by Lisa Harris
At that moment, everything she knew and believed about the man she’d fallen in love with had been completely shattered.
“Not more evidence of his guilt,” Joe said, adding a packet of sugar to his drink. “But we have found a lead to the person who murdered him.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hands shook as she took a sip of her espresso. “How is the FBI’s art crime division connected to Thomas’s murder?”
She needed to know. Because if there was new information on the case, she’d have expected to hear the update from Thomas’s department. Not the FBI. And while she might want to forget the past, a part of her also needed closure. Which was why as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she knew she wouldn’t be able to until she heard what he had to say.
*
Joe took a sip of his espresso before answering her question, knowing that what he needed to tell her was going to be difficult for her to hear. Two days ago, he’d flown across the Atlantic, following a lead, in order to talk with her in person. And yet since his arrival there hadn’t seemed to be a right moment or a right way to approach her.
“Three months ago a young man was killed during a museum heist,” he began.
She shook her head. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Thomas?”
“Forensics was able to match the bullet that killed him to another murder where the same gun was used. It was the same gun that killed your husband.”
He caught the pain in her eyes and took a moment to study her reaction while giving her the time she needed to digest the information he’d just given her. He’d done his homework before catching the flight to Rome, but she looked younger than he’d expected. From her file he’d learned she was twenty-seven. She had a large family on her father’s side, but only one sibling, a sister named Shelby who lived in Dallas. Her parents were both deceased.
Today, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail with loose wisps around her face. She was pretty in that classic sense, and fit in perfectly as an Italian in her black-and-white dress and wedge sandals. And from what he knew about her so far, she was the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better. Not that he would. He’d gotten involved with a woman once before while working a case, and he’d learned quickly to never mix FBI business with personal relationships.
“Are you okay?” he asked, when she didn’t respond.
“I don’t know.” She stared at her cup. “This was just the last thing I was expecting to hear today.”
“So you believe me?” He couldn’t exactly blame her hesitation. A complete stranger had walked up to her off the street and started talking to her about her husband’s murder.
“Enough to hear you out,” she said finally.
He glanced around the crowded café, wishing they were somewhere more private. But at least with the chatter of customers and the sound of cups clinking, no one would be able to listen in on their conversation.
“Okay,” he began, “during the recent heist, two paintings worth over two million dollars were stolen. It was the fourth time in the past several years where thieves used a similar pattern. All the works were stolen during the day while the museum was open. And each time they strategically took small pieces of art with high price tags. The difference this time was that one of the guards was killed trying to stop them.”
Talia shook her head. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or with Thomas. He didn’t steal art. He stole drug money and cocaine.”
He caught another flicker of pain when she spoke and regretted having her dredge up so much from her past. “When Forensics came up with a match, I went to your husband’s department and got your husband’s file. Among the case notes, there were three postcard-sized paintings by nineteenth-century Italian artist Augusto Li Fonti logged as a part of Thomas’s personal belongings, but they’re never mentioned again.”
“Three postcards?” Her eyes narrowed as she took a sip of her espresso. “I don’t remember any mention of postcards, or understand why that would be significant.”
“In the second museum heist we believe to be connected to the case I’m working on now,” he continued, “there were three paintings the size of postcards stolen. And because it’s not uncommon for the cartel to trade valuable artwork as collateral, it’s very possible for something like that to be found at a drug raid. I believe they were at the house where your husband was killed.”
She set down her cup. “And you think I have them?”
“You could have them without realizing how valuable they are.”
A shadow crossed her face. “There are still people who believe that I knew what my husband was up to. And possibly even helped him.”
“Did you?” he asked.
“No…” She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I need to tell you something.” It seemed she’d decided she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.
“Okay.” He waited for her to respond.
She paused one more time then pulled out her phone, clicked on a message and handed it to him. “I received a text message late last night. They told me to bring the three paintings to the Spanish Steps when I got off work. Apparently you’re not the only one who believes I have them.”
He quickly read through the message. “You were planning to meet them?”
“I can’t,” she said. “Because I don’t have what they want.”
“So you don’t remember any small paintings or drawings in your husband’s personal things?”
“Maybe… I don’t know.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “After the investigation closed, the department gave me a box of his personal things. I spent days sorting through all his stuff. I ended up giving some of his personal things to my mother-in-law, then donated most of the rest.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “You have to understand I’d just found out that my husband was a dirty cop and skimming money from police raids. I didn’t exactly want to keep reminders of him around.”
He understood what she was saying, but now there was something else she needed to know. Someone else—perhaps someone with access to the information he had—had made the same connection to Talia that he’d made. And whoever was after the paintings had killed before. Which meant if that person believed she had them, then her life was in danger.
TWO
Joe watched as Talia rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips. A part of him understood how she felt. Not only was there a strong possibility that her life was in danger, but she also had to be questioning her past decisions. And going through a long list of what-ifs. It was something he’d done far too much lately. But why wouldn’t she? The man she’d given her heart to had betrayed her, and now she was suddenly having to deal with what he’d done all over again.
“Tell me about the paintings they want,” she said, taking the last sip of her espresso.
“Do you want another espresso first?” he asked.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.
“Do you recognize them?”
She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned to me included three postcards. It’s strange…he used to send me postcards when he traveled.”
“So you do remember them.”
“I think so, but like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to what the department gave me. I just thought they were postcards from one of his trips.” She took one last look at the phot
os, then handed him back the phone. “And apparently whoever passed them on to me assumed the same thing, as well.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
“I only wish I did. Because then I’d be standing on the Spanish Steps right now, handing them over to whoever wants them and putting an end to all of this.” She shoved her empty cup toward the middle of the table. “You said they use art as collateral.”
“Art has the unique advantage of having an international value without the hassle of money laundering and currency conversion.”
Talia shook her head. “Meaning?”
“Over the past decade there has been a huge push to regulate money laundering. Organized crime has adapted by using artwork instead of cash, sometimes in everything from drug deals, to tobacco trafficking, to gunrunning. And while the value of a piece of art that is used as currency is far less than its estimated legitimate value, it can still be worth millions.”
“So I understand how they ended up in the middle of a cartel meth lab, but here’s something that doesn’t add up—why now? Why are these paintings being connected to me three years after Thomas’s death?”
“I’m not sure, but it seems to have happened after I started looking in to the connection with your husband’s case and started asking questions.”
“So what are you saying? Someone inside the department is involved in this? Another dirty cop like my husband?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Maybe even someone who worked with my husband. I mean, who else would know the case has been reopened? Who else would be looking for those paintings?”
“All of that could be true,” he said, wishing he had more answers for her. “He might have been working with someone else, or had connections inside, someone who’s been waiting all this time for a lead that would uncover the location of the paintings.”
“But almost three years have passed.” She shook her head. “And you don’t know if the gun that killed my husband was sold or stolen.”
“True.” He hesitated, but he needed to know more from her perspective. “I know this is hard for you, but what do you know about that night? Were there any discrepancies that bothered you after his death?”
“Other than the fact that he was accused of stealing over two hundred thousand dollars in cash and drugs from previous drug raids?” She shook her head. “I never could justify that.”
“So you never suspected he was involved in something illegal?” he asked.
“Never. I’d noticed he was distracted, but he’d been working long hours on a couple of tough cases. What I never imagined was that he was stealing evidence. Thomas was good at his job, and I’d always believed he was an honest man, as well.” A shadow crossed her face. “But I quickly learned that even those closest to you can hide the darkest secrets.”
“So no other inconsistencies?” he asked, not missing the ache in her voice.
“I’m not sure. What are you looking for?”
Joe tapped his foot, knowing he needed to tread carefully. “I’m not sure, actually. I spoke to the chief of police and read the case file. There were things that didn’t add up. Holes in the case. And while there had been a number of other instances where drug money had gone missing over the previous year, they were never linked conclusively to Thomas. The only solid evidence against him was what was found on him that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it.”
Which meant even though they only had circumstantial evidence, the previous thefts had also been pinned on her husband. How it all related now to his FBI case, he still wasn’t sure, but the more information he had, the better the chances of finding what he was looking for.
Talia ran her finger along the edge of the table. “The case was closed quickly. At the time I was grateful, but now…”
“It makes sense. The department would have wanted to keep an internal scandal quiet and make it go away as quickly as possible.”
“Are you implying there’s a chance Thomas might have been innocent?”
“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, and in all honesty, your husband’s death isn’t my case.” He tried to backtrack, but it was already too late. The seed had been planted in her mind. “My job is to find the stolen artwork, return it to the rightful owners and in the process help keep it out of the cartel’s hands.”
She leaned forward. “But from what you know—with the inconsistencies of the case—is it possible someone was covering something up and framed Thomas?”
“I can’t answer that.”
Joe finished the last sip of his espresso. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing on to the slightest thread of hope that her husband was innocent. That wasn’t why he was here. But still…
“Tell me what you were told about the day your husband was murdered.”
“His boss came to me the day after Thomas’s death with the details. He told me that Thomas and his partner had been called to check on a possible meth house with two other officers.” As she spoke, he caught the lack of emotion in her voice. It was as if she was simply a reporter spewing out the news. Not the grieving widow of the victim. “The officers swept the house. No one was there, but it was full of equipment for cooking meth along with a large amount of cash and other stolen goods. Apparently Thomas heard something in the back of the house while they were busy securing the property. The other officers heard a shot. Thomas was dead by the time they found his body. The bullet had gone through his temple, killing him instantly. The back door was open, but they never found who’d killed him. But they did find ten thousand dollars in cash stuffed under his bulletproof vest. Later they discovered other stolen evidence hidden in the trunk of his car, and a bank account that pointed to the fact that this hadn’t been the first time.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said, not missing the pain in her voice.
“They brought me in, wanting to prove I knew what he was doing, which I didn’t. They tore our apartment apart from top to bottom, but never found anything.”
“You said you gave some of your husband’s personal things to your mother-in-law?” If she’d seen the paintings, there had to be a way to trace where they’d gone.
“Yes.”
“Do you think she might have them?”
Talia shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I never asked her what she did with his things. Thomas’s family lives in Venice, but his parents are out of the country on a cruise right now. I could try to get a hold of them and ask her if she remembers.”
He caught the doubt surfacing in her eyes, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust him. And he couldn’t blame her.
“Talia, I—”
Her phone went off. She pulled it out of her pocket and clicked on the incoming message. He watched her face go pale as she stared at the screen. She shoved the phone across the table for him to read.
You really should have done what you were told.
He read the message, then scrolled through the two photos that were attached. One was of Thomas’s body at the crime scene from the night he’d been murdered. The second was a photo of them sitting at the café.
Every fiber of his being was on alert as he glanced around the open café. But looking for someone with a camera was like looking for a specific piece of hay in a haystack. Almost everyone around them was a tourist with either a camera or a cell phone.
“Do you recognize anyone?” he asked. “Maybe the man who tried to swipe your bag.”
“I don’t know… I don’t think so.” She shoved back her chair, and slung her bag across her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”
“Talia, please wait. You don’t understand what you’re up against—”
“I just need to go.”
A second later, she disappeared into the crowd. He grabbed a couple of bills from his wallet, dropped them onto the table and hurried after her.
*
Talia searched the narrow street as she hurried toward the subway past the row of shops and restaur
ants and apartment buildings. She shouldn’t have left the café, but she wasn’t sure she could trust Joe. She wanted to. He seemed an honest man. But so had Thomas until she’d found out the truth about him. Which was why for three years, she’d done everything she knew to put the past behind her and forget. But now suddenly, in the last twenty-four hours every memory and fear she’d had after his death was being dredged up.
I don’t want to go back there, God.
Not now. Not ever.
She’d accepted the fact that her husband had betrayed her trust. She’d even accepted his death. But it had completely changed her life, and the way people looked at her. There were those who thought there was no way she didn’t know what he’d been involved in. Others simply felt sorry for her. And even though she’d finally healed to the point that she was able to go on with her life, it didn’t mean that the familiar apprehensions didn’t sometimes rise to the surface.
She wove her way through a group of young people standing at the top of the stairs that led to the underground Metro. She needed to leave, and get away from Rome. But where would she go? She had friends, but she didn’t want to get them involved. And the only person here who knew what was going on was Joe Bryant.
But could she rely on him?
She hurried down the stairs toward the subway platform through the throng of commuters waiting to get onto the next train. The ground was scattered with cigarette butts. Advertisements were pasted onto the walls. She quickly stepped into the car before the doors slammed shut, then let out a sharp breath of air. A street musician began playing the accordion in the corner of the crowded space as she grabbed on to the metal pole in order to keep her balance. She should feel safe, but even surrounded by people, she had to fight the urge to run. They were out there somewhere. Watching her. Following her…
A group of students chattered in the corner. A woman bounced a toddler in her lap. A businessman talked loudly on his cell phone. Her surroundings faded and were replaced by memories. The day they told her Thomas was dead. The day she buried him. The day she’d sat in the interrogation room for hour after hour, answering their questions. The police had eventually dismissed the possibility of her involvement, but there had still been lingering questions. How could she not have known? She was, after all, his wife.