"Aha!" Phoebe's snap comment cut short Lauren's reverie. "So the truth comes out about Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome. I'm proud of you, girl, truly I am. I must say, I had my suspicions last night when I called you and there wasn't any answer." Phoebe pursed her lips and waited. "So? Spill the whole thing."
"Actually, the reason I wasn't home was that I had a break-in."
"Ohmigod!" Phoebe jumped off the desk. "You weren't hurt were you?"
"No, of course not. It happened before I got home." Lauren finished signing her name on the note, then looked around, wondering where she should put it so that it would catch Sebastian's eye when he returned. For the past two hours he'd been on a conference call to Zurich—or was it Zagreb?—regarding another case. One thing was for sure, she didn't want him to think she had skipped out on him in an effort to hide any wrongdoing. "Anyhow, while the locks are being changed I'm staying at the Rittenhouse."
"You're staying at the Rittenhouse? Very nice, but you realize you're going to max out your credit card in a matter of days."
"Actually, it's not my credit card that's going to get hit with the damage." Lauren grabbed a pushpin from the bulletin board over her blotter. "Excuse me." She circled around Phoebe and tacked the note to the outside wall of her cubicle.
"Hey, you're not escaping without details," Phoebe called after her.
Lauren came back to her desk and slipped her brown tweed blazer off the back of her chair. "You want details? Well, the towels are very nice and fluffy and the soap is French-milled."
"You can tell me about the bathroom accoutrements another time. I want the skinny—all of it."
Lauren pushed an arm through a sleeve and shrugged on the jacket. "What is there to tell? I used the high-speed Internet connection. We ordered room service." She paused. "The earth moved—several times." She stashed all the stuff she needed into her bag.
Phoebe rubbed her hands together. "Give me more. I need to see the whole picture, hear some quotes. What kind of reporter are you anyway?"
"A working reporter who has to cover a story even as we speak." Lauren grabbed her bag. She really did have to go, but… She frowned and regarded Phoebe. "What would you say about someone who talks about finding peace at his place in the country and who is driven to restore things to their rightful homes?"
"I'd say he's either fixated with his mother—the whole hearth-and-home thing—or has watched too many episodes of This Old House on Public Television."
Lauren pondered Phoebe's answer. "I think the latter would be easier to deal with. In the meantime it's a three-alarmer for me before heading out to track down a lead on my Harry Nord obit." She saluted. "Hasta la vista, baby."
Lauren took a step forward and found Phoebe blocking her path. "Uh, Phoebe, dearest, you make a better door than window."
Phoebe held up her hand, undeterred. "This is for your own good. You have just informed me that you're following a lead on an obit you fabricated about a dead man?"
Lauren shook her head. "No, I'm following a lead on a man—possibly dead, though that's not for sure—who did exist, but who I didn't know about, but who seems to fit my fake obit."
Phoebe leaned forward. "Breathe out through your mouth in my direction. I want to double-check you haven't been drinking. You remember what happened that time you had three sambucas."
Lauren rolled her eyes. "Please, that was two years ago, when I hadn't completely gotten over the flu and hadn't eaten anything for almost four days. Given that scenario, you would have seen a marching band of Venusians outside Le Bar Lyonnaise, too." She pushed past Phoebe—only to smack into her nemesis, Huey.
Huey jumped away, leaving a trail of dandruff in his wake. "Sorry, I've got a cold, and I was looking for some Kleenex." He sneezed, dislodging little bits of sputum onto the wall of her office. Charming.
Lauren marched back to her desk and returned with a box of tissues. "Here, take this and don't even think about giving it back."
Huey mumbled thanks and shuffled away in a haze of Vicks VapoRub.
Phoebe gagged. "It really creeps me out, how that little troll has a way of sneaking up on a person. Do you think he was purposely lurking there, listening to our conversation?"
"Huey?" Lauren snorted. "He wouldn't know how to listen if his life depended on it, and even if he did, he'd get half the information wrong anyway. No, he was probably just stalking you after getting a load of how short your skirt is."
"Yuck, I don't know what's worse. Huey eavesdropping or stalking." Phoebe looked at her skirt. "It is nice, isn't it? An advance sample from the new St. John's line. I haven't worn a skirt this short since I played forward on the Baldwin varsity field hockey team. Did I tell you I was the highest scorer my senior year?"
"Somehow I think you did." Lauren performed another manic last-minute check of her bag and started to leave—yet again. "This time I really am out of here."
"All right. But don't forget about the soiree at the Vesper Boat Club tonight. You remember? I left the invitation on your desk last week." Phoebe followed her down the hallway as Lauren headed for the elevators. "You can bring along you-know-who, if you want. Unless you'll be tied up, that is." Phoebe waggled her carefully waxed brows. "I can see it now—you tied up, or maybe him?"
Lauren rolled her eyes and punched the Down button. "Please, the only tying up tonight will be the string around the pot roast at my parents'. In a moment of weakness I agreed to attend Friday family dinner." The elevator door opened and Lauren stepped in. She turned to face Phoebe. "But I tell you what, I'll try to pop into the Vesper gig late-ish. It'll be a good excuse to escape the usual nagging about why aren't I not married to a nice boy from the neighborhood and when am I going to stop hanging around such lowlifes."
"Then they haven't met Mr. You-Know-Who." Phoebe waved. "Toodle-oo."
"And it'll be over my toodle-oo-dead-body that they do," Lauren announced through the closing metal doors.
So why did Lauren have a sinking feeling that another "yeah, right" was about to rear its ugly head?
It was worse than she'd expected. A family had been squatting in the building, and three of the six members had perished before firefighters could reach them. One of the victims was a six-month-old child.
So despite the sunny skies and sixty-degree weather that normally would have been a godsend in April, Lauren felt herself shivering.
She thanked the fire inspector on the scene for his quote and slowly shut her notebook. Mindful of the maze of fire hoses, she stepped away from the site and blindly rummaged through her bag for loose change. She found everything else—sugarless gum wrappers, pen caps, tampons—but no coins.
She heard footsteps behind her and figured it was her fellow reporter from the Inquirer. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and continued to peer into her bag. "You wouldn't have forty cents, would you?" She pulled her head up.
And felt a shiver ripple down her body—a shiver that was only partly due to her lowered body temperature.
Sebastian eyed her critically. "From the looks of your blue lips, a couple of quarters isn't going to cut it. You need a cup of coffee."
Lauren blinked, the realization that he was standing next to her amidst the confusion and the mess only gradually sinking in. "It's nothing, really, honest," she stammered. Somehow the sight of his scowling face and impeccable charcoal-gray suit was bringing tears to her eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. "My lips always turn blue when my feet get wet."
Sebastian expelled a gust of air in a sign of frustration. "Please, we both know you couldn't lie your way out of a paper bag. I talked to one of the firefighters. I heard about the kid. I know why you're upset. Why don't we get out of here and go someplace quiet?"
Lauren ran her hand through her hair. How easy it would be to let Sebastian take over, whisk her away into the tidy cocoon of his hotel room and make all the ugliness vanish. Only the world didn't work that way. Not for Lauren anyway.
Sebastian Alberti might t
hink he was doing her a favor, but she knew that the good times with him weren't meant to last. As soon as they broke open the Harry Nord/Bernard Lord story and found what was or was not going to be found, he'd hightail it back to D.C. with a "thank you very much, it's been memorable," and she'd be stuck with a career that was hanging on by the barest of threads and a heart that she was increasingly worried might be left in tatters.
That was the problem with great sex—combined with mystery, manners and a certain guy's self-protective instinct to keep his psyche from being exposed—it tended to blind a gal to reality and make her want to grab on with all her might and make it all better. Talk about a fairy tale.
Let me tell you, South Philly was not built on fairy tales. Maybe a couple of good rock 'n' rollers, but no fairy tales.
So she refastened her blowing hair with a pen and eked out a smile. "The offer's mighty tempting, but I really need to get back to the paper to file the story. Make deadline before heading out again to the Camden Aquarium. It's my job. It's what I do."
Sebastian scrutinized her expression. "You don't need to tell me about your work ethic. Though why you feel you need to give blood—literally, it sometimes seems—to that two-bit rag is beyond me."
"It's funny, but when the call came from the New York Times I sat there weighing my options." Lauren raised both hands, palms up, pretending to compare the fictitious job offer. "New York Times or Philadelphia Sentinel? You know, it wasn't even close. 'Sorry Mr. Salzburger,' I said, 'but how can I leave the glamour and prestige of my hometown tabloid?'"
Sebastian grabbed her gruffly by her jacket sleeve and ushered her over to his car.
Lauren stared at the Mercedes. "Amazing. The cops cordon off the area, and you still manage to park nearby."
He unlocked the doors and practically shoved her in. Then he circled the car and put his keys in the ignition. Only he didn't turn on the engine.
Instead he banged his hands on the tooled leather steering wheel and slanted her a withering glance. "What is it about you? You make jokes when you should be tearing your hair out?"
"Coping skills, I guess?" She batted her eyelashes innocently.
"Denial is more like it. You're so intent on proving how tough you are, you refuse help when you need it. If it's so damn important that you file the story, you can use my laptop." He nodded toward the trunk of the car. "It's got WiFi, so you can e-mail it back to the newspaper without a hitch. But you'll do it from somewhere where you can get a decent cup of coffee with a lot of sugar in it, and where you're not hassled by a managing editor with ill-fitting pants, who calls you 'little woman' when you clearly could run rings around him—even on one of your bad days. All right?" He inhaled dramatically.
Lauren pursed her lips and waited a beat. "I think I'm supposed to be flattered—despite the fact that you are yelling at me."
Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Do we have a deal?" At least his voice had moderated.
She bit her lip. "All right." When Sebastian started the engine, she covered her mouth with her hand and hid her smile. Gee, he had actually complimented her. "But you should know—I don't take sugar in my coffee."
Sebastian turned and narrowed his eyes.
Lauren held up her hands. "Okay. I'll take sugar. But just this once."
Lauren stared at the gray bodies darting nervously back and forth. Turning to Sebastian, she pointed at the thick glass. "How come they never think of trying to get out?"
The two of them were standing in the dark interior of the Camden Aquarium. It would have been spooky except for the fact that droves of school children were crowding the exhibits and shrieking at the tops of their lungs. You'd think they'd never seen a shark before, let alone less exciting things like shad and scrod.
Lauren stared at the large tank of gray and white predators. They were neurotically swimming this way and that, displaying more energy than a bunch of four-year-olds with ADD and on a sugar high. And they had very white and very pointy teeth. They bore a strong resemblance to the land variety of sharks that Lauren came in contact with on a regular basis.
Sebastian glanced over his shoulder toward the tank. "If you lived in New Jersey, would you try to get out?"
Lauren nodded. "Good point." He seemed to be making any number of good points, she realized. After the fire, he'd taken her to Chink's, absolutely the best diner in North Philly, where she'd had a coffee—with two sugars. She'd cranked out the story in record time, only pausing once, when the impact of the tragedy hit. And then, wouldn't you know it, he'd ordered her the perfect pick-me-up—a chocolate egg cream. Amazing stuff those egg creams.
But his true stroke of genius occurred when she'd offered to pay and he'd said, "Don't be ridiculous. I'll give Ray the bill and insist that the paper reimburse me."
And now, at the aquarium, Lauren was still grinning. She answered as she watched his reflection in the glass, "Did I ever tell you that I like your style, Sebastian Alberti?"
Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. "You did. Several times, as I recall."
A self-satisfied reply if ever Lauren had heard one. "You know, a swelled hea—"
"Lauren Jeffries?"
The inquiry came from over Lauren's right shoulder. And the male figure who did the asking was carefully positioned in the murky hallway, making it difficult to get a good look.
"Yes?" She swiveled in the direction of the voice.
"No, don't turn around. Just keep looking at the fish while I tell you what's what. After you called, I checked out your story with Walt Mahoney, and he said you were kosher. And seeing as I owe Walt a favor, I decided to come after all. So tell me, I hear you're interested in information?"
Sebastian didn't bother pretending to regard the fish. He angled his head and shifted his feet. Lauren did likewise. "We're both interested in information," he said.
Slick Frankie lifted his chin. "Who are you? You don't look like a reporter. I'd say you're a cop, but your suit's definitely beyond the salary of a municipal employee. Of course, there's also the possibility that you're a cop on the take."
Sebastian shrugged off the insult. "Just call me an art lover."
"A very successful art lover," Lauren added.
Slick Frankie did a back-and-forth look between the two of them. "You work as a team?"
"Yes," said Lauren
"No," said Sebastian.
They looked at each other. Slick Frankie rolled his eyes.
"Well, sort of," conceded Lauren.
"In this instance," Sebastian qualified. He cleared his throat. "The point is, we're interested in finding particular pieces of art."
"Do I look like the kind of guy who knows anything about art?" Slick Frankie stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself more fully. A middle-aged man of medium height, he had thinning hair and a comb-over. His khakis were loose-fitting. A Kiwanis Club emblem was printed on his nylon jacket. A pair of cream-colored New Balance walking shoes completed the outfit.
He definitely did not look slick. In fact, Lauren thought he could easily fit the part of the retiree flipping burgers at the neighborhood block party. Maybe that was why he was so good at fencing goods in back alleys.
Sebastian slipped his hand into his suit jacket—Slick Frankie flinched momentarily, displaying highly sensitive reactions for a member of Kiwanis—and pulled out a photo. It was the same one Sebastian had shown Lauren the day before.
"Specifically, we're interested in art connected with this man," he said. "Ever recall seeing him, possibly as much as ten to fifteen years ago? He would have been significantly older than what's shown here."
Slick Frankie barely glanced at the photo. "That's a long time ago to remember."
Sebastian held the picture out farther. "Look again. Jog your memory. And let's say I would appreciate it in a big way, a really big way. Capisce?"
Slick Frankie studied Sebastian before he switched his attention to the snapshot. "Capisce."
Lauren nudged Sebastian. "The Sentinel doesn't pay sources,
" she whispered.
"It's nice to know it has some moral standards. Luckily I don't work for the Sentinel."
"Flyboy huh?" Slick Frankie asked.
"Navigator, World War II. He was shot down over Italy." Sebastian paused and studied Stick Frankie carefully. "Takes one to know one, am I right?"
Slick Frankie nodded. "Choppers, in Nam." He surveyed Sebastian critically. "You're more, what, Bosnia?"
Sebastian didn't blink. "Desert Storm."
Frankie shook his head. "Never did like the desert."
Lauren frowned at Sebastian. "You never told me you were in the military?" Something else he was keeping close to the vest.
"I'm not big on swapping war stories. We're here to track down some art, missing art. So tell me, does the picture ring a bell?" He waved the photo in front of Slick Frankie's nose one more time.
"There a name to go with the picture?" Slick Frankie asked.
"Lord. Bernard Lord," Lauren answered. She reached down into her bag, ostensibly to get a tissue, but at the same time turned on her mini-tape recorder.
Slick Frankie studied the photo a moment longer. "Maybe he's familiar, maybe he's not. He's a local, did you say?"
"We didn't. But he was born in Camden, lived in Philly, or across the river in Jersey," Lauren supplied.
"So what's our native son supposed to have had in his possession that interests you so much?"
"Several works," Sebastian answered. "A minor Caravaggio—"
"If there's such a thing as a minor Caravaggio, this I need to know," Slick Frankie commented.
"In addition, a Carolingian silver chalice and a pair of marble candlesticks attributed to Nicola Pisano," Sebastian finished up.
Slick Frankie whistled. "Quite a haul." He was silent for a moment. "Did he liberate them during his service for Uncle Sam?"
Sebastian shook his head. "Later, apparently, more like fifteen years ago."
"Now I get it. When I might have—and I say might have—come in contact with him." He glanced around as some schoolchildren rushed past. "Kids—you gotta love 'em. Hey, you—" he pointed his finger "—no running with pens like that." He smiled and returned his attention to the interview. "Now where were we?"
THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Page 9