Death is in the Air (Secret Seal Isle Mysteries Book 5)

by Lucy Quinn

  He slowly lowered his hands from his head and reached down to snag the thin but strong plastic strip from the deck. Then holding it as gingerly as if it were a snake, he studied her again.

  Cookie didn’t miss the way the guy’s brow had furrowed or how his eyes had narrowed. “Let me guess,” she declared. “You’re wondering, now that it’s just you and me, if you could take me. Spring to your feet, cover the distance between us, knock me down, and take the gun away, all before I can get off a shot?” She gave him her best hard-ass grin. “Go ahead,” she urged, tightening her finger on the trigger. “Try me. I say I can put three holes in you before you can reach me. But who knows? Maybe it’s only two. Or it could be four.” She shrugged. “I’m willing to try it and find out. Are you?”

  Neither of them moved for a moment.

  Then Voelker grimaced and wrapped the zip tie around his wrists, holding it in place with one hand and fitting the tip through the slot with the other. He raised the whole ensemble to his mouth, bared his teeth at her like a dog getting ready to bite, and then clamped down on the end and tugged it tighter.

  Cookie watched the gap between plastic and flesh start to disappear. “Keep going,” she warned when he paused. He scowled so hard it made her laugh. “Yeah, I know, you wanted to leave it loose enough to slip out. I get that. Sorry, not happening.” She squinted down the gun barrel. “Nice and tight.”

  He complied, and when he’d finished he held out his bound hands and tried tugging them apart to show her how little space was left.

  “Good.” Only then did Cookie cross the distance between them. And, since she couldn’t get to her holster easily, she shoved the gun into her pocket long enough to reach out with both hands, wrap them around his, and make sure the zip tie really was good and tight. “Now we can be friends again,” she said as she backed away, moving toward the other two plastic restraints.

  Just then, the boat lurched to the side. Voelker, still on his knees, reeled backward and nearly fell over. Cookie had to grab onto the doorframe to stay upright. After a second, the boat settled and continued to cut through the water.

  “Sorry!” Hunter hollered from up front. “Big rock. Had to haul on the wheel to keep from hitting it!”

  “A little warning next time!” Cookie shouted back. Then she smirked down at Voelker. “Gee, too bad that didn’t happen a minute sooner, huh? Might’ve improved your chances.”

  She could feel the heat of his death-glare on her back the whole time she took the other zip ties and used them to bind the wrists of his still-unconscious associates.

  Hunter emerged from the cabin just as she was sauntering back toward Voelker. “I think we’re good for now,” her partner stated, stepping out onto the deck. “Maps aren’t showing any other big rocks in our path. There’s a turnoff soon, though, where we can loop around and head back over to Hancock, where we can lock these guys up properly.”

  Cookie nodded. “Good work,” she said.

  Suddenly a banging sound came from somewhere nearby.

  “Brooklyn!” Cookie gasped. In all the excitement of the fight and securing the art thieves, she’d all but forgotten about the young artist the men had kidnapped. She turned to Hunter, “You keep an eye on Voelker. I need to find Brooklyn.”

  21

  Cookie ducked past Hunter, into the small pilot’s cabin. But she’d already guessed that she wouldn’t find Brooklyn there—the banging hadn’t sounded close by. Besides, Hunter would’ve already spotted her. Still, just to the side of the exterior door was an interior one, and when Cookie opened it she found a set of narrow stairs leading down below deck. That looked promising.

  She took the steps carefully, gun out just in case Voelker, Dreisser, and Ochoa hadn’t been alone. It always paid to be overly cautious. For that same reason, she didn’t turn on a light, but instead paused midway down and closed her eyes for a second, letting them adjust. When she blinked and looked around, she found that she could see well enough to make out the steps and the walls on either side of her and the darker space waiting ahead.

  That would have to do for now.

  Cookie listened carefully as she went, placing each foot slowly and surely so as not to make a sound. Was that moaning coming from somewhere in the dark? There weren’t any more screams, but there weren’t any voices or any sounds of humans moving around either. Hopefully that meant there wasn’t another thug lurking with a gun or a lead pipe, ready and waiting to take her out the minute she came into view.

  Finally, her feet reached the metal floor of the lower level, and Cookie paused again, squinting to study her surroundings. She was in a tight hallway, but the walls were white so it was easy enough to make them out, and even to see the dark outlines of doors on both sides. Taking a deep breath and making sure she had a firm grip on her gun and her finger poised just over the trigger, Cookie reached for the first door, grasped its handle, and then flung it open.

  Nothing. The room beyond was dark and silent.

  She did the same to the door on the opposite side, with the same results.

  The third door, however, was a different story. When Cookie shoved it inward hard enough for it to bounce back from the wall, she was rewarded by a muted yelp.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Anyone there?”

  This time she got a definite murmur, but the words were muffled as if the person trying to speak had her mouth covered.

  “Brooklyn?” Cookie tried again. “Is that you? It’s Cookie, Cookie James. Grunt once if it’s you.”

  She didn’t hear anything for a second. Then, from not far ahead, came a grunt.

  “Great. Are you alone?”

  Another grunt.

  “Okay.” Cookie straightened but didn’t relax completely. It was possible Brooklyn was lying to her under duress, like if someone had a knife to her throat. Still, she felt confident enough to reach around on the wall beside the door until her hand fumbled across a small nub and what she was sure was a light switch.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Cookie flipped the switch and then dropped down into a crouch. A yelp sounded nearby, and Cookie tensed as she blinked rapidly, trying to regain her vision. After a second her eyes adjusted, and she noted she was in a decent-sized room. Against the back wall was a stack of flat squares—the canvases the thieves had stolen from Petra’s gallery.

  And sitting only a few feet from them, tied to a chair with silvery tape covering her mouth, was Brooklyn.

  Cookie didn’t spot anyone else, but she took her time checking the space properly. When she was certain they were alone, she finally shoved her gun into her pocket and went to untie the girl.

  “Took you long enough,” Brooklyn said once Cookie had yanked the tape off her mouth. “Or did you want to stand around and admire the architecture a little more?”

  “I can put the tape back on,” Cookie warned. She’d been expecting a little more gratitude and a lot less attitude. “Come on.” Without another word, she headed back out into the hall and up the steps to the cabin.

  Hunter was up there, hands on the wheel, and as Cookie emerged he glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised. The expression smoothed out into a satisfied nod when Brooklyn joined them. “There’s coffee in the pot,” he said, gesturing at a small carafe sitting on the little table off to the side. “Help yourselves. I don’t think they’ll be needing it.” He nodded toward the other side of the tiny room where the three art thieves were piled up. Ochoa and Dreisser had awakened by now, and all three men glared at them. Despite not having gags of any sort, none of them said a word.

  Brooklyn jumped when she saw the men, and actually whimpered a little. The girl looked positively scared out of her mind. But who could blame her? Cookie wondered. She had just been kidnapped by these same men, and now here they were, only a few feet away.

  “It’s okay,” Cookie promised. “They can’t hurt you anymore. See?” She walked over and yanked Dreisser’s hands up so that Brooklyn could see the zip tie there.

  Th
e art thief growled and bared his teeth. Cookie, completely unfazed, rapped him upside the head with the back of her hand. “Quiet, you.” Dreisser clamped his mouth shut, but continued to glare at Cookie. She just shrugged.

  When she glanced back at Brooklyn, Cookie could see the girl was still shaking slightly and there was fear clouding her big round eyes. Cookie sighed, accepting the fact they probably wouldn’t get anything out of her until the men were safely behind bars.

  As was often the case—at least regarding work matters—Hunter read her mind. “Five minutes to Hancock,” he reported. “And then it’s a nice cozy cell for you three.” He turned his cool, professional stare on Brooklyn. “And some answers from you.”

  The girl gulped, but nodded.

  Good. Now all Cookie had to do was wait.

  She hated waiting.

  Cookie leaned against the counter in the break room of the Hancock Sheriff’s station, waiting for her coffee to brew. It had been a long day and if she was going to make it through interrogations, she was going to need an IV of coffee.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Hunter said, striding into the small room. “Got a cup for me?”

  Cookie nodded and gestured to the new Keurig machine. “Just as soon as mine’s done brewing, it’s all yours.” The machine sputtered, indicating it was done and Hunter reached for her cup, but she was too quick for him. “No way, java thief. Get your own.”

  Chuckling, he positioned a mug under the machine, popped in a new pod, and pressed the button.

  “Good work today,” Cookie said. Then she swayed, suddenly struck by a wave of weariness. She dropped her mug, the liquid splattering as the ceramic cup shattered on the tile floor. Shaking slightly, Cookie sagged and stepped to the side so she could lean against the wall for support.

  Hunter was at her side in an instant. “Are you okay?” he asked, taking her hands in his own. His dark, handsome face was taut with fear. “What happened, Charlie?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine, really,” she said. “All good. Just the letdown, you know?” She knew he understood. They’d both suffered through the post-adrenaline drop plenty of times.

  He nodded and handed her a muffin from a nearby basket.

  “Thanks.” Cookie was three-quarters of the way through the pastry when she finally started to feel normal again.

  “Your color’s come back,” Hunter said when she’d polished off the last bite.

  She nodded. “The sugar helps.”

  “It always does.” He gave her a reassuring smile, took a step forward, and wrapped his arms around her. “I haven’t thanked you yet. If you hadn’t knocked me to the ground, that piece of crap Voelker probably would’ve killed me.”

  “Not on my watch,” Cookie said softly, hugging him back, finally feeling the full weight of what could’ve happened out on the sea.

  Hunter pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes and after a moment he leaned in and kissed her. A deep, passionate kiss. The kind that said this isn’t just adrenaline and relief and gratitude. Or even just lust. This is something a whole lot bigger, a whole lot deeper, a whole lot more real.

  Startled by the suddenness, Cookie had stiffened at first, but quickly found herself relaxing and responding to his warmth and passion. It was enough to make a girl lose herself. But just as she was about to throw her arms around his neck and give herself over to the moment, Hunter pulled back.

  “Damn, but we still make an amazing team,” he said, his voice and gaze warm with pride. “Talk about a perfect takedown, right? We’ve still got it, Charlie.” He held up his hand, and although stunned by the sudden shift, Cookie still managed to high-five him.

  “Yeah,” she agreed through lips that throbbed from the intensity of their kiss. “We’ve still got it.”

  “That seals it,” Hunter declared, backing away enough to hold her by the shoulders at arm’s length. “You need to come back with me.”

  “Back?” Cookie was still dizzy from his one-eighty shift. “Back where?”

  She was certain she was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind, and he gave her the same look in return. “Back to Philly,” he answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Back to the FBI. After nailing these guys, I bet Spinner’ll reinstate you in a snap.”

  “You think?” Cookie hadn’t even considered that possibility, certainly not when they’d been at the field office and not since. Somehow she’d just assumed that when she’d left, she’d permanently closed that door behind her. The thought it could reopen now was both a little thrilling and a little terrifying.

  “Oh, absolutely,” he insisted, wrapping an arm around her waist and squeezing her close. “We could be partners again for real, full-time.” Then he nuzzled her neck. “And I don’t just mean working hours.” He laughed. “Hey, we could even get a place together.”

  “A place?” He was throwing too much at her all at once, and Cookie was having trouble processing it. “You want me to move in with you? Back in Philly?”

  He stopped and looked at her again, another of those deep, serious gazes that made part of her melt inside. “Of course I do,” he said. “It’d be amazing. You and me, working together, living together, being together, back in the city where we belong.”

  “Right.” Cookie tried to wrap her head around that idea, but it was still too big, too new, too fast.

  “It’d be perfect,” Hunter insisted. “Don’t you think?”

  Cookie stared back at him. She wasn’t sure what to think, honestly. Or what to say. Fortunately, one of the precinct officers poked her head into the break room and said, “Brooklyn’s ready for you now.”

  “Brooklyn, right,” Cookie said, quickly stepping away from Hunter’s grasp. The young woman had asked for a few moments to compose herself before they sat down to get her statement. “We’ll be right there.”

  The officer nodded, glanced at the coffee-stained floor and said, “There’s a mop in the cabinet.”

  Hunter was already picking up the pieces of the mug as Cookie grabbed the mop. He fixed her a fresh cup of coffee while she cleaned up the mess.

  “Thanks,” Cookie said, accepting the fresh mug. “We should probably get in there.”

  Hunter grabbed her free hand, stopping her. “What do you think? About coming back to Philly?”

  “I… well, I think right now Brooklyn’s waiting for us. We should probably get in there.” Turning on her heel, she walked out of the break room, knowing that wasn’t the response he’d expected. But it was all she could manage right now.

  “Okay,” Cookie declared, plopping herself down onto one of the stiff metal chairs in the interview room. “Spill.”

  Across the table, Brooklyn sighed. She had her hands wrapped around a cup of steaming hot coffee, and she’d regained some color but still looked both haunted and trapped. After a second, though, she started talking.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said, so softly Cookie had to lean forward to hear her. “Nobody should’ve gotten hurt.”

  Cookie frowned. That almost sounded like a confession. Had she and Hunter gotten it all wrong? Had Brooklyn somehow been behind everything?

  “Petra, she was amazing,” Brooklyn explained. “Her paintings were gorgeous. You’ve seen them. She had real talent.” The girl shrugged. “But nobody was buying. Art’s like that. You can be phenomenal and go totally unnoticed, and you can be crap but somehow catch on.”

  Cookie nodded. “Okay, so she was underappreciated. Got it.” She made a move-on gesture with her hand.

  Brooklyn took the hint. “So she was showing in some gallery somewhere—Rhode Island, I think—when this guy approached her. Told her he loved her work and asked if she ever did acrylics. She said sure, some, though she preferred oils. He commissioned a piece from her, for a pretty hefty price tag. More than she’d been asking for the ones on display.”

  Cookie took a stab in the dark. “That was Karl,” she guessed aloud.

  Brooklyn nodded, her gaze fix
ed on her coffee. “Yeah. He was real happy with the painting, told her he might want a few more soon. Then he took her out for dinner. To celebrate.” She glanced up and made a face. “One thing led to another, and they started dating.”

  That fit, Cookie thought. The photos at Petra’s had suggested more than just a professional relationship. “Okay,” she prompted. “So they dated. Then what?”

  Brooklyn stared down at her cup again. “Then he asked her about painting on old canvases, wanted to know if she could do that. She said sure. But then”—she hesitated before plunging ahead— “he asked about painting over an old canvas and then stripping the new picture back off of it. Whether it could be done without hurting the original.”

  “Oh, crap.” Cookie sat back in her chair. That was what they’d been missing. She glanced over at the mirrored observation wall, where she knew Hunter was watching the whole conversation. “That’s what they were up to. They were using Petra to paint pictures on top of stolen art so they could smuggle it out in plain sight. Then they’d strip off her painting and sell the restored original.”

  “It had to be acrylic,” Brooklyn explained, nodding, “It dries fast. Oils take forever. Petra worked out a technique where she’d basically gesso over the original. That’s a white base. It’s paint mixed with something like chalk or maybe gypsum. You use it to cover over a new canvas so that you’ve got a clean, blank surface.” She raised her cup, took a sip, and grimaced at the bitter liquid then continued. “Usually gesso’s a bitch to get off, just like acrylic itself. You can remove it with rubbing alcohol but it takes forever, and it’d destroy anything underneath. But Petra figured out that if she varnished the oil painting and let that dry, she could gesso over that and then paint it like it was a brand-new canvas. Then later they could just strip off the varnish with turpentine, and the oil painting would be good as new.”