by Ritter Ames
"So, are we on track for something?" Jack asked. "Or is all of this a means of diffusing our attention to the point where we don't see what we should?"
At least we were thinking along the same lines. I threw out the one connection I had. "The snuffbox. You and I were both after it for vastly different reasons, but it ties to Simon through Tina, Tony B through Tina, and Florence because the forgery looks to have been made here because of the mark and the shipper's bill of lading that Cassie wrangled from Max's original source. And the mark itself is one of legend. Who has appropriated the forgery mark of a dead forger? Or is it more than one person? We know Simon was aligned with Moran, and Tony B was seen with Rollie at the art fair. So is Tony B working for Moran or just extra hired muscle? Or is it all nothing more than confidence men keeping their enemies close? And was Tina a dupe in all of this or Tony B's latest conquest gone wrong? If the latter, was her murder to stop her from giving me the snuffbox, or to keep her from also giving me information at the hand off?"
"All brilliant lines of thought," Jack said, his face contemplative. "But it still doesn't give us clear direction. There's also the number in the safe-deposit box assigned to Simon in Orlando. No one has been able to crack that code either. Did he put the number into the box, or was it and the map placed there by someone else for him to pick up when he came to get the snuffbox from Tina?"
Well, hell! I hadn't thought of that. I knew this wasn't a competition, but I preferred to have already processed a possibility before Jack voiced it. There was another connection to all of these people and artworks. "This is the country where we first tried to get the snuffbox, and now we're led to Florence. And the Greek courier who originally was supposed to give me the snuffbox wasn't just robbed like Tina, he had his throat slashed just like hers. But his death was in Italy. Coincidence? I hardly think so."
"You think if we find Tina's killer, we'll know who killed the Greek?"
I shrugged. "You were the one who said there was no doubt the man who confessed to the murder had been paid to be the scapegoat." Something else lay in all of this, but what? An idea teased my subconscious, but I wasn't sharp enough at the moment to latch on to the answer. Another missing link that eluded me. I shook my head. "Jack, I'm tired. I know I should see something here, some real connection to truly help, but I can't."
He looked at the time on his phone. "We've made progress, and you're right. Neither of our brains is rested enough for this kind of a workout. It's lunchtime, then everything will be shuttered for riposo. Let's follow local tradition."
Ah, riposo, siesta, a nap. Sounded beautiful. But food first. "There's a trattoria just a block from here."
"What? You don't want to share bistecca Fiorentina?"
The enormous rustic Tuscan T-bone big enough to serve two. "If I shared a steak with you now, I'd be out before we hit the dessert course."
"Who said anything about sharing?" Jack laughed at what I knew was my startled expression, and I joined in just as a party of four emerged from the staircase. The problem was, we were both close enough to exhaustion that we couldn't stop laughing once we'd started. Jack motioned for me to follow him back down, and we kept our gazes diverted from each other as we made the return trek. One shared glance and hysteria would start again.
Every table at the trattoria was filled. We needed an alternative, and Jack knew a stand-up sandwich and wine place on the way back to cross the Arno River. "It's a hole in the wall," he said. That was literally the truth. The storefront had an opening at the top of the counter where orders were taken and filled. As we finished our sandwiches and wine, our glasses went onto the shelf along the side wall. Several empties already waited to be retrieved by the dishwasher. A convenient gelato vendor finished off our feast with dessert, the creamy chocolate and hazelnut giandiau for me and the decadent dark-chocolate cioccolato fondente for Jack. We continued moving out of the center of the city as we ate. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to talk, and I was getting too tired to walk, but we were in the pedestrian only zone. Parking in Florence can be a nightmare, so buses and cabs must stay beyond the city center. Once vehicular traffic again shared our space, I searched in vain for an available taxi so I could return to the pension for a nap. I was tempted to flag down one of the Vespas buzzing by and try my luck playing femme fatale to any young Italian male driver to escape Jack. The motor scooters zipped by constantly.
"The sound of those things is bloody annoying," Jack fumed. "No wonder people call them wasps."
"Regardless, I'm sure there's not a one of those grouchy old men who call them wasps who hasn't enjoyed riding a Vespa at least once."
"Always contrary, eh, Laurel?"
I smiled. "Since members of my family maintained that to be true, I won't bother arguing."
Suddenly Jack stopped. "Wait a second. Your family. The foundation."
I turned away from the street to look at him. "What about them?"
"The night we met, you were representing the Beacham Foundation."
"Yes." I frowned at the absurdity of the statement. "I'm always representing the foundation one way or another."
"It just occurred to me. That's exactly what we need."
"The Beacham Foundation?" I wasn't following him. "I think you really need some sleep, Jack. You aren't making any sense."
"Not the foundation. You. We need to get the word out to everyone who matters in the art world that you are here. Let the city know you're here in a big way, and see who comes out to kidnap you again."
"Set myself up? That's your best plan?" I couldn't believe it. "Stake me out like a goat and wait to see who tries to snatch me up and run?"
Jack stared at me. "Staked like a goat? A tethered goat?" He blew out a long breath, then stood back and crossed his arms. "Personally, I was thinking dangle you like a sacrificial lamb, myself."
"And one is different from the other in what way?"
"Semantics if nothing else. And a little bit of Madison Avenue. You're a beautiful woman, so…" He kind of shrugged his shoulders. "You know. Sheep are lovely, and—"
I couldn't help rolling my eyes. My grandfather had kept sheep on a marvelous place he had in Ireland. He'd kept goats there too. I knew the difference. "Sheep are stupid. If I'm going to have to live by my wits, I'd prefer the smarts of a goat."
"You do know the animal analogy was just an expression?"
I ignored his question and smiled, giving a little dig. "So, I'm beautiful, huh?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Beautiful, long legged, smart, and the biggest pain in the arse I know. You're right. A goat reference would be much more apropos."
We stared at one another. The more I thought about it—setting myself up, stirring the pot so to speak, not the sheep or goat thing—the better I liked it.
"I think your idea may be okay." No sense in letting him know after considering it, I thought it was actually pretty great. "I'll contact Cassie and find out what's scheduled in Florence this week and if we have tickets to anything." Unexpectedly, I yawned. "Sorry. I guess dessert was really a mistake, despite how I love gelato. All those carbs."
"Women. They blame everything on carbs," Jack said, disgusted. "You don't need—"
"Sounds like you've had some bad experiences with women," I interrupted. "You know generalizing by gender is the mark of a weak mind. Speaking of which—wait a minute! Women. Gender. I don't know how I could have forgotten. An old friend of mine is holding a big art show here celebrating women." I frowned again, thinking. "You know, I believe it's actually happening tonight, but I'm not really sure where it's being held. I didn't pay much attention since I didn't think I could attend."
"You know Flavia Bello?" Jack looked surprised. Nice to know I could pull some things out of my hat he didn't know about. "Her show's tonight."
"Yes. Longtime family friend. How do you know her?"
"We've met a few times. She's a bit older than you, isn't she?"
"A few years." In truth, probably more than ten,
but I doubted she would admit to it. "We met through our grandfathers. She sent me a couple of tickets I can print out. This is the type of event you had in mind, isn't it?"
"It's exactly what we need, don't you agree? Get you out there in the art public's eye."
"Are we talking about officially attending this together? I'm okay if you want to stay more in the background." In fact, it would likely be better if I attended on my own. Working a crowd alone was one of my strong points. Jack would serve as quite a deterrent to getting people to open up, but if I made the mistake of insisting he not attend with me, I knew he'd remain glued to my side.
Or he would choose the moment to grow even more committed to remaining by my side whether I tried to psych him out or not. I was nearly able to hide my sigh of frustration when I heard his next words.
"Forget it, Laurel. We're going to attend this together," he said firmly.
It was time to throw down the gauntlet. "I'll probably get more action if I'm alone. The more action, the more possibility of leads. This is a system that has worked for me for years. Why screw up a good thing?"
His hands gently closed around my upper arms. "Because for reasons too numerous to list, we are now a team. Partners. Wriggle on the hook as much as you want, Laurel. I've always enjoyed a good fight. You know as well as I do we need each other on this."
I wanted to argue, especially with another animal analogy depicting me on his hook instead of the other way around, but maybe this time he was right about the team thing. Maybe it was time to shut down my doubts about Jack. At least for a short while. What was one evening?
"Okay, okay, point made." I wiggled out of his grasp and took a small step backward, not a defensive move but rather a strategic one. An empty cab headed my way. "I think it might be a night to get some leads. With the list of donors Flavia sent, I have a feeling this is going to be the event of the year, even in a city known for its art events."
He nodded. "I have a feeling this is exactly the ticket we've been looking for."
I held out my hand and whistled. The cab pulled over. "The event probably doesn't start until eight. I don't know about you, but I'll have to pull together some kind of outfit or get Cassie working on it. Frankly, I have no idea what I have in my bag to choose from."
I got into the backseat and started to shut the door.
"Laurel, what do you think you're doing?" He held onto the door so I couldn't close it.
"Let go. I'm going to my hotel to take a nap. I'll meet you tonight on the Ponte Vecchio. I'll get there early. About seven."
His brows moved dangerously close together. "Where are you staying?"
"It's safe. I'm fine. Cassie knows where I am."
"Signorina—" The poor taxi driver looked concerned.
I waved and smiled, as if to say, "Don't worry."
"Jack, you're bothering the driver. Find your own cab." Another car scooted around our cab, horn blaring, and almost clipped him. That was all I needed to get the door away from him and locked. I cracked the window. "I'll meet you on the Ponte Vecchio at seven-ish." My driver started moving away. I called out, "Don't try to track me. I'm removing the cell phone battery again. But I'll put it back in and call you right before I get to the bridge tonight."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Since Jack's win over the event protocol and my escape in the taxi shortly after meant we were tied once again in our private ego battle at one apiece, I figured I'd better do well on my end to prepare for the evening, or I might not get away from him the next time. I may not have asked for a partner, but he was turning into something not at all bad. And our ideas meshed in a good way when he wasn't trying to control everything. Yet a lot of that control was due to the changing kaleidoscope this project seemed to entail. I understood. To be completely honest as well, it was nice sometimes having someone to worry over me. Just not too much.
His idea for tonight held promise, if indeed I was the connection we'd been looking for. It sounded a little conceited to think so, but if his plan worked and our being in the very public place smoked out some player in this farce, it was worth the effort. I still worried though. His rationale was valid, but it was he, after all, who was tied up in the Orlando airport. I could have easily caught the flight without him. Was it Tony B, since he'd spoken to Max the day before, or someone related to the painting Jack stole earlier that morning? Or was it someone else entirely? We knew Tony B was responsible for the Miami car thieves in the Honda—at least he laid claim to the credit—so that tallied over to the side shoring up Jack's idea. But if his henchmen waylaid Jack and tied him up like a Thanksgiving bird, why didn't Tony B brag about the accomplishment too? It wasn't like the slimy bastard not to sing his own praises.
Too many things to consider and not enough sleep. My brain was exhausted. As the cab pulled up at the pension, I passed over a few of my dwindling supply of euros to the cabbie and headed inside to call Cassie.
The balcony drapes were still closed, giving me a more secure feeling that my landlady likely hadn't poked around in my things while I was gone. Not that there was much problem with so little to go through. All of the top-secret stuff stayed in the bottom of my Fendi.
The bed called to me. "In just a minute, you wonderful little bed. I promise," I said. I dropped my purse on the dresser top and pulled out my Italian phone. Probably costing the foundation several times as much per call, but that was Max's problem. He put me with Jack and gave him a blank check. Of course, since I'd told on my boss for giving away too much info to the enemy, Jack was less likely to be quite so accommodating with the information Max thought he was cultivating. Not that I think Jack ever told Max the truth either, and vice versa. I was tired, and my brain was dithering again. Time to set Cassie with a new task.
"Hiya, Laurel." Cassie sounded distracted when she answered, and I could hear the sound of computer keys clicking in the background.
"Hate to bother you, Cass, but I need you to do something for me. I need to look fabulous tonight for an event. Big blowout. Got any ideas?"
"Hmm." I heard Cassie slow her typing. "You probably don't have anything suitable there. I put in a nice dress or two, of course, but nothing that says 'wow.' Nico is here in the office. We're tag teaming on something I want to tell you about soon but not until we know more. We need a coffee break anyway. We'll go get some java and throw around some ideas for tonight. When do you need it?"
Lovely, both members of my A team would be on the hunt. "The event starts at eight. But I need to leave here about an hour early."
"Are you going anywhere in the meantime?"
"Just across the room to the lovely twin bed that's waiting to send me into dreamland."
Cassie laughed. "Sounds like the best plan. You've got to be operating on no reserves at all. Leave it with me, Cinderella. Your dreams are about to come true."
I laughed. "Sounds magical. You have my address, right? In case you can get things delivered here for me? Also, I have some information Jack gave me, and I'll text that your way in case it helps whatever you and Nico are puzzling over today."
"Terrific. I'll let him know more intel is coming."
* * *
I awoke a few hours later to the sound of buzzing. I didn't remember where I was but automatically reached next to me for my phone. It was Cassie.
"Are you asleep?" she scolded playfully.
I shook my head before realizing I had to say it aloud. "No, I'm awake."
She guffawed. "Yeah, right. Well, listen. This will definitely wake you up as nothing else will."
"Two espressos…in a skinny latte with a touch of vanilla and caramel can come through the phone?"
"Listen, and listen good, Laurel. The dead forger?" Then silence.
A dramatic pause was not the best thing in the world right now. I tried to be empathetic but could only manage, "Yeah?"
"He's not the only one."
What did she mean? "Cassie, I'm not sure I heard you correctly."
Cassie's
impatient sigh came through loud and clear. "You know the copy Nico traced that was a forgery of the dead forger's work?"
"Yes, I remember."
"There are more."
"More forgeries signed in the dead forger's method?"
Again, a sigh. "No, Laurel, wake up! There are more forgers' marks being reused. At least that's how it appears. Nico's found several others in more recent use on a few paintings and additional metalwork. Each time the marks are just a shade different than what the original forger always created as a signature. And all the forgers who authored the marks are dead. We don't know what to make of it yet, but Nico is still searching. Some old research published in an obscure journal caught his attention and detailed facts and figures about the commonality of forgeries, and typically what forgers looked for before they copy pieces. This information sent him to look at some specific lesser-known artwork, and he discovered the provenance and authenticity of these pieces also tie back to Florence. But while the bills of lading are dated prior to each of the late forgers' demise, the items all arrived in their current locations within the past few months. We thought you'd want to know what he'd found as soon as possible."
Sure, but that said, what is the information telling us conclusively? But I didn't say this aloud. It would have sounded negative, and my dynamic duo didn't need anything slowing them down. However, there was one part of this information that leapt front and center into my mind. I rolled over and stared at the plastered ceiling. "You're right. Somehow it's hard to grasp, but if you and Nico have found this—"
"What's stopped others?"
"Yeah, what's stopped others?"