Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Zambone muttered personal slanders against Tony’s parentage. “My friends at Rocco’s will laugh and raise their glasses to me when I tell them of the stupid American who likes to play ‘Ring Around the Rosie.’”

  Rocco’s. No doubt some dive where lowlifes brag about police interrogations and other interesting things.

  Tony smiled at the assassin. “Molto grazie, Adolfo. I’m sure Rome’s finest will have little trouble squeezing your address out of these fine friends of yours.”

  Zambone froze. Cords stood out in his neck. Spewing curses, the assassin launched himself at Tony.

  Tony sidestepped the attack, and Zambone’s head grazed I his chin. Tony’s jaw snapped shut.

  The assassin hit the wall.

  Bet that rattled more than his teeth.

  Zambone whirled and lunged again. Tony put him to the floor with a chop to the neck and a leg sweep. The assassin lay on his back, gagging.

  Gaetano and the guard holstered their weapons. The detective smiled while the guard gathered up the winded prisoner.

  “That one is good at shooting unarmed people from safe cover, but very bad at hand-to-hand fighting. He will not do well in prison.” He cocked a brow at Tony. “You learned something?”

  “A raid on a place called Rocco’s could be a gold mine.”

  “You would like to come with us?”

  Tony grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

  Tony pressed his back against the wall next to the rear exit of Rocco’s and breathed through his mouth.

  From a similar position opposite Tony, a member of the Roman polizia made a face. “Do the alleys of America smell so bad?”

  Tony gave a low chuckle. “Garbage stinks the world over.”

  “D’accordo! The rest of the team will enter by the front soon … we hope.”

  Muted sounds of wild laughter and loud conversation carried from inside. The evening was young, the party just getting started. Glass clinked. Someone started to sing.

  The noise dimmed and died. No different than in the U.S. when a bunch of badges walk into a hole-in-the-wall. A voice of authority spoke. Tony couldn’t make out the words, but he knew what Gaetano was saying—anyone with information about Adolfo Zambone should speak up.

  Let’s see what sort of scum flushes through the woodwork.

  A shuffle sounded on the other side of the door, then a small thump and a curse. The door inched open and a squatty figure slipped out, looking over his shoulder. Tony’s companion grabbed the man and whirled him against the wall.

  The smaller man squawked. “I did not do anything!”

  Do lowlifes share the same script internationally?

  The Italian officer snapped on the cuffs. “I think when we get to the station, we will find some nice outstanding warrants. And what is this? A gun! This is no good.”

  Tony heard a thud behind him. He spun in time to see a thin man dash away from an open window. Tony sprinted after him.

  “Run, Turtle! Run!” The prisoner shouted.

  Turtle’s feet grew wings as he leaped over a set of boxes. Tony stayed with him. The thin man’s hand went into his jacket pocket.

  Don’t! Draw a gun, and you’re toast!

  A pair of officers appeared at the head of the alley, weapons leveled. The runner’s stride faltered, and Tony barreled into him. He wrenched the man’s hand from his pocket, and the contents spilled out.

  A small bag of white powder.

  Tony pulled Turtle to his feet and handed him off to the Roman polizia. He could see where the guy got the nickname, with that long neck and bony Adam’s apple.

  Gaetano joined them and picked up the bag. “Not very smart to keep this on you when fleeing arrest. Not smart at all.”

  Turtle gasped and twitched. He licked his lips. “You want to know about Zambone? Yes? I could tell you things. Please! I cannot go back to prison.”

  The detective frowned and shook his head. “We will see how good your information is before we make promises.”

  Tony sighed and followed the polizia and their prisoners from the alley. Too soon to tell if their trolling expedition had caught any fish worth keeping.

  Silence weighted the Yukon. In the front seat, Max and Dean stared straight ahead, Max chewing her lower lip. Desi shared the second seat with the children, who had fallen asleep almost as soon as they got on the road.

  Full of ice cream and hot dogs and worn out from walking. If only I could join them.

  Desi’s eyes burned. She clutched the stranger’s note in a sweaty palm. With a sigh, she opened her fist and unfolded the paper one more time. As if she didn’t have the terse ultimatum memorized. Max and Dean probably did, too. They’d made her share the contents. The elegant scrawl hadn’t changed a jot or tittle since she first looked at it.

  We need to speak without delay. Specify time and place, or matters will become most dangerous. I can be reached at my Washington number.

  Your servant, P. D.

  Paul Dujardin her servant? Hah! More of his old-world niceties to sugarcoat a threat.

  “You fly to New York tomorrow, don’t you, Dean?”

  “That’s right.” He didn’t turn his eyes from the road.

  Max looked over her shoulder, and their gazes met. The redhead lifted her eyebrows. Desi nodded back. Max turned toward her husband. “Can you make room for a couple of stowaways and do a detour to DC?”

  “No way, ladies. Forget it. I assume this little jaunt has something to do with the art theft case. The stress has been off the charts at our house ever since the FBI cast suspicion on Hiram. Time to back off. We don’t need someone else killed—”

  “Paul Dujardin isn’t dangerous.” Desi leaned forward. “He’s a sly old man who might have information. If you can’t—or won’t—take me, I’ll grab a commercial flight, but I need to talk to him.”

  “So will you take us?” Max stared at her husband.

  Desi shook her head. “You don’t—”

  “I don’t want you involved.” Dean cut a glare at his wife.

  Max crossed her arms. “Like you said, we’ve been on the torture rack for months—ever since the FBI began lookin’ at Hiram as a suspect. It’s about time we get some answers. I’m going. And I’m just as capable of hoppin’ a commercial flight as Desi if you won’t help us.”

  “You’re pushing my buttons, Max, but all right, all right.” Dean heaved a long sigh. “If we leave early tomorrow morning, I’ll have time to make an extra stop.”

  Max pumped her fist. “Yesss! We’ll beard the rat in his den.”

  Desi smiled. “I think that’s beard the lion.”

  Max humphed. “Not when we’re dealing with a rodent in a monkey suit.”

  Dujardin as a rat in tailcoat and top hat? Too fitting. Desi let out a laugh.

  The children stirred and murmured in their sleep.

  “You’re going to his house? I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dean said. “You’ll be on his turf, and he’ll have the advantage.”

  Desi looked at the note in her hand. I have to talk to this man! “What do you suggest?”

  “Uhhh. Skip the country, and let the FBI sort out the mess?”

  His wife socked him.

  “Sorry. Bad joke.” Dean shook his head. “Well then, call Dujardin when you get to Washington. That’ll be your element of surprise. Set up a meet under the public eye, but private enough to talk. A park. A café. Max, bring along some of your electronic doodads that’ll warn you if he’s packing heat or wearing a wire.”

  Max slanted him a look. “Packing heat? Wearing a wire? Hon, your cop lingo is getting out of hand. I could see the gun—or maybe a bodyguard with a gun—but why would Dujardin want to record our conversation?”

  Several heartbeats passed.

  Dean cleared his throat. “Have either of you considered the possibility that this man might be working for the law? I don’t know what you’re up to, Desiree, but I know when my wife’s not telling me everything. And I d
on’t think either of you have been forthcoming with the feds. You two could stroll in there and implicate yourselves like crazy.” He glanced at Max. “I’m not wild about having a jailbird wife.”

  Desi slumped. “Max, you are soooo not coming along.”

  “Try leaving without me.” Max turned and scowled. “You never know where I might’ve stuck one of my homing devices.”

  “Cool it, ladies. How about I tag along, too? I’ll find someone else to fly my—”

  “No!” Desi’s protest sounded in unison with his wife’s.

  “We don’t want to scare the guy off,” Desi said. “He’s got old-world attitudes that might lead him to underestimate the fairer sex. Women have turned that ignorance to their advantage for centuries.”

  Dean hissed out a breath. “I know when I’m whipped. But don’t sell this joker short by counting on your feminine wiles. Run like mad if you catch a sniff of danger.”

  Desi didn’t respond.

  This whole business was like standing in the middle of a minefield. All we have to do is figure out which direction to move without getting blown sky high …

  The hotel phone rang as Tony zipped his travel bag. He stepped over to the nightstand. “Lucano.”

  “Guess where our little bird and her main chicklet are flying off to this morning?”

  No mistaking a crow in that voice.

  Tony glanced out the hotel window at a brilliant blue sky. Early morning in Boston, but it was past noon in Rome. “You tell me, Stevo.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his stomach a lump of stone.

  “I’ve had the guys all over Ms. Jacobs since yesterday afternoon. One of them followed her and the Webb family to the zoo, where she took a sweet handoff from an unknown male, who disappeared into the crowd. Our tail opted to stay with Jacobs and company. He was kind of disappointed when all they did was drive home. But around 5:00 a.m. today, our suspect made a trip to the office. The Webb woman and her husband were there, too. The Webbs grabbed some funny-looking gadgets out of the company van, loaded them into their car, and took off. The tail let them go while he watched to see if prime suspect number one would leave the office. No sign of Jacobs for a full hour, so our guy gets antsy, starts taking a stroll around the building, and do you know who he passes flat-footing toward the rear entrance of HJ Securities?”

  Tony’s heart stuttered, then rammed into overdrive. “Dowdy little Myra, who likes to ride buses.”

  “Give the man a cigar! Myra, huh? Name suits her.” Crane snickered. “And our private agent, he’s smart enough to sneak himself a digital photo to prove his sighting. Got the picture right in front of me, and Myra’s clutching her briefcase to her chest like it’s made of gold. Wonder what our little quick-change artist crept out the back door to retrieve? Stolen goods, maybe?” Stevo’s gravelly chuckle echoed through the international connection. “Might be enough suspicious behavior to net a fresh search warrant.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” Tony ran his fingers through his hair and resisted the temptation to pull some out. Contrary to public perception, federal judges held the FBI to higher standards of cause than local cops.

  “Well, whatever.” Crane’s gum snapped. “I’m gonna try anyway. Meanwhile, we keep watch. Dean Webb is scheduled to make a pickup in New York this morning, but he altered his flight plan to accommodate a pit stop in Washington. Desiree Jacobs and Maxine Webb got on the plane with him carrying some equipment and that solid gold briefcase. I’ll give you three guesses who they’re going to see in Washington, and the first two don’t count.”

  Tony let out a breath. “Paul Dujardin.”

  “I’d bet my pension on it.”

  “They could have a legitimate contract in Washington. HJ Securities does business all over the globe.”

  “Well, we’ll just see, pard. We’ve notified some guys there to follow Jacobs and Webb wherever they go. If those two meet with Dujardin—who we know is dirty but just can’t prove yet—then I want you to wake up and smell the coffee about Desiree Jacobs. It’s too late in my career to break in a new partner if you go and shaft your future in the Bureau over a two-timing thief.”

  “Warning noted.” Tony gritted his teeth. Desi, you better not do anything stupid. Don’t make me arrest you.

  “How did the suspect interview shape up over there?”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” Tony got up, tucked the receiver under his chin, and finished zipping his bag. “We played a little game, and he said more than he should have.” Tony paced back and forth by the bed while he relayed the details.

  “So the guy jumped you? Dumb-da-dumb-dumb! He do any damage?”

  “I’ve got a little bruise on my jaw where his head butted me, but he’s got a big pain in the neck and more trouble than he can handle.”

  Crane barked a laugh. “Any results from the suspect’s blabbing?”

  “The Roman police let me help with a raid. Pretty standard sweep in some dive, but we rounded up some lowlifes with outstanding warrants only too eager to deal in information. We located the assassin’s apartment this morning. They’ve got Interpol hacking the guy’s computer to find the money trail. We’ll be informed of anything they find.”

  “Great! You get home now so we can bust some chops on this end. I’ve got a good feeling we’re about to collar the head cheese of this whole operation. Could even turn out to be a female, you know?”

  Tony held his peace. Not going there, Stevo.

  Crane popped his gum. “Look on the bright side, pard. You’ll get a promotion, and I’ll retire a hero.”

  “Yeah, the bright side.” Tony hung up the phone, then grabbed his bag and hustled out of the hotel. The cab ride to the Rome Fiumicino Airport took forever. Once through security and into the waiting area, Tony located the terminal’s wireless hot spot and booted up his laptop. He had two hours before his flight left. Time to take another look at the famous art critic.

  Three cups of coffee and a pair of blurry eyes later, Tony clicked on a link to the archives of a prominent literary journal. A decades-old issue contained Dujardin’s review of a young artist’s show. He read a few lines and jerked to attention: “Sanderson Plate hasn’t an original bone in his body. He should return to imitating the masters. He might make a world-class forger one day.”

  Tony whooped, then grabbed his computer as it slid off his knees. People gave him ‘what nuthouse are you from?’ looks, but Tony just grinned them down.

  Months of worthless leads, and now bingo! Paul Dujardin and Sanderson Plate have a history. No wonder none of the denizens of the forgery underworld knew of this forger’s existence. He was a respected member of the international art community.

  Tony’s chest constricted. And once again, Desiree, you’re smack in the middle. Both these guys have an unnatural interest in you.

  He returned to the article and read it again. Something still didn’t add up. Plate had reason to resent the art critic. The man had shafted his fledgling career as an artist. But if Plate was working with Dujardin in the thefts, why did the curator point an accusing finger at the Frenchman that day at the museum? Dujardin’s arrest would lead to his own.

  Unless he’s not planning to stick around long enough for that to happen. Plate could get his revenge and disappear before his betrayal of the critic came back to bite him.

  Did Desiree plan to run off with the officious little man? Tony’s insides curdled. He couldn’t picture them together. Wouldn’t.

  Shades of his past jeered at Tony. Sucker!

  Tony bookmarked the page and shut down his laptop. He went to a more secluded spot to use his cell phone. When Stevo came on the line, he didn’t even say hello. “Any news from Washington?” Tony leaned a shoulder up against the wall and checked his surroundings. Habit.

  “Inconclusive. The ladies and their equipment are in the city, but they’ve made no contact with Dujardin or anyone else yet.”

  Good girl, Desi. He turned to face the wall. “I’ve linked Sanderson Plate and Paul
Dujardin. It seems Plate is our mysterious forger.” Tony shared the contents of the web page.

  “All right! Now we have a direction to probe. I’ll get on it.”

  Tony’s flight was announced over the intercom.

  “Got to go. I’ll call for an update from my London layover.”

  “You do that. If those two ladybirds meet up with our light-fingered art critic, I’ll be on my way to Washington in a heartbeat. The front desk will know my whereabouts when you call.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem to change my ticket from a Boston destination to DC.”

  “Not necessary, pard. I’ve got it covered.”

  Tony slammed an internal door on his emotions. “If Desiree Jacobs is going down, I plan to snap on the cuffs.”

  Crane’s laugh raised the hairs on the back of Tony’s neck. “There’s the right attitude. I just love when a case breaks wide open. Not a feeling in the world like it.”

  Heart hollow, Tony boarded the plane.

  “Yes, Mr. Gambel, this visit is included in the regular service you’ve already paid for.” Desi rolled her eyes at a glowering Max seated on the other bed in the hotel room. “We need to run a systems check on your security apparatus at least every six months.”

  The voice at other end barked another question.

  “Yes, I realize it’s only been five months since the last check, but my chief technician and I are in town on other business, and we thought—” More growling.

  Desi crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at Max. The woman lost her scowl, tipped over sideways, and buried her face in the pillows, shoulders shaking.

  “That sounds good, Mr. Gambel. We’ll come to your house at 8:00 p.m. sharp.”

  A brief snarl.

  “Yes, of course your security man can follow us around.”

  Max peeked up from the pillow. Desi made rabbit ears with two fingers behind her head. Max buried her face again.

  “Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Very good then. We’ll see you tonight.” She hung up the phone.

  Max glared at her, cheeks aflame. “Don’t ever make me laugh like that when you’re talkin’ to a client.”