Mary still looked perplexed.
“Okay, say you need eight million in cash to pay for a weapons cache, but you don’t want a paper trail. Let’s just say a corrupt leader from a third world country needs to get his hands on weapons, but can’t buy them outright. He’s got the cash he’s been stealing from his people and can’t physically move two hundred kilos of gold bars, or one hundred seventy-six pounds of paper money to pay the fee needed to buy the weapons,” I said hoping to spark some interest.
“Why not? You’ve got the money. Give it to them. Cash is king,” Mary said.
“Aunt Mary, aren’t you listening? Think about it. First, they would need to wrap up all that cash in plastic wrap and then have to hire a barge to move it out of the country. Don’t you think that might attract attention?” Emma asked.
“Bingo, Emma!” I said. “The art is a pawn on a chess board strategically moved around the world. Art is easily moved, secret, and liquid. Unlike real estate that involves registering a deed, no ownership registration of art is required. And a bonus is the use of a freeport that prolongs tax or duty owed on it and has been a tool in the money laundering toolbox. The corrupt leader pays Jude extra money to cover his tax penalties and everyone profits.”
“What’s a freeport?” Emma asked. She was tracking what I was explaining.
“A freeport is a secure storage facility which can be used to avoid paying taxes. When the purchase is completed the art can be shipped to a freeport where it sits tax-free until sold or it’s removed. Governments have cottoned onto the schemes of hiding property and avoiding taxes. They are starting to tighten up on freeports as well,” I explained
“I’m still confused about Jude’s part. What does he do with that money?” Emma asked.
“Emma, did you not just hear him? Think about that safe deposit box and what we found,” Aunt Mary said. “His partner has been collecting cash in various denominations, diamonds, and gold. It’s for something specific, likely. He probably has stashes all over the world. Think of all his business trips he takes and how easy it is to deposit money overseas.”
“Or,” I added, “he can lend money with interest to people to buy arms and weapons coming back through. Just another money laundering scheme. Look, ladies. To be honest, he has only been on my radar for a year. A lot of what I am sharing with you is pure and total speculation.”
“But the box was in my name. Wouldn’t he worry I might find out?” Emma asked. It was a question rolling around in my thoughts as well, with no plausible answer.
“I know it looks like he took a significant risk, but as much as we are aware of how he operates, it was a calculated risk and he had an exit strategy. To be frank, he’s been on Homeland’s radar for a while, and when he registered the domestic partnership, they flagged your name as well. So, Homeland has been watching you because you are linked to him. They’ve followed both of your trips abroad and watched your financial transactions to the best of their ability, but it’s difficult. By a close association, you became a collateral person of interest.” I watched her face crumble in horror and fear, and knew nothing I could say could make it better. “There’s more. Are you ready for the forgeries?’’
“If she’s not, I am,” Aunt Mary said. “Bring it on. This is some clusterfuck you got yourself into, Emma.”
“Whoever the artist is working the art forgeries is good. Superb actually. I don’t know if they would try to sell them as originals, but hell, I’d be fooled. The one mistake forgers make is sometimes not using pure lead white pigments which is always a way we catch these clowns. We don’t know if Jude used Titanium White or Lead White. It would be a bold move to take them to auction where there is a heightened level of scrutiny, so they had probably been making mostly private sales. Someone got greedy and started taking them public. But I hate to admit it, it’s a well-oiled machine, and there might be a bigger place at auction for them which means putting fakes into the stream of museum acquisitions as well,” I said.
“Aren’t you missing a leg of your stool? You have only two legs, and a stool can’t stand on two legs. One leg is Jude, Roselov is one, but you don’t have your third person,” Mary summarized.
“Sherlock, you are correct,” I admitted.
“Without the third person, you’ve got a whole bunch of who shot John,” Aunt Mary said waving her hand.
“Who shot John? There is no John. Well, maybe there is, but Cillian said he just doesn’t know who else is involved,” Emma said.
“Emmie, who shot John means a whole lot of speculation, and a no-burger burger,” she clarified.
Emma was lost in thought, then announced abruptly, “Well, since I can’t solve this dilemma today I am taking Mary back to the center—” Emma started.
“Mind if I ride with you?” I asked and gave Mary a conspiratorial wink. Hopefully, Mary would bite, or our plan would fail.
“The more, the merrier, handsome. Maybe before Emmie signs me back in you can spring for lunch.” Mary winked lifting her coffee to her lips.
“Great! We’ll call it a field interview.” I smiled. “However, it will more likely be an interrogation. Right, Mary?”
“Blue eyes, you know me so well. I could be your biggest out-of-the-box thinker in the lot of them,” Mary said. “In fact, turn me loose, and I probably could track those babies across the dark web.”
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God. You have no idea how to access the dark web, you are watching way too much CSI,” Emma said waving off the idea. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe you could track them.”
“I have a wild idea.” I slapped the table and looked at Mary for backup. “How about we cut loose and spend a weekend pretending we are New York tourists visiting Boston? Boston Freedom Trail, Boston Fine Arts, and can’t leave out the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. I’d love to visit all those places. I think we’re entitled to some fun. What say you?” I asked.
Mary sat up immediately, and Emma gave me an eyebrow lift as if I was nuts.
“Who’s paying?” Mary asked with interest.
“Uncle Sam,” I replied because Thad had already approved the request if I kept it under two grand.
“Emmie Lou, you heard the man. Quick, throw something in a bag. We’re going on an adventure like old times.” Mary was waving her arm at Emma to get a move on. Aunt Mary turned to me and asked, “Do we need to get you sorted with clothes from your place?”
“Ma’am, I’m a G-man. I always have a go bag in my truck. I’m ready and waiting,” I answered throwing her a conspiratorial wink.
“Cillian, I don’t know. Aunt Mary is probably tired. I know I’m exhausted. What about Lucy and the cost—” Emma started whining.
Mary cut her off and said, “Emma, get up, get your suitcase or we can just leave with the clothes on your back. Walk on the wild side with the G-man and me,” Mary announced. “How much longer on earth do I have that I can claim a weekend of wild fun?” That struck Emma’s guilt right in the heart. After a few sighs, and I don’t knows, Emma agreed.
An hour later, Emma had called Eloise to dog sit for the weekend, so on our way out of town we left Lucy and Sigmund with her and went on our way.
We found a nice cafe that Mary gave her seal of approval, capping a lovely drive to Boston. Seated and having ordered lunch, the ladies had no idea they were a part of an FBI sting operation.
I sent a text to Marino and Jackson: Activate the transponders on the paintings. We’re in Boston for the weekend. Put the word out that the house and studio will be empty for the weekend.
Let’s hope Roselov, White, or some third player takes the bait. I hated that Emma might feel even more unsafe returning to a burgled studio and home when she returned, but we had to give our perps a nudge.
Emma
I WASN’T SURE ABOUT THIS whole weekend deal, but I was certain the restaurant Cillian chose was a winner. The ambiance reminded me of an old New England seaport, opening you to imagine the sea was right outside the door where fishe
rmen caught your fresh meal.
Aunt Mary, an expert storyteller, entertained us by embellishing anecdotes about her friends and the goings-on at the care facility. Her stories left no shame untold.
The conversation took a turn into dicey territory when she broached the topic of Napoleon the pig and Mr. Selven. The topic could go either way depending on Cillian’s mindset, but there was no stopping her.
Working with Cillian for so many months I thought I knew him. As close and as many hours we’d worked together, he essentially was my work husband, so I knew he would not be pro-Napoleon. A week ago, I would have bet my life on this answer but didn’t really know the man. Now aware of his job caused a shift in my world. I prided myself on my intuitive ability to read people. Apparently, my radar malfunctioned. First with Jude, now with him. As we finished our crème brulee, I made it my mission to draw out the real Cillian. What if I didn’t care for the real Cillian and preferred fake Cillian? Realizing my relationship with Jude was over, what if I had acted on taking Cillian for a test drive. Why not? The Cillian I knew was single, clever, sexy, and thoughtful. So, what was wrong with wanting to explore things with him once I dissolved my attachment to Jude.
But now I had concluded Cillian was a ghost, an illusion. Was Cillian even his real name?
“Cillian, I feel as if I am getting to know a new person for the first time. So, who is Cillian O’Reilly? Are you allowed to tell me about yourself?” I asked as I searched his crystalline eyes for answers.
As I read his face, I noted his attributes. He had a perfect nose with a slight bump. Ample lips that produced the friendliest of smiles encompassed straight white teeth—orthodontic enhanced because nothing natural could be that perfect. Women would kill for his perfectly shaped thick golden eyebrows that reflected the golden highlights of his close-cropped hair.
I couldn’t deny I was attracted to Cillian. If I was honest, I needed those full lips on mine, his tongue probing my mouth as his strong masculine hands explored my body. I lost myself for a moment in a lust-filled Cillian daydream.
“Em, you know the real me. I find it best not to lie about my true self unless it’s part of my cover,” Cillian said.
Shaking off my Cillian fantasy, I said, “I need to have that truth to hold onto so introduce me to Cillian as if we just met.”
He picked up my hand and stroked the top with his thumb, rolling it over to caress my palm. A shudder passed through me like a small electrical buzz. One small caress had cracked open the book of Cillian.
“Cillian O’Reilly, born August 15,1979 in Denver. I temporarily live in Maine. Jackson and I are roommates. We live in a loft for this case, but I have an apartment in D.C. that I sublet. I have two brothers. One is in Wisconsin—a teacher with three kids. The other one is divorced. Rob works for a cyber security firm in Seattle, and has one daughter. We presume she is a girl and not superhuman because she’s hell on wheels and a natural athlete. I’m divorced with a daughter. Ashlyn is fifteen and lives with her mom in New York. Brilliant child and a chip off the old block.” He looked pleased talking about her.
“I have a law degree and a graduate degree in art history. I run five miles a day, lift weights three times a week, and box twice a week. And there’s no way in hell anybody would ever get me to do yoga even if it meant my job.” He laughed as he placed his napkin on the table.
“My favorite food is Thai. I drive a GMC for work, and I have a Harley at home for enjoyment. My favorite books are political thrillers, and I hardly ever watch television. I’m six foot one, one hundred eighty-five pounds, a Yankees and New England Patriots fan, and I don’t follow hockey or basketball. I will never play golf, and I am not bad at tennis. My mother forced me to take up the violin and once I turned sixteen that blasted thing was permanently retired. Put me near a pool and I’m the one goof that will cannonball in and get banned from the place. I don’t care for wine, Fat Tire is my beer of choice, but I’m a Jameson Irish whiskey man all the way. Any other vital stats needed?” he asked with a wink.
“Tats, piercings, chest hair or no chest hair, boxers or briefs?” Aunt Mary questioned which got a megawatt smile flashed our way.
“One tattoo on my upper right shoulder, no metal on this body, yes to chest hair and I’ll let my underwear choice stay a mystery,” he responded. “Does that answer your burning questions?”
“Hmm. Where have you wandered to and what is your favorite place?” I asked.
“My favorite place hands down is London. I admire the grandeur and pomp and circumstance. I fancy myself a history buff and say that proudly. During college, I traveled all over Europe with a close friend of mine. We were true travel bums. Later, I wound up traveling a lot for work. As far as destinations, I’ve made my way through the UK, France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Scandinavia, the Baltics, Italy, Greece, and Russia. Also, Holland and Belgium, but I don’t admit to those places—they are for a night of beer and pizza. I’m not much of a beach man, I prefer to wander among history and architecture,” he offered. There were a lot of stories to tell from the way he smiled as he rattled off the places.
“Well then, Special Agent O’Reilly, you have met your travel match thanks to Aunt Mary, my partner in travel crime. Through her generosity in addition to your list I can add Spain, Portugal, Ireland, the Czech Republic, and Hungary to mine,” I said. I had a few stories of my own. Mostly misadventures due to poor navigational skills. I had no doubt Aunt Mary would tell him about my mishaps and embroider with embarrassing details.
“You and Mary, alone together in Europe? Well that is a tale I have to hear—”
“All will be revealed,” Aunt Mary interrupted with a sweep of her hand as if she was some kind of mystic. Yep, I should be worried. “But right now, I am ready, willing, and able to tear up Beantown. What’s the plan, G-man?”
“I’m thinking to get a lay of the land we do the hop-on-hop-off Beantown trolley. It’s a two-hour continuous ride and travels past all the tourist spots like Copley Square, the Naval Yard, Beacon Hill, Newbury Street, the Freedom Trail, Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and the Harbor. Oh, and you get a fantastic view of the lighthouse,” he offered.
“I’m scared to ask how you know so much about this tourist stuff. Is this what you do on weekends?” I smiled hoping he didn’t come here on the weekends and ride the trolley for entertainment.
“God, no. But Ashlyn and I were here several weeks ago. She dragged me around on it, and it was a blast. You can get off at any station and hop back on when you want. I thought since we had museums to wander through and the Freedom Trail to walk we could conserve our energy and make the two-hour loop today. You up for it? Because the next one leaves in twenty minutes from right over there,” he declared pointing in the direction of a busy park.
“Ashlyn. Tell me about her,” I said.
“Ashlyn is a dinner conversation with lots of alcohol involved because that girl drives me to drink. I will tell you all about Ashlyn tonight if that works,” he grinned.
“I’m for a bathroom break while old blue eyes grabs the tickets on the government dime. So, Emma, it’s you and me. We’ll meet you right outside and catch that next trolley,” Mary suggested and then turned and started walking to the restroom without waiting for an answer.
We bought the tickets and caught the trolley. People stood on the open top deck precariously close to the rail, capturing pictures with their phone cameras. The young people took silly selfies and pictures of others, and I snapped off a few to immortalize a day of giddy entertainment that was few and far between. We had the great opportunity to talk to people from all over the country, drawn to Boston to connect with the roots of America’s history. There were even a few tourists from overseas. We finished at the Freedom Trail stop and joined a costume-clad tour that guided us through two and a half miles of history. How often had I been in and out of Boston and never realized how much it offered? And here I was making new memories with Cillian and Aunt Mary.
We discu
ssed dinner plans, but Aunt Mary had reached her limit. Usually the adventurous one, she decided she’d had enough for the day and wanted to save her strength for the next day. Mary declared room service, a steamy bath, and a comfortable bed were calling her name, so she ended the night early.
As we strolled back to the hotel, I watched the families with children and thought about the family I had planned with Jude. He had never even considered one, and until recently he’d never revealed that to me. I recognized that the deception Jude inflicted on me reached the level most would call betrayal.
We entered the large glass doors of the elevator that carried us up to our adjacent rooms. Mary fought with the lock and cussed the door until Cillian showed her how to insert the key card and simultaneously lower the handle to gain entrance. He was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.
Room service delivered an enormous cheeseburger with everything on it, steak cut fries, and a hand crafted vanilla shake to our room. Once Mary settled, she took her medication, and I left her channel surfing so I could get ready for my evening. I treated myself to a long hot steamy shower and used the sandalwood scented shampoo and conditioner to tame my hair. Normally not one for makeup, I applied it tonight with the skill of a makeup artist. I changed into an emerald-green sweater dress, tan leather ankle booties with a small heel, a few jewelry accessories, and declared myself ready. Bring on Faneuil Hall Marketplace.
There was a soft rap on my door and I rushed to open it a little too eager. Behind me, I heard Aunt Mary chuckle. Leaning with both arms braced against the doorjamb I saw a stunningly sexy Cillian. Wearing a thick black turtleneck, washed-out dark jeans and motorcycle boots he looked like a Gentleman’s Quarterly model. He finished off his attire with a black leather bomber jacket. The audacious bad boy before me had my mind consumed with his tattoo. We most definitely would discuss that tattoo.
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