn't move; it was locked.

  She looked for some other way out. There was a good-sized ceiling vent, but how would she get up there with nothing to stand on, and her hands tied behind her back?

  Fear started to take hold as she realized the seriousness of her predicament, which was followed by questions. Why had someone wanted to kidnap her? What did they think she knew? How had they known she was at the hospital? Why did they want her alive when other people had already been killed?

  She could only come up with one answer. Someone wanted to use her for something. To get to her mother? To get to Flynn?

  But how would kidnapping her gain anyone anything? She wasn't rich and Arthur's money was tied up. Even if her mother wasn't in the hospital, she probably couldn't get her hands on much.

  If it wasn't about money, then it had to be about something else…

  The painting. Of course! It had to be about the painting. Flynn had taken it from the house in Palm Springs. It was in a secure location. If the killer was desperate to get it back, then they needed leverage, and she was it.

  She wondered if Flynn already knew she was gone. He'd be going out of his mind, blaming himself for leaving her on her own. But she was the idiot who had decided she wasn't in danger, who thought she could just call a car and go home.

  She drew in an angry breath, but she told herself to focus, think.

  That brought her mind to Flynn's father. How was he tied into all this? Had his father's sudden reappearance been a way to separate Flynn and herself?

  She looked around for her bag, but it was nowhere in sight. Obviously, the kidnappers had not wanted to leave her with a phone. But maybe Flynn could trace her phone and figure out where she was, unless her phone had been tossed out along the way. That was probably the case.

  Her heart was pounding against her chest, and she felt close to panic, because the truth was hitting her in the face. She might be leverage now, but what about later? What about when the kidnappers got what they wanted? Would she be able to survive?

  She had to find a way to save herself. She had her mom to take care of. She had a life she wanted to live. And she wasn't going down without a fight.

  She slowly twisted
her hands and wrists, flattening out her fingers, so that the tie would loosen. After a few minutes, she felt a bit more space, but her skin was already starting to sting from the friction. She had to get free before anything swelled up. She tried to make herself as calm as possible, closing her eyes and using yoga mantras to loosen her muscles, to release her tension, to make herself as small and flexible as possible. She would turn herself into a boneless mass.

  Pulling one hand up and the other down, a twist of the wrist one way, then the other, and to her shock and amazement, one hand came free. She pulled the tie off her other arm and shook her arms out, feeling an amazing wave of relief. At least she had her hands. Now what?

  She could possibly break one of the frames apart, use the jagged edge as a weapon. But it wouldn’t do much against a gun.

  Her gaze moved to the ceiling once more, then over to the window. There was a small sill on the window, wide enough to stand on. She might be able to reach the vent from there. But how could she get up on the sill?

  There were a couple of crates in the room. She dragged them over to the window, putting one on top of the other. Standing on the highest one, she could put her hands on the window. She tried pressing down and jumping, but she couldn't land herself high enough. She got down, digging through the pile of stuff in the corner of the room, feeling a bit more triumphant as she found three cans of paint. She placed them on her makeshift ladder and managed to get her knee onto the windowsill. She pulled herself up from there, using the window lever for support.

  A bit more maneuvering, and she got herself into a squatting position. Bracing her hand against the window, she slowly stood up and now she was close enough to the ceiling to push the vent open. The square space was about three-feet wide, plenty big enough for her to crawl through. But it took all the courage she had to release the window and grab the edges of the vent, swinging her legs into the air.

  For a moment, she thought she was going to fall, but somehow she managed to hang on and pull herself up into the vented crawl space. She was really grateful now for the bootcamp she'd taken last summer.