Fatal Forgeries

by Ritter Ames

  “Yet when the Mossos d’Esquadra swept into the Gothic Quarter and processed the area, three gunmen lay dead. Two shot with two different caliber bullets,” Jack said.

  “Sounds like a cleanup job to me,” Nico responded.

  “Yes, and all of the men were in the Interpol system. Arrest records, fingerprints, everything,” Jack added.

  I tugged on a lock of hair to focus my thinking. “Did Rollie leave them because there was no time to get them out? Or because he didn’t care if they were identified?”

  “If they couldn’t talk, it didn’t matter if they were identified or not, I imagine,” Nico said. “My question is who made sure the other two were dead before the police arrived?”

  “Do you think Rollie would do the job himself?” Jack asked Nico, and he received a shrug in response.

  But I knew who was on the scene for exactly that kind of corporate cleanup. “No, killing and tidying up afterward is why the Amazon was in Barcelona. She was there to eliminate any loose ends.”

  “Then why not have her in the building when you arrived, to take you and Giuseppe at gunpoint with the other mercenaries?” Jack asked.

  “Because she’s never Plan A,” I said. “Think about it. She’s always around after the fact. To clear away any problems that might plague her boss when something gets messy.”

  “Unfortunately, knowing she’s Rollie’s version of crime-scene cleanup doesn’t make her any less dangerous,” Nico said.

  “No,” I replied. “However, knowing she’s not first-string offense could come in handy someday soon. We might be able to better manage options and risks.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Max left London ten minutes before we touched down at Heathrow, taking the Caravaggio with him and leaving my team to sigh in relief.

  Jack immediately jumped into the official side of things, staying busy with meetings and paperwork involving the gun confiscation. With multi-country interest in who had jurisdiction on everything, I didn’t envy him. However, we both shared in the frustration over the only physical evidence retrieved was the guns and the dead guys. Rollie disappeared into the wind again.

  The fact Hawkes couldn’t discuss anything about the situation didn’t help either. While I spilled whatever intel I could provide, he stayed tight-lipped due to the constraints of the Official Secrets Act and its rules and regulations that would put us both into a U.K. prison if we talked about anything of substance. Or at least land us in even more trouble than we were already in. We knew the guns tied peripherally to the art crimes I worked, and I remained forthcoming as circumstances arose and he needed historic specifics on some of the copies confiscated. But he couldn’t reciprocate at all. Not a shred. I had to believe him, even though the quiet voice inside me whispered something else in my ear. Let’s just say the personal trust issues meter hung around the red zone, but I had to pretend all was green and steady.

  Worse, nothing tied to Rollie, and we knew from Nico the copies didn’t originate with Moran either. This meant no evidence to hold him if we did find him. Plus, circumstances indicated Ermo Colle was still in business—whether Daddy Dearest ran operations from a hospital bed with a new face or from the grave with proxies.

  The Rollie concern, however, kept me tossing and turning at night. Due to the guys’ back alley scheme Nico was as much at risk as I’d been all along. Rollie had to know he’d been conned, and no way he would simply forgive and forget. Too much pointed to a bullet in Barcelona having been reserved for Nico—and the bullet was still out there. When I mentioned this to my tech wizard he shrugged, but his face remained sober. I put a hand on his arm. “You know you probably saved my life. I’ll always be grateful. But I never want you to risk your own life like that again.”

  He shrugged and grinned, trying to level the tension with a bit of gallows humor. “The next time Jack wants to do out-of-the-box thinking, I’ll make sure I look for ways I might get caught in the box and buried.”

  “Don’t even joke about it, Nico.”

  He laughed and walked out of the door. I had no idea where he was going or when he’d be back.

  Thanks to my bullet wound, by Monday I was hobbling too much because I couldn’t sit still, but had already tired of crutches. We’d given up on the office space for the time being, since I couldn’t handle the requisite stairs. Operations moved to the sitting room of my hotel suite. When housekeeping came by to make my bed and change the towels, the maid surveyed the room—wide eyed—and I could imagine the silent screams. I made a snap decision. “Leave the towels and don’t worry about the bed until the sheets need changing. I’ll take care of everything else while I’m using the room for work.”

  I think Cassie’s whiteboard was what truly sent her over the edge. My assistant had moved into notetaking hyper-mode after returning from Paris, and the poor board looked like someone had vomited multi-colored Post-its all over the surface.

  “I’ll be back later if you need me,” Cassie said, pulling on her coat. “My friend at the V and A—”

  “Oh, right.” I nodded. She’d set up the meeting before she left for Paris, and in all the excitement I’d forgotten. The man was a visiting expert to the Victoria and Albert Museum, known for his abilities to identify forgeries and the forgers who created the works. Cassie hoped to get some insight into the paintings that surfaced in the coffee table book she’d discovered over Christmas and sent up a steady stream of red flags. She was also taking the forged Caravaggio that traveled to Barcelona and back with us.

  I added, “Hope he can tell you something. If he asks to keep the Caravaggio for study, you’ll have to clear it with Whatley.”

  She flipped her collar into place and said, “If anyone can provide information, he’ll be able to. Just the fact we know for certain the paintings in the book are forgeries, and the originals are still safe, will make him interested enough to take a closer look.”

  “But you know—”

  “Don’t tell him too much,” she finished before I could complete my warning. “Believe me, I want as few people as possible to know anything.”

  “Attagirl.” I reached for the folder on the desktop that held the photos. “I don’t know why I bother saying anything.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe because we’re all feeling guilty about how too many people who’ve tried to help us ended up dead?”

  For a second, I counted the most recent fatalities: Roberto in Rome, Miguel in Barcelona, and likely Nelly here in London. Plus, Giuseppe was shot. All of them just in the past month. To get the real total, however, I had to go back to the previous fall and the Greek courier of the snuffbox that started this misadventure. And the forgers we’d found in the morgue files along the way. While I didn’t know for sure that Nelly was attacked due to her scruples toward helping me, the fact she’d been killed—or been ordered to be killed—by the same person who’d murdered so many forgers already made me consider she might have balked at the last minute about switching the tapestry she was restoring for the foundation with a fake. Then there were forgers like Il Carver, Nico’s source in Rome who’d noticed the fatal trend and was already on the run before he met any of us. Too many people were no longer around to answer our questions because they’d made contact with us or Simon or Rollie or Ermo Colle.

  “Yeah. There is that,” I said.

  My phone rang mid-afternoon, and I expected Jack at the other end. “Hello.”

  “Interest you in a late lunch or early dinner?”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the caller ID. Lincoln Ferguson. Damn. “Oh, gee, Linc, I…” Something made me just stop and think oh, the hell with it. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

  “The restaurant at the top of the Tate?” he asked. “We can mix talk with art.”

  The Tate Modern used to house public utilities. Its enormous exhibition hall once displayed ten fully functioni
ng turbines. Today, about three hundred works of art graced the multi-storied structure. Including one of my favorites in Room 9, a later impressionistic water lilies painting by Monet on long-term loan from the National Gallery. The view out the café windows was also one of the best views of St. Paul’s Cathedral across the Thames. However, all of that would have to come another day when I could walk without assistance.

  “Sounds lovely, but could we meet somewhere at street level? I’ve had a slight mishap, and I’m on a restricted-movement regimen.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, I zigged when I should have zagged. Not a biggie.”

  “How about your hotel?”

  For a fleeting second, I almost took him up on it. Then common sense reminded me I didn’t want to let this professional snoop any closer to my life than necessary. I may have been meeting him out of gratitude and guilt, but he was still technically persona non grata in my closemouthed world.

  “No, I—”

  “Or we could go white tablecloths,” he interrupted me. “Whatever you prefer.”

  While London boasted over forty Michelin-star restaurants in a ten-mile radius, I wanted to keep things low-key. Fine dining too often included pictures or write-ups later in the media. Besides, I figured I might have to pick up the check as part of my penance for socking him in the nose. This needed to stay cheap. “What’s your favorite pub near the BBC offices?”

  He named one I’d only passed by but never stopped in to try, and I agreed to meet him in an hour. Then I called Jack.

  “Anything wrong?” he answered.

  I sighed. “That’s what it’s come to already? I call you in the middle of the day and you want to know what’s wrong?”

  “Ah…Didn’t realize this was that kind of call. I’m on my way.”

  “Cool your jets, cowboy, it isn’t that kind of call either.” I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Damn.”

  One of us had to remain professional. “Wanted to let you know I’m meeting Lincoln Ferguson at four at a pub around the corner from the BBC.”

  “You need me there?”

  “No.” Yes. Maybe. No. I continued, “It’s just Cassie and Nico are both gone, and I thought I should let someone know why I’m not in my hotel room.”

  “Good call. Going alone might not be in your best interests—”

  “I’ll be fine, Jack. The doorman will help me with a cab, and when I leave the meeting I’ll make sure Linc gets me another taxi before I set foot outside the pub.”

  “No, I’ll wrap things up and come by there about five. You can give me a sign if you want me to stay away, in case you need to finish anything up with him. I don’t want you leaving alone.”

  One part of me wanted to argue out of habit, but as I felt the smile on my face grow broader, I said, “Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

  “Wear your charm bracelet.”

  I raised my left arm and looked at the silver bracelet with its tiny little camera which stored the device Jack could track on his phone. “Check your app. I have it on right now.”

  The pub was dark paneled and noisy, exactly as I’d hoped. After a less than nimble exit from the cab, I crutched my way inside, happy to find Linc not yet in attendance so I could ungracefully pick my own way through the semi-crowded tables to the best available reconnaissance spot. A booth near the back seemed perfect, no one sitting directly adjacent but enough people laughing and talking around to mask our discussion. I was getting my coat and crutches settled on the black leather seat beside me when the door opened again and the reporter was backlit by the outside sunlight.

  “Hallo,” Linc said after crossing the room, pointing at the crutches before he shucked off his coat. “You weren’t kidding.”

  I deflected by commenting on his nose. “You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you. Almost no trace of the black eyes either.”

  He touched one side gingerly, a small bandage still in place. There was bruising, but most of the swelling was gone. “Another week before I can be on camera.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  He waved a hand. “Given the situation, your reaction was perfectly natural. I’m just glad I was there.”

  Okay, now I felt really guilty.

  “You want something?” He pointed to the bar. “Beer? Sandwich? Wine?”

  “Just mineral water, thanks. Maybe some chips.”

  “Oh, right, you’re still on pain meds,” he said and walked away.

  Actually, I’d already weaned myself off everything other than paracetamol, but his allusion could work in my favor if I decided things became too difficult. No better reason to cut and run than the need to take a fake round of meds.

  He wore another brown suit. Couldn’t someone tell him to liven up his wardrobe? As I watched, the skinny barman looked my way, then said something to Linc. I had the feeling of being assessed.

  A minute later, Lincoln was back with our drinks and settling into his side of the booth.

  “I thought getting together to do some pre-interview work would be beneficial to both of us,” he said.

  “Oh, I assumed this was the dinner I owed you.”

  “I was talking out of my head that night.” He laughed. “Or, rather, out of my nose. Forget anything I said.”

  What was he up to? Yes, it could have been over-obsessive thinking on my part, but given my previous dealings with this reporter, I dared not discount my instincts. I never liked it when someone’s objective seemed to be focused on making me feel too comfortable.

  After pulling a small notebook from an inside pocket, he flipped a couple of pages then searched for a pen. “Damn.”

  “No worries.” I pulled the Prada closer and withdrew from a side pocket the gold pen Max gave me last Christmas. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” He shook his head and the light from the kettle lamp above the table brightened his brown hair. “What does it say about a reporter who forgets his pen?”

  “At least you didn’t forget your notes.” I couldn’t read the upside-down scribbles, but there were a lot of them on the pages of his moleskin pad. “That’s always more important.”

  He pointed my pen at me and nodded. “Absolutely.” Then he folded his hands together, so his fingers held my pen as they also hid the open notebook. “But I don’t want to barrel in asking questions.”

  I waved a hand as if this type of thing happened every day. “Ask away. We’ll get all this business stuff over with, then we can talk.”

  His head gave a tiny jerk, as if I’d surprised him. Good.

  He smiled and pulled his hands away to look at the notebook. “Terrific. How about discussing what a typical day is like for you.”

  “No day is typical.” I chuckled. “Seriously, every day is both mundane and unique in its own way. Sounds cliché, I know.”

  A waitress passed by and slipped our basket of chips onto the table. As she moved out of earshot, Linc ratcheted things up. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in recovering stolen art.”

  Though truly wanting to grimace, I smiled. “A lot of it’s luck. Our foundation also has a network of contacts to help if we call. But mostly I have a great team.”

  “Ah, yes, tell me about your team.” He flipped to a clean page and kept the pen poised over the paper, but his gaze never left mine.

  Careful, Beacham, this was too choreographed. Keep it simple. I broadened my smile. “Well, Cassie Dean is my brilliant right hand. She has several degrees, including expertise in art restoration, so she’s invaluable to me in the office.”

  “Yes, she interned at the V and A last year.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You did your homework.”

  “Fatal flaw,” he said. “And you have another member of your team.”

  “Nico, yes. He works independently, but—”r />
  “No, I meant Jack Hawkes.”

  I felt my smile tighten, but I was too fixated on breathing to relax. I reached for my glass and took a sip of water. Then I squeezed the lime that floated on top so I could concentrate on the glass instead of the reporter. I said, “Jack doesn’t work for Beacham.”

  “But he does work with you. Has for several months. You’ve even traveled together.”

  “My, my, Lincoln. You really have been stalking me.” I laughed to further the pretense of teasing and was pleased when it sounded natural to my ears. “However, your information is incorrect. Jack Hawkes doesn’t report to me. We’ve had a few instances where our job needs dovetailed. Nothing else.”

  “I’m simply surprised your boss wants you associating with someone whose reputation isn’t the most…” He trailed off, like he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Then he offered a kind of aw-shucks look and said, “A bit of a cipher is your Mr. Hawkes. Some interesting pieces to be found, but larger chunks of expected data missing. And rather a lot of interesting informational avenues peter off in the end. But I do hear Hawkes has a habit of showing up as things head off-track.”

  Why was the conversation going sideways? What was this all about? I decided to keep it playful and cocked my head to one side as I said, “Are you trying to tell me something, Linc? Or just fishing?”

  “I guess I’m saying be careful. I wouldn’t want your boss to think you were consorting with unsavory people. Things have gone missing after Hawkes leaves a scene. People too.”

  Obviously, Ferguson stumbled upon a few of the “colorful backgrounds” Jack had alluded to. I wanted to ask if someone had a vendetta, but couldn’t risk raising the interest level. I also considered the line Tony B said to me months ago in Florence, before he got Jack arrested. The line I’d never completely worked out or been able to push out of my memory. I’m doing you a favor, Tony B kept telling me, and he added that Jack isn’t who you think. I didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu I experienced at the reporter’s words. I thought I’d made my peace with the previous uncertainty, but my inner suspicious self apparently had additional work to do.