Abstract Aliases (A Bodies of Art Mystery Book 3)

by Ritter Ames

“I take it you’ve converted this vehicle to military class?” I asked. I kept a death grip on the gun.

  Rollie nodded, and recapped the wine. “Yes, and I would suggest getting back into your seatbelt. The ride shall become bumpy in a moment.”

  Jean-Luc cut the wheel to the right, and I learned the true value of a G-Class Mercedes. We entered a snow-covered field and were a good distance before our assailants got two of the other vehicles off the road to follow us. The remaining two cars stayed behind.

  “They will have difficulty catching us, but not impossible,” Rollie said, studying the view out the back. “Find another route to the airport, Jean-Luc, in case their luck improves or they call reinforcements.”

  “What if they call in a helicopter?” I asked.

  “Excellente! We may also.”

  Jean-Luc barked out the name Maurice and a roadway number, to which Rollie responded, “Oui,” and pulled out his cell. The conversation was brief, but it sounded like we were going to get a new vehicle and driver soon.

  “Contingency plan?” I asked

  “Absolutement.”

  “I was kind of looking forward to the helicopter idea.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Poor Jean-Luc kept us headed into the blackness, the headlights bouncing as they showed every obstruction ahead. Our assailants appeared as only bright pairs of lights through the back glass.

  One in particular seemed to be having considerable difficulty keeping to the race. Not that it mattered. All they needed to do was follow the tracks in the snow. How many off-road journeys could anyone find roving through the Black Forest on a night like this one?

  “Now you understand why we need to get you out of Germany,” Rollie said, driving the point home.

  I wasn’t ready to concede anything. “You picked me up in an armored vehicle. I can’t see these particular options as part of a Mercedes sales package.”

  “My grandfather and I do have enemies. We must always plan accordingly. Tonight…Tonight you must understand you are at risk.”

  “I get it, Rollie,” I said, feeling a little chagrined. He did come to help me, after all. “Old habits for me.”

  “Yes, I know.” He grinned. “Before you ask, I do not yet have word about your—”

  “Ermo Colle.” I knew what was coming and hurried to stop his words. I wasn’t ready to think of the man as any part of my genetic pool.

  “Ah, yes, Ermo Colle,” Rollie replied, his tone soft. I held my breath. He must have seen I was fighting tears. He clapped his hands and briskly changed the tone of the conversation. “I am assuming these are his lieutenants following us. Which means nothing other than his attack is being avenged, or he remains intent on silencing you.”

  “I understand why your grandfather warned Colle was afraid of me. The plastic surgeries weren’t enough to hide him.” I had a much clearer understanding of what Jack had been trying to teach me about the way he recognized people who didn’t want to be recognized.

  “He is likely to change his appearance again.”

  Discussion was getting difficult. We hit a particularly savage expanse of rough terrain and hung on. I stared out the windows, mentally helping Jean-Luc drive through the extended rough patch. When the journey settled into a less active state, Jean-Luc nodded toward the rearview mirror and grunted. Rollie twisted in his seat.

  “It appears we’ve lost our entourage,” he said.

  “Are we still switching cars?”

  “Oui,” Rollie said. “We don’t want to break down en route, and this vehicle has been punished enough, I believe. The other two vehicles could have also split up to cut us off somewhere down route. We should not make it easy for them.”

  No, definitely not easy.

  Time to see if he was open for another round of Twenty Questions.

  “So, Rollie, if I need to beware of Hamish, is there anyone else I should take note of? After all, I had Weasel and Werewolf chasing me in London, and Jack told me they work for your grandfather.”

  “Weasel? Werewolf?”

  I thought for a minute, trying to dredge up the names Jack gave for the pair. “Fourth? No, Firth. Firth and Marker.”

  He laughed. “Oh, oui, they were keeping you safe. My grandfather was…hmm…giving Simon some rope. Simon promised to bring in the sword, but I was concerned for your safety. My grandfather sent them to protect you.”

  “They tried to chloroform me on a Tube train.”

  Another nonchalant shrug. “They are idiots,” he said.

  A shout of excitement from Jean-Luc directed our attention to the front and the blessedly clear roadway appearing ahead of us in the headlights. In four-wheel drive, the truck had little difficulty climbing the roadbed to get back onto asphalt. I sighed when the shock absorbers again provided a normal ride.

  “The palazzo in Florence,” I said, working through my mental list. “Was it your grandfather’s counterfeiting factory? Or an operation Tony B managed for Ermo Colle?”

  I thought I saw a flash of irritation cross Rollie’s face, but the light was mostly from the front dashboard, and I couldn’t be certain. His voice was pleasant enough when he answered, so I assumed I was mistaken. “Tony B stored some crates without permission. No longer. He has gotten what he deserves as well. Though I personally have no direct knowledge about it.”

  Yeah, right. He hadn’t answered my question either. “The palazzo, was it your organization’s or Colle’s?”

  “Why do you do what you do, Laurel?” He took my free hand. I kept the other wrapped around the grip of the gun. “Works of art are hung in museums like they are items in storage facilities. Others kept packed away and hidden from a lack of space to display the works. No one sees everything all the time, and with more masterpieces protected behind glass each day, no one can peer close enough to notice the difference between good copies and originals.”

  Meaning he wasn’t answering, but in a way he was. I thought back to the excellent copy of Woman Dressing Her Hair I now knew was painted as a copy by Jack’s mother. An intentional copy. How it hadn’t been a Sebastian original, but her brushstrokes, beautifully close to his method, had confused me as I looked at it.

  “An original work is infinitely more than the sum of its parts, Rollie. The heart and mind of the artist is contained in each work, as well as the impressions of their lives at the time. Whether their home lives were happy. If they wanted to leave a message behind to show their children that they loved them. Brushstrokes and paint colors are only one part, but all of it is crucial. No ‘good’ copy, no matter how well done, can perfectly duplicate the genius and craft of an original artist.”

  He curled his lip and chuckled, then pulled the wine from the container in the floor. “Let us drink to a successful escape. We should meet up with Maurice momentarily. Correct, Jean-Luc?”

  Our driver grunted a response.

  I didn’t want any wine, but if I wanted more answers I figured I’d better try to finesse things a little.

  The wineglass in the cup holder was perfectly intact, making me appreciate the deepness of the holders after our bumper car journey. Rollie poured wine into the glass and handed me the stemware. He reached into the back for another glass. “Go on, drink. Do not wait for me.”

  As he started to pour a glass for himself, I sipped the vintage. “This is very good.”

  “Mais oui. Only the best.” He grinned and clinked my glass.

  I drank another sip as Jean-Luc spoke up, asking something about directions. Rollie set his glass into the cup holder and leaned forward to listen.

  Suddenly, I was starving. I’d been going out to get food when Simon appeared in the room hours ago, and I’d never eaten anything. All of the subsequent excitement hadn’t helped either. The wine had enough calories, and I h
oped it would stave off the stomach pangs. Once Rollie and Jean-Luc ended their discussion I’d ask if they had any cheese and crackers in the back. Anything to munch. Another long sip and I finished off the wine, ready for a refill.

  The wooziness hit a second later. At first I thought it was from the hunger, until I couldn’t make my tongue form words. My vision started to fog. Rollie removed the wineglass from my hand and didn’t ask if I was okay. The last thought I had before the darkness fell was, Jack is going to be pissed off I didn’t remember to test the wine with my fingernail first.

  Twenty-Three

  When I woke up, Rollie was capping smelling salts. We were in an entirely different vehicle with a different driver—Maurice, I supposed—and sitting at the airport. I recalled my last thought before blacking out and promised myself Jack would never learn about this.

  The new driver offered a bottle of water. I waved it away, but Rollie showed me the bottle hadn’t been opened. “You need to drink something,” he said.

  I jerked the bottle away from him, poured a capful, and turned to put my nail in the liquid to check. No point letting him know all my secrets. When the color didn’t change, I chugged down the bottle. He was right, I did need a drink.

  By the time I had my legs again, probable-Maurice had my bags and Jack’s checked. He passed me the claim receipts. I slipped them into the Fendi and made myself not think about the fact Rollie could have searched it. Jean-Luc’s gun was no longer in my pocket, but the rest of the contents of the bomber jacket seemed intact. Rollie helped me out of the car, telling probable-Maurice to park and wait for his call.

  “You could have just told me you didn’t want to talk about the setup in Florence,” I said, frowning as I remembered what I’d asked him.

  He clasped my elbow and steered me toward the electronic doors. “You needed to rest. It’s been a long day for you.”

  “You’re saying our jaunt had nothing to do with it?”

  I received my third shrug of the evening.

  “I never got a chance to ask you anything about my mother,” I said.

  “I never met her,” he responded.

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t know about her.”

  “Such an excess of hearsay in life today.”

  Again his words alluded to a better capacity for the English language than he tried to persuade me to believe.

  Like any gentleman after he’s drugged a lady, Rollie wouldn’t let me fend for myself inside the airport either, and he was on hand when I first saw Jack.

  I went to hug him, but he held out a hand to stop me. “Two broken ribs.”

  “The same ones as in October?” I asked.

  “No, other side this time,” Jack said.

  “Steel-toed boots will do that,” Rollie said, joining us. “You need to go and check in, Laurel.”

  I looked at Jack and then Rollie. They both stared back at me.

  “Well, I know when I’m not wanted.” I headed to the ticket counter, hoping someone there spoke English since my two translators were otherwise occupied.

  In the short time it took the clerk to handle my business, the guys seemed to settle theirs. I pretended to search through the Fendi a moment to watch and see that a new conversation didn’t start up to run me off again. I walked over and hugged Rollie, thanked him, and said goodbye. There would be retribution for all of this later, especially the drugged wine, but I’d learned long ago to keep things civil until I could most effectively use an experience to the best advantage. Besides, I really wanted Rollie gone and amicability was the best way to achieve the objective.

  As he left the gate, I finally got Jack to sit down. His color wasn’t good, and I didn’t have the strength left to help hold him up. I planned to wait until we got on the plane to hit him with my epiphany.

  We had seats in first class. Normally, Jack would have ordered a Scotch before we secured our seatbelts. At least he did the last time he got beat up right before we flew anywhere. This time, he asked for coffee.

  “They gave you pain pills?” I asked.

  “Yes, some really good ones. Strong.”

  It was an uneventful flight, and he slept most of the way. This gave me time to separate all the thoughts flying through my brain. He roused about a half-hour from London, and peppered me with questions about what he didn’t know and what I did.

  “I’m going to kill Hamish.”

  I laughed. “Out of all I’ve told you, he’s the thing you focused on?”

  “I’ve wanted to string him up for a couple of days. What you’ve told me simply makes it more appropriate. The question remains, do we trust Rollie is telling the truth? Or did he hire Hamish to intercept you and is covering his arse?”

  “A possibility.”

  Both of us had a clearer idea of the past days’ events, and I asked the question I’d been avoiding.

  “What about…Ermo Colle? Did I…”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “Moran’s guy told me the body was gone from the room when he checked. We don’t know if he went out under his own power or if someone carried him. Or if Moran’s guy killed him or carted him off and was lying to me. I was in quite a bit of pain at the time and may have missed cues for warning me if he lied. Either way, Colle was afraid you would recognize him, and you did. We’re going to have to put some safeguards in place. It’s too much to hope he won’t come after you if he’s alive.”

  Which meshed with what Rollie said. I didn’t like to think about what it would mean if he did, or didn’t, live. I had a good idea my range of travel might be limited unless I always paired up with someone.

  I told Jack about the attempted hijacking on the road, and how Rollie suggested it was lieutenants from Colle’s organization.

  “You weren’t hurt?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  “We were in a Mercedes built like a tank. No sweat.”

  I filled him in on the results of my interrupted interrogation. I didn’t tell him about being drugged, but implied Rollie changed the subject each time he didn’t want to answer a question. While we didn’t have anything to use in a prosecutorial setting, we agreed what he did admit shored up our assumptions.

  “One more thing,” I said. Touring the cathedral and remembering my professor’s discussions about sacred numbers and divine mathematics had given me an idea, and I wanted Jack’s take on it. Moran mentioned the numbers changing, and the idea had solidified later in the casino when I started thinking about odds between roulette and blackjack. “I could be completely wrong, but what if all of this is about numbers and odds?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

  “I’ve had numbers on the brain today,” I said. “We still can’t figure out what the string of digits mean that we retrieved from the safe deposit box in Florida, then in the cathedral—”

  “The divine number theory,” he said, squinting his eyes in thought.

  “Right. In the casino, odds of winning, odds of losing, and how much or little the house actually keeps. I began wondering what if we’re chasing a numbers thing.”

  “Like a bookie?” Jack frowned. “Maybe it’s the pain pills, but I don’t understand.”

  “Bear with me a moment. What if we stop putting so much time and attention on the forgeries we’ve discovered and start paying more attention to copies instead?”

  “What copies?”

  “Any copies of masterpieces shipped into a country as legitimate copies. Think about what you saw on the rooftop in Florence.”

  “The rooftop with the paintings and the guns.”

  “Yes, and I’m thinking Tony B’s crew left the guns without permission. Leading to Rollie chewing out Scarface.”

  “The palazzo operation was Moran’s?”

  “Most likely. At least, it’s the impressio
n I got. I’m wondering if the rooftop is part of the reason Rollie wouldn’t answer me about the palazzo.”

  Jack’s forehead furrowed. “You think Moran was subletting to Ermo Colle?”

  I sighed and leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes for a moment to think. “Possibly. He changed the subject and it seemed more important to do so than when I asked other things. Like how he reentered the U.K.”

  Yeah, drugging me was a stronger reaction to get away from my questions.

  “Plus the whole Scarface argument,” I reminded him. “You said yourself the guy had never been associated with Moran before. Why was he with Rollie in Florence? I’m thinking Tony B stepped too far afield this time. Someone needed to take him out.”

  “You think the Amazon works for Moran?”

  I nodded slowly. “Or more likely Rollie.”

  “You thought she was the motorcycle shooter in France.”

  I sighed. “It’s pure guesswork, but made sense once I learned Rollie was already suspicious of Simon. Besides, the shooter didn’t try to kill me, despite opportunity to run me down or take better shots. Scary, sure, but the wound in my arm was mostly messy and not life threatening. If it was the Amazon, and her employer’s grandfather showed up, it makes perfect sense for her to leave.”

  “You were shot.”

  “I was grazed. The fence I tripped over did almost as much damage to me and my clothes as the bullet. Though, it doesn’t mean I think Rollie would be upset if I got hurt.”

  “My mind is obviously not at its best.” Jack closed his eyes. “Exactly what are you thinking?”

  I remembered the couple of times Rollie’s expressions made me uncomfortable in the level of coldness he projected. Yet he’d been nothing but kind to me. Was it by choice, or had all of our encounters been scripted on orders from his grandfather?

  “Rollie’s façade dropped a couple of times tonight, and I could absolutely believe him ruthless if the need arose. But I can’t see Moran involved in gunrunning. It doesn’t match anything I know about the man. My instincts tell me the guns on the roof were not Moran’s.”