Marked Masters

by Ritter Ames

  "Yeah, like the way the shadows ebbed and flowed across the meadows. Like the light was shifting all the time."

  "And how the treetops always seem to shimmer just a bit in the wind."

  "Was Constable's gift, it was." Gordon nodded. "Great skill."

  Before I could ask what pieces he owned, the rocker switched gears. "I got me a couple of Gainsboroughs too. Both of mine are portraits, but he really just wanted to do landscapes, so the people in the foreground are fine, yet unremarkable. The setting, though, that's the masterpiece each time. Gainsborough picked up the time of the year beautifully in each of the paintings I own. Both are great estates, with the owners all fancy dress in the close part of the painting, and the landholding sweeping back and circling behind. Summer in one, autumn the other."

  "So, do you concentrate on English painters?"

  "Pretty much. Would like a J. W. Turner, but I keep getting outbid anytime one becomes available. And you really have to have the right space and lighting and all for his work. But I segued out a bit." He ducked his head and grinned, looking almost like a mischievous schoolboy. "I always liked the Alice books by Lewis Carroll, and I heard about this artist…"

  I laughed. I couldn't help myself. At Gordon's shocked expression, Clive hurried over, so I spoke quickly. "I'm sorry. I figured you were going to say you added Quinten Massys to your collection. Though the artist is from the Netherlands, it's believed his painting A Grotesque Old Woman was the ideal for Sir John Tenniel's illustrations of the Duchess in Alice in Wonderland."

  A huge grin spread across Gordon's face, and Clive took three slow steps back again.

  "That's exactly what I was going to talk about," Gordon said. "Imagine using Leonardo da Vinci's work of grotesque figures to base your painting, A Grotesque Old Woman, as a means to give a social statement in the fifteenth century about women who try to look younger than they are."

  Yes, the thought occurred to me about the pot calling the kettle black as Gordon sat there in his tight leather pants and pushed his salon-colored hair behind one ear. But I remembered I was a guest, and I knew Clive was counting on me to keep Gordon occupied. Somehow, I didn't think the rock guitarist would appreciate the irony.

  Still, his passion was contagious, and I found myself enthralled by the tales of how he acquired each of the favorite works in his collection. My world began tilting though when he pulled a sheath of photos from a leather briefcase standing alongside his chair. He flipped through them and said, "Heard you were at the Browning event. Even saw some snaps on social media. What did you think of their setup for the Sebastian exhibit? Getting one of his works is on my bucket list, but only one since he isn't a Brit. But the one I really want was stolen years ago."

  He turned his hand to show the top photo, facing out, and I stared at a small archive print of Juliana.

  I had to clear my throat a couple of times before I could speak. Wordlessly, I took the print from him, placing it in my lap so I could look down and no one would see the tears I knew shined in my eyes. "Yes, I think everyone is under the assumption this piece is in the private collection of some megalomaniac." Maybe the term was a little over the top to apply to Tony B, but my knees still tingled when I thought of crawling to escape from the gallery room. At the same time, my heart ached because I left without setting Juliana free.

  I just hoped I'd have another chance before Tony B decided to carry out his threat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The ear-bleeding rhythms were cranked up again an hour or so later as we buckled up for landing in Florence. While the rock-and-roll appearances weren't anything I wanted to relive anytime soon, I did hope I'd see the band again. I had a chance to talk to the other members when Gordon finally decided our face time was completed, and the rest seemed like a bunch of regular guys with leather clothes and electric instruments. You know, just boys next door with a trillion rabid fans and the bank accounts to match. HA!

  However, the best part was Clive took over my care and maintenance when we landed, all with the band's blessing. He handled my luggage, returned the burner phone, and gave me the new smartphone Cassie had brought along, and he made sure his direct number was loaded in case I needed to reach him or the band later for any contingency. I knew part of my allure was the fact Gordon wanted me as his personal art listener, but I'd had worse gigs, and none of them kept me in the luxury of a private jet. I especially counted my blessings and wished for my very own roadie when I was ushered through customs in the blink of an eye. Then Clive shook my hand and gave me a wink as he turned to stride back to the plane. I headed for the taxi stand.

  I texted Nico and Cassie that I'd safely arrived in Florence, then used the burner phone to do the same for Jack and Max. I didn't trust either of the latter at the moment and wanted to be able to rid myself of any inconvenient GPS tracking if I determined I should. I got immediate responses back, positive on the first two and livid abbreviated rantings from the latter micromanaging duo. When the burner phone started buzzing with a call, I turned it off and decided not to wait to see what happened next. I dropped the now nonemergency phone into the closest trash bin. I'd call Jack later when he had the chance to cool down, but I notified Cassie in the meantime that if he or Max called to tell them I promised to stay in communication. Nothing more. I had a few things to do before I let those two spew at me with their expected rancor. At least the cab ride was short. The reason we'd wanted the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola was because downtown Florence sat only a fifteen-minute cab ride away.

  The first cabbie in line was a Florentine native who looked like he could have been Nico's much flirtier cousin. He opened the back door for me with a flourish, then stowed my rolling bag in the back of the small vehicle. A second later he was behind the wheel and firing off incoherent questions, a broad smile flashing across his face.

  "English, please." I pointed to myself. "American."

  "Ah, Americano." He nodded, then pulled out into traffic. "Destination? Address?"

  I knew enough Italian to function, but playing dumb had always served me well. Since Nico was still working on lodging options to hide me from Tony B, I figured I may as well see what I could find out in the meantime. With an exaggerated shrug, I shook my head in the negative and said, "I have to find something. Do you know a good place to stay?"

  He pursed those beautiful lips, and I knew he was contemplating my clothes and designer accessories. "Four star?" he said, hopefulness in his eyes.

  "No." I shook my head, frowning. I raised a hand and held my thumb about an inch from my index finger. "I'm on a budget."

  "Eh…a budget," he said, disappointed. Turning his head to look at me again, he almost sideswiped another vehicle. I don't care what city in Italy I traveled to, I refused to drive myself. If it was that dangerous when a native was driving, I knew I had no hope of getting anywhere in one piece if I were at the helm.

  Time to check what cash I had. "Just a minute," I said, then held up a finger. "Un minuto." I assumed that was right, because he nodded and turned all of his attention back to the road.

  I unzipped the smaller side pocket of my luggage and found an envelope Cassie stashed inside. As expected, it contained enough euros to last me several days. And since most of Florence was accessible by a fifteen or thirty-minute walk, I could stretch this a little further if I stayed out of any more cabs. "Something reasonable." My cabbie raised his eyebrows in a questioning way, and I held up my finger and thumb again. "Budget. Comfortable but cheap."

  "Two star? Three star?" he asked.

  "I'd prefer three, but it depends on the price." He acted like he didn't understand, but I figured he knew more English than he let on. Then I had a brainstorm that should have come to me sooner. "A pension? Please? Close to the Duomo? Or to the Via dei Serragli maybe?" The Palazzo Medici was on the Via dei Serragli, and I had no hope of staying there. But at least it gave him an idea of the area I aspired to and might give him some ideas. Apparently, the clues worked.


  "Across the Arno?" he asked.

  "If it's close."

  He nodded and made a quick turn.

  I had some contacts in Florence, of course, but if I could use the taxi driver to secure my room, I'd be a little more incognito. Max knew many of my European connections and had the contacts to easily find out more—and spill the beans about where I was, much like he had to Tony B just a few days ago. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a place to start.

  At some point, when I had a little privacy, I needed to get some digital face time with Cassie to explain the whole situation to her and get her focused on new tasks. While I needed to keep old "loose lips" from giving away my current location and everything else, she needed to be the go-between for Max and me. Nico and I had worked too hard to get me to Florence under Tony B's radar, and I needed to keep Max from telling anyone else. Cassie had turned into quite the charmer where he was concerned, and I decided I'd better use that asset in this situation. I didn't particularly like talking to my boss on a good day—unless I had earplugs to combat the shouting—and this was far from the figurative blue skies kind of moment. Though the literal sky outside my taxi window was pretty close to perfect.

  Ten minutes later we were on the Oltrarno side of Florence, and a short street past Via dei Serragli. I didn't catch the name of the street we turned onto but understood when he pulled up to a nondescript white-and-blue home. The place was small in comparison to its Medici-inspired neighbors. In fact, I think it was once a carriage house of some sort. But my driver opened my door with a flourish, grabbed my bag, and motioned me to follow him to the door, my luggage bouncing on its little wheels behind him.

  I had no real idea what he told the severe dark-haired woman who greeted us. She thawed a bit when my driver started talking euros, and I pulled money out to pay him. He quoted another number, looking at the hotelier for confirmation. When she nodded, he flashed his white teeth at me and raised his eyebrows as if proud of the bargaining he'd accomplished on my behalf. The sum was less than I expected, but I also assumed it didn't include any meals. That was fine. A soft bed in a quiet house off the beaten path and off Tony B's or Moran's radar was all I asked. The driver left, and minutes later I was ushered up the narrow stairs and into my accommodations.

  The room had a lovely view of the cathedral skyline over the intermediate rooftops and a balcony where I could gaze onto the signora's garden. She spoke to me in rapid-fire Italian, of which I knew enough to realize she was asking if the room was satisfactory. "Sì. Buono."

  I didn't try anything further. My mind was feeling a little foggy, and I didn't want to misspeak and risk accidentally saying something offensive. I passed enough euros to cover a week, thanking the heavens that Cassie had sent what money she had. The signora actually smiled then, but the facial movement was so fleeting I almost missed it. She motioned that the toilet was down the hall, and then she finally left me alone.

  I sank onto the twin bed, covered with a lovely rose and lace spread. The walls were white, and a crucifix hung over the plain wooden headboard. It was austere but comfortable. A tiny closet was in one corner, and an overstuffed chair upholstered in a muted floral stood in the other, with a pine chest topped by a wood-framed mirror filling the space between. Overall, acceptable. Close to the main part of Florence, and the perfect bolt-hole for someone who needed to venture out yet have a place to run and hide.

  There on that lovely lace coverlet, I felt my body start to quiver. My gaze drifted to the window, picking out Brunelleschi's magnificent dome atop the Duomo. I stared hard at the sight, willing myself to calm, for my courage to return once more to the forefront.

  I didn't know if it was some form of shock, a bit of exhaustion, or a large measure of common sense that invaded my physical being, but I soon realized my mind and body were trying to tell me what my stubbornness attempted to ignore. I couldn't do this alone. Not here. Not now.

  Tony B could have eyes and ears all over Italy, and we were already here because we presumed Moran had something in play in Florence. And despite all of my safeguards, either of them could play cat and mouse with me as long as it remained interesting, whether I liked it or not.

  True, I had resources of my own, people who would keep me safe and work with me as I needed. But I'd acknowledged the risk of trying to reach out in any of those directions. Who was to say that any or all of my contacts hadn't already been compromised? Hadn't already spotted me on my journey in and left a friendly message to that "nice Tony B" who would have called earlier and asked to be alerted if the signorina arrived in the city? I already knew Moran's objective was stealing masterpieces, but I had no idea what game Tony B was playing at the moment beyond holding The Portrait of Three.

  My body shook harder, and I hugged my torso, feeling aghast when tears splashed onto my skirt.

  Okay, this is quite enough. The paranoia must end this minute.

  There was only one thing to do. Call the one person I could count on to back me against Moran or Tony B. Nico was out. He hated fieldwork and had reiterated his feelings on the subject back in the Miami airport. Cassie would be in Florence on the next flight if I called her, but an art restorer/personal assistant was not the skill set I needed.

  I retrieved my phone from my bag and dialed. The call was picked up immediately.

  "Where the bloody hell are you?"

  I took a quick breath, then answered, proud of the steady tone in my voice, "Florence, of course."

  "Meet me at Ghiberti's Doors in fifteen minutes," Jack barked.

  "I'll be there in an hour."

  He was sputtering as I cut the connection.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Before I met Jack, I needed to talk to Cassie. However, before I could talk to Cassie, I needed to make sure Jack couldn't storm the castle because I'd put him off schedule. I turned off my phone and removed the battery. If he'd worked at superspeed, he may have locked onto my GPS position already, but I doubted it. I can remove a battery in record time, and I was primed to do so even before he gave his ultimatum.

  So how was I going to call Cassie? Well, my very bright assistant obviously realized I might ditch my burner phone, so she had included another something extra with all those lovely euros she added to my rolling wardrobe bag—one of the Italian-based phones we kept in the office. The foundation had phones for every country, and for a country like Italy that was particularly helpful. I won't go into detail, but while my smartphone contract is supposed to enjoy worldwide coverage, such isn't always the case.

  I extracted the always to remain secret from Jack phone from my bag and dialed. I may not have been able to see her as we spoke, but safe audio was always better than risky video.

  "It's about time you called," she huffed in greeting.

  "Hello to you too. Or, I guess I should say buon giorno."

  "Yeah, yeah. Quit being clever. I'm mad at you."

  Eek! Not what every boss dreams of hearing. "I'm sorry, Cassie, but truly, this has been my first real chance to talk to you. Clive wouldn't let me have a phone on the plane, and I threw away the burner phone at the airport to keep Jack from tracking me, and—"

  "I know. I know. Stop. It's okay," Cassie said. "But I have some news, and I've been dying to tell you. But you wouldn't call. Are you in a private place?"

  I walked over and closed the drapes at the balcony door, suddenly paranoid. "Yes, super secret. Tell me what you have."

  "Well…" And Cassie launched into a lot of technical jargon about how she finally found a way into some of the corrupted areas of the flash drive I'd discovered last month in one of Simon's hidey-holes. She'd been mining the portions she could open, matching up stolen works of art against sheets from Interpol and the FBI. Not all of the art on the drive were missing, so we had been operating under the assumption that whatever was still where it belonged was on a potential hit list for theft by Simon or, through his connection, by Moran. The inaccessible sectors worried us for obvious reasons. We couldn't try to pu
t out alerts on things we knew nothing about. But now Cassie had news.

  "I got the one sector open, and I'm going to fine-tune my technique to see if I can get more sectors accessible by the end of the day. However, here is the clincher." Cassie went silent then, and I was nearly biting my nails in anticipation. When she didn't speak right away, I thought I'd lost the connection.

  "Hello, Cassie, hello."

  "I'm here."

  "Why did you stop talking?"

  "I paused for dramatic effect."

  I sighed. I couldn't help it. I'd had very little sleep in the past seventy-two hours, had to listen patiently to an overly enthused rock star art fanatic, and a moment before had pissed off a man whom I needed to work with—though we did always seem to get the job done better if there was friction between us. Maybe that was why I called him before Cassie, so I could put him off and wind him up in the process. Suddenly, I realized she was talking, and I hadn't been listening.

  "Cassie, wait. I have jet lag on steroids. Humor me, please, and tell me what you just said after pausing for dramatic effect."

  She laughed then, and I knew I was forgiven for spacing out. "I'm sorry. I know you must be totally wiped out. Do you have a nice place to stay?"

  "Yes, a room in a private home. My taxi driver was very accommodating. I'll text you the address."

  "No worries. I can get it from this call."

  It seemed like everyone knew where I was except me. But I tuned back in when she started talking art again.

  "It was the snuffbox that really brought it all together. Nico sent it to the office by courier and added a note to check out the mark on the bottom. He thought it was a forger in Florence and wanted you to have the information as soon as possible."

  "Okay, let me find a pen and pad—"

  "No, I'll e-mail you." I heard her clicking keys and knew when I replaced my battery I would have e-mail pings on my regular cell. I was wishing I'd asked the landlady for some water. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until I started talking.