by Jan Thompson
At this point, Jake’s eyes were on the stranger again, coming out of the ladies’ restroom, half her blouse and part of her jeans wet. It was then that Jake realized who she reminded him of—
Across his table, Philomena gagged and choked. Her hands were on her chest. She was gasping for air and trying to say something.
“Whoa!” Jake rushed to her, knocking over his own glass of water on the table. “Someone call 911!”
Across the room, Earl came flying. So did the stranger.
“What’s going on?” Earl asked, tapping his phone.
Was it the coffee?
Philomena fell off the chair before Jake could catch her. The maître d’ and several servers came over, but Philomena was not breathing. She was gone.
When Jake remembered the brooch that Philomena had put the table, it was too late.
The brooch was gone.
Chapter Four
The night masked their getaway in a van that Kenichi drove. Before Beatrice could calm down, they had arrived at their safe house in South San Francisco.
The garage door closed, and the van doors opened. Raynelle led the way to the kitchen door since she had the key to the rental townhouse.
Kenichi was out of it, having sat in the van and waited the entire time Beatrice and Raynelle was in the café. He went upstairs to get some sleep.
Raynelle put the kettle on to make tea. That woman didn’t sleep.
Beatrice closed the kitchen door behind her and locked it for good measure. She washed her hands and looked for something to drink in the refrigerator. It was bare. She found some glasses but they were covered with a soapy film of some sort. She grabbed a paper cup and walked to the kitchen sink. Tap water would have to do.
In the living room, where Kenichi had set up shop—laptops everywhere and all interconnected—Beatrice plopped down on a sagging sofa and kicked off her boots. She lifted the wig off her head and removed the mesh net wig cap.
Her prosthetic nose was still stuck to her face. She’d deal with that later.
The sticky soda on her blouse was drying. The blouse was probably ruined. Or not. She’d find out after doing laundry.
She closed her eyes and thanked God for keeping her safe.
Jake Kessler would be coming after her soon. He might not know about Kenichi and Raynelle, but he had seen Beatrice’s face under the wig.
I don’t care.
She fished the brooch out of her jeans pocket. On the drive here, Raynelle had explained how she swiped it off the café table when everyone was freaking out over Philomena dying in front of them.
There were three polished amber cabochons inlaid in thick gold.
Pretty, but not what she was after.
On the underside, there was an inscription of some sort. She pressed her thumb right in the middle of the brooch.
Nothing happened.
Her mind was in a fog—jet lag and a lack of sleep—and she tried to remember the notes she had read in Dad’s study back in Charleston.
Wait.
If there were two cabochons, then press the bottom.
If there were three…
Beatrice speed-dialed her brother on a secure line that Kenichi had set up via a virtual private network. “Hey Ben.”
At the other end of the line, her older brother Benjamin sounded groggy. “What time is it?”
“I think eight where you are.”
“Call me back at noon.” Click.
Beatrice tried again.
“What?”
“Don’t hang up. We found the three-amber brooch.” She did not explain that Raynelle had stolen it on Jake’s watch.
“Where?” Benjamin sounded alert now.
“Our nanny kept it.” Beatrice stretched out on the sofa.
“That thief. She stole it from Dad.”
“Well, I got it back.” Beatrice didn’t want to get into details.
“You know it’s not enough.”
Beatrice sighed. “We don’t have the other two brooches.”
“We’ll have to track down the buyers.”
“We? Benjamin, are you planning on doing something? Will you come out here and help me?” Beatrice almost got her hopes up.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. A long silence.
“Dad has been dead for twenty-five years,” Benjamin said. “I’ve let it go. You should too.”
“No. We’ve been having this conversation for a long time. His murderer needs to go to jail.”
“I love you and all, but I really don’t agree with you about this. You’ve spent an enormous amount of your inheritance on finding the Amber Room, and all you have to show for is one-third of a brooch set.”
That about summed up the story of Beatrice’s career. “I am putting my history degree to good use.”
“Right.”
“I think we’re very close.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Dad would keep going.” Beatrice didn’t know for sure, but she thought he might.
“Yeah, he probably would. He’s stubborn like that. I don’t know who I take after, considering we don’t know much about our mother, but I know I don’t take after Dad.”
“I’ll call you when I find the lost Amber Room.”
Even when Beatrice had been in college, she’d been fascinated by the research done on the special room in Catherine the Great’s Winter Palace. When Germany raided Russia in World War II, the Amber Room vanished.
That was, until a year ago, when a few panels were unearthed in Agneta Sanna’s crypt on the island of Crete. Helen Hu was there, as far as Beatrice knew. She had read the rest of the information from newspapers that four small panels were found altogether.
There had to be more.
“Bee, there is a reason it’s called the lost Amber Room.” Benjamin laughed.
“Whatever.” Beatrice was determined to find it. If Molyneux thought it existed, then she would too.
The world didn’t care. St. Petersburg had been displaying a reproduction Amber Room to tourists for years.
Those who wanted to preserve history cared about original things, artifacts, documents. Memories of days that had vanished into the vortex of time.
“Okay then. Just don’t get dead on the way there.”
Benjamin might be a paranoid recluse, but he sure hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Beatrice rarely laughed at his jokes, but he was still her brother. She wouldn’t want to lose him.
So yes, he could stay in their hideaway in Charleston for the rest of his life if he wanted to. As long as he was alive and well.
How on earth are we going to find two more brooches?
If Philomena was dead, then much information would have died with her.
“Ken, could you check the local PD to see if Philomena made it?” Beatrice texted him. He would see it after he woke up from his nap.
Chapter Five
The investigation wasn’t moving as fast as Jake would like, and he liked it even less when he received a call saying he had been fired from the FBI.
Forget suspension.
Ten years of service flushed down the drain.
On this rainy afternoon, twelve hours after Philomena had keeled over, everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.
With his only contact dead, Jake had hit a brick wall.
And so at four o’clock, Jake found himself sitting across from Earl in the latter’s hotel room suite. Between them, a laptop whirred, and Helen Hu’s sunburned face smiled into her camera.
“Autopsy takes time,” Earl said. “A few days if we rush it, but without the FBI cooperation—how on earth did you get yourself fired?—it could take weeks.”
He was chewing gum and it annoyed Jake. He got it that Earl was trying to quit smoking, but could he do it quietly? “Stop popping new wads of gum into your mouth, will you?”
“Does this bother you?” Earl added another wad and chewed loudly. “As I was saying, autopsy takes time. I bet you sh
e was poisoned. Coffee was all she had.”
Jake drew a deep breath. The pain in his thigh continued. The rod inside holding his bones together, the missing muscle and tissue.
Let me be the one to kill her.
This was not the time for Jake to wonder if God would approve. In fact, his entire career at the FBI was probably not approved by God. After all, he had to go undercover for very long spells at a time—sometimes years—and he had to live a lie the entire time. Sometimes he had to do things that his own mother would not approve. Certainly not things he could talk to his pastor about.
Pastor? What pastor? He had moved from place to place so much in the last ten years that he had no particular church home.
What would it feel like to settle down and stay put in one place for once?
“My offer still stands. Come work with us.” Before Helen could continue, her phone pinged. “Okay. We have something here. Streaming it now.”
“I should’ve put the brooch in my pocket,” Jake said as Earl opened another window frame on his laptop to see what Helen was sending them.
On the screen was the restaurant dining room from every angle. Helen zoomed in to the two tables.
The stranger at the next table was eating chocolate cake while looking at her phone when Philomena walked in.
They watched the replay until the part when Philomena fell over, clutching her chest.
What could possibly kill in minutes?
“Slow down,” Jake said as the video continued.
He recalled a server spilling liquid on the stranger’s blouse. After she came out of the ladies’ room, she flicked the edge of her hair.
That was when Jake saw her hairline. “She’s wearing a wig.”
“Okay, we’re getting somewhere.” Earl tossed out his squishy wads of gum.
“Thank you, man.”
Earl shrugged.
The woman looked startled when Philomena fell onto the floor. She rushed forward, her eyes all wide.
“Stop,” Jake said. “Can you please zoom in on her face, snapshot it, and see who she matches?”
Helen saved the image. “Who are we comparing her to? If it’s to everyone in the whole world, it would take forever.”
“Let’s start with Molyneux,” Jake suggested. “Remember the sketch we had made?”
There was no photograph of Molyneux anywhere. She must have done numerous plastic surgeries to be that elusive in police state Europe where cameras were everywhere in public and private places.
“Why are we starting with her?” Earl asked.
“The last five years of my life have been about catching Molyneux. That woman looked like a younger version of Molyneux.”
“A doppelgänger.” Helen chuckled.
“Or her daughter.” Jake reminded them about the bits of information that Philomena had already told him. “When Philomena worked for Chisolm, he was still married to Imogen—before she became Molyneux the Doll. Philomena was a nanny to his two kids.”
“Where are the kids now?”
“That’s the billion-dollar question, right?” Jake waited for Helen to process it. “If Chisolm were still alive today, I’d have many questions for him.”
“It’s not a match,” Helen said. “Truly, we need a real photo of Molyneux, not a sketch.”
“I thought her eyes looked familiar.” Jake leaned back against the couch. “I’ve done this too long. Failure after failure. Maybe I should just quit and move back home. Dad could use some help with his farm.”
Earl laughed. “You wouldn’t last a day. You’re cut out for this, Jake. Whether you do it in the bureau or as a private citizen, it matters not. What matters is that you’re doing the right thing, putting away evil people for life.”
“Evil people?” Jake opened an eye.
“Aren’t they all?”
Jake stood up. Turned to Earl. “Do you have a list of the employees at the café?”
“Sure do.”
“Let’s go talk to the server who spilled soda on the stranger.”
“I’ll drive.” Earl reached for the laptop. “We’ll talk to you later, Helen.”
Helen nodded onscreen. “Meanwhile, I’ll call in some favors at the NSA to see if they can help us identify the woman.”
“Don’t work too hard,” Jake said. “Make sure you have some hubby time.”
“Is that the advice of a bachelor to a married woman?” Helen grinned.
“I’m just saying that you and Reuben spent your honeymoon fishing me out of the ocean and saving my life. Get some rest.”
“If I hadn’t received that anonymous call, you’d be dead by now,” Helen said. “Thank God for that person, whoever she is.”
“Still no idea who, huh?” Jake would like to thank her in person if possible.
“Nope. Burner phone. Short message.”
“She didn’t text.”
“No. She was a bit freaked out on the phone.”
“Surprised at her own information?”
“Shocked was more like it.” Helen sighed. “But the voice was filtered. It’s not her real voice.”
Earl stretched and slapped his thighs as he stood up and put on his vest. “I think it’s Philomena, overcome by guilt.”
Jake wasn’t as sure.
Chapter Six
When Beatrice and Raynelle returned to the Fisherman’s Wharf at ten o’clock at night, they found the café off limits with yellow police tape across the front door. The rest of the restaurants up and down the bay were still open. Tourists enjoyed themselves, laughing loudly, chatting to one another, taking night selfies.
Beatrice and Raynelle blended into the crowd.
“Whose bright idea was this?” Beatrice quietly said into her Bluetooth headphone. She knew Kenichi could hear her.
He was at the back of the van several blocks away, looking at the world through the cameras on Beatrice’s shirt button and Raynelle’s beanie cap button.
“Why are we here again?” Beatrice did not expect an answer. She hadn’t slept all day, and she was getting cranky.
In fact, she hadn’t wanted to come here a second time in twenty-four hours. However, Kenichi had obtained the security video from the same café and noticed that before Philomena had sat down with the FBI agent, she went to the ladies’ room.
The before-and-after photos showed that she went in with an amber-colored brooch on her lapel and came out without it. Had she dropped it somewhere in the restroom floor?
“Ladies’s room, people,” Kenichi said. “I’m not going in there.”
“Does it matter? The café is closed. Someone just died there.” That was Beatrice’s verdict.
Raynelle didn’t care if they went or not. She would still be paid whether she sat in their townhouse or in the van or accompanied Beatrice into the café.
“You better go with her,” Kenichi told Raynelle. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“I guess we could bring a metal detector.” Beatrice was still reluctant. “What if we’re caught?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll disable all the sensors before you go in.”
Six hours later, after a dinner of salmon on greens—yeah, Kenichi cooked too—the trio headed out to the Fisherman’s Wharf, and here they were.
Beatrice paid Kenichi and Raynelle very high salaries for their expertise. However, on a crowded street with security cameras all around them, how would they break into a locked café?
Beatrice did not want to hear that her employees hadn’t thought through their mission. In fact, if anything, she was to blame. She should have said—
“Walking off your chocolate cake?” A voice said to her.
Beatrice froze. It was the same voice from the café last night. Surely it could not be Jake Kessler.
“I recognize you even though you’re wearing a different nose tonight,” he added.
Beatrice turned.
“And different colored hair.”
It was indeed FBI Special Agent
Jake Kessler. Again. However, he wasn’t supposed to know that she knew who he was. “And you are?”
“Jake.” He was wearing a plaid shirt of many dubious colors—the street lamp distorted the colors in the night. “There. I gave you my real name. What’s yours?”
“You must have mistaken me for another person.” Beatrice noticed Raynelle distancing herself from them.
She was going toward the café.
“I don’t think so,” Jake said. “You wore a prosthetic nose this morning.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not sorry to see you again. In fact, I want to find you if you’re looking for this?” Jake showed her a photo on his phone.
Beatrice tried not to react when she saw the one-amber brooch.
The amber was huge. It was set in…silver?
The resolution on the phone was so-so, but the rest of the brooch wasn’t gold. What happened to the gold? Had anyone tampered with it?
“You do recognize this,” Jake said. “Let’s talk.”
“I was just thinking it looks pretty and old. Why are you showing me a photo? Are you trying to sell?”
“Not at all.” Jake put the phone back into his pocket. “In fact, I think it will lead me to Molyneux. What do you think?”
“Who?” Beatrice felt helpless. She wasn’t sure she could play this game for much longer.
Anytime someone mentioned Molyneux, it was triggering.
She killed Dad.
And maybe even Mom.
Beatrice turned toward the bay and placed her elbows on top of the railing. She did not want Jake to see her reaction.
“Maybe we can work together,” Jake said.
“Maybe not. I don’t even know you. You’re a stranger out of nowhere.”
“If you tell me your name, we will not be strangers anymore.”
Ping!
Jake flinched and touched his ear.
Beatrice noticed blood under the street light. “Whoa. What’s going on?”
She glanced around.
Raynelle was nowhere to be found.
The crowd seemed oblivious to what had just happened.