Tall and lithe, Felicity slid past Morgan at the door, zeroing in on the raven haired woman across the room.
“Halte, Nicole. Fermez votre valise,” Felicity said, but both women kept moving. Felicity hit the floor as Nicole, rather than closing her purse, pulled a small automatic pistol from it. She aimed at Morgan, who didn’t react. Felicity rolled across the plush carpet, smacking into the other woman’s shins. With a shriek, Nicole crashed onto the floor, face forward. When she looked up, Morgan’s Browning Hi-power was pointed at her head. Behind him, Tommy lay face up, legs pointed up the wall toward the ceiling.
“It’s over,” Morgan said quietly. “Don’t be stupid.”
“O’Brien knows me,” Nicole said, rising. “I will not, as you say, be stupid.”
“Glad to hear it,” Felicity said, brushing herself off. She shook her head at the condition of her clothes, as if she wished she hadn’t come to this job straight from her office.
“You are still the athlete, I see,” Nicole said, settling into an arm chair. “And your style has become more conservative since we met on the Continent, chère. Remember? You took the jewelry, I took the art. Are we in competition now?”
“Hardly,” Felicity replied. “Left that life, I did, although I still do the gymnastics to stay in shape. Instead of stealing, I run a security firm. This is me partner, Morgan Stark. Used to be a soldier for hire.”
Nicole appraised his dark rugged face, light brown eyes, and short, crinkly black hair.
“Exactly what I would always want at my side in case of trouble,” Nicole said. “A big, muscular black man no sane person would want to mess with.”
While she watched, Morgan turned and pulled Tommy to his feet with surprising ease.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Tommy?” Morgan asked in a rough baritone. “Stealing from your daddy like that. After all he’s given you.”
The younger man, all Izod and Lacoste, lurched to the sofa, holding the side of his head.
“Where is it, Nicole?” Felicity asked. Her emerald eyes locked onto Nicole’s smile.
“What is the ‘it’ in question, Felicity?” Nicole tugging at the hem of her too short leather skirt. Her smile didn’t waver when Morgan walked over and took her wrist. He didn’t twist or yank. He just squeezed. Nicole’s brown eyes widened.
“Look it, lady,” Morgan began in a low voice, “I am not a patient man. We been following lover boy here for three weeks. I know he left his father’s house with that Bechtle oil painting and I know he handed it over to you. Now we could tear the place up to find it, but that would seriously, seriously piss me off.”
“He can squeeze harder,” Felicity said. “Since when you collect the new realists, anyway? New buyer?”
“Oui,” Nicole said. “In the closet. Shopping bag. Please.” She stared up into Morgan’s light brown eyes. He eased the pressure a bit.
Felicity pulled a large shopping bag from the hall closet. A dozen rolled posters stood on edge in it, held closed with rubber bands. Smiling, Felicity ran a hand across each until she reached one that wasn’t paper, but canvas. She pulled it out and unrolled it on a low table.
“Breathtaking,” Felicity said. It was a simple picture, a teenager leaning against a hot rod, but with astounding accuracy of detail. It was oil on canvas, but a casual viewer might mistake it for a photograph.
“Bechtle’s work is beautiful, but like I said, it’s not your usual market,” Felicity said, turning to Nicole. “No coincidence, we know, since you took two others earlier. Who’s placing the orders?”
“How did you know?”
“Well, if you must know, we handle all of Mister Cartellone’s security, his business and home,” Felicity answered. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tommy Cartellone reach quietly for a large, heavy ashtray. “During a conference recently, we were invited again to view his impressive collection of the new realists.” Tommy stepped behind Morgan, but Felicity gave no warning. “There probably aren’t a dozen people outside of museums who’d have spotted the copies you replaced the real Bechtle work with. Too bad for you it was me.”
Morgan slipped his gun into its holster under his left arm, moved his shoulders as if stretching, and thrust a stamp kick out behind him. His heel sank into Tommy’s solar plexus and the younger man crumpled to the floor. Felicity wasn’t surprised. She knew Morgan received a danger warning almost mystically whenever something threatened him. Only one other person she knew of had such an instinct.
“You just shouldn’t have been greedy,” Felicity continued, as if nothing had happened. “If you hadn’t come for a third painting, we wouldn’t have got you. But since I knew my intrusion alarms to be foolproof, it had to be someone inside. We put tails on all the suspects and little Tommy got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”
Keeping her movements slow, Nicole retrieved her bag and pulled a cigarette from a flat silver case. “So what happens now? You’re right, of course. I’m filling orders right now. Someone wants to fill holes in their collection, I guess. But I can’t get the other two paintings back.”
“Well, we could just hand you over to the cops,” Morgan said, hauling Tommy back up onto the bed.
“What can I give you to avoid this unpleasant course of action?” Nicole asked. She lit her cigarette and crossed her legs loosely in Morgan’s direction. “I am unwilling to go to prison for five percent of any painting’s value.”
“Let’s cut a deal,” Felicity said. “You give me your contact, your guess as to the buyer, and your word not to ever see Tommy again. We let you walk.”
Nicole smiled a sly, calculating smile. “I would not see that boor again in any case. I paid a high price in boredom for those paintings. My contact, I’m afraid I can’t provide.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” Morgan asked.
“If you were a mercenary, Mister Stark, you know how it works,” Nicole said. “Contacts, cut-outs and couriers. I received telephone calls from a blocked number and those calls were pre-recorded to prevent conversation. I returned calls to a different number each time. Those calls were run through at least three switching stations, and they always went to voicemail. I submit merchandise to an overseas post box, but it never actually arrives there. My money is deposited in my Swiss account.”
“Very professional, very organized,” Felicity said. “Above all, it’s got style. These people from the Continent?”
“Now you want my hunches. Are they worth the deal?”
Felicity glanced at Morgan. He returned a subtle nod. No one in the room really wanted Nicole in police custody. If the charming thief went to trial she would surely drag Tommy into court. Morgan and Felicity didn’t want Tommy implicated because his father didn’t want him charged. They would accept what they could get, but in any case, would let Nicole go.
“Give me what you’ve got,” Felicity said.
“Okay. I think they’re American. From what they’ve asked for, their customers are, anyway. And the voice on the taped messages is not Californian. It is New York, I think, or in any case, East Coast American. And this. I think maybe he’s black.”
“Not bad,” Felicity said. “Ever meet anybody in the group, face to face?”
“They’re not that stupid.”
Felicity handed Nicole a sheet of hotel stationery. “Phone numbers and calling times. Then you leave for Europe within two hours. No contacts. Lay low for a month. And if you return to the States after that, check who’s doing security on any target before you hit it. If it’s us, move on.”
“And that’s it?”
“That, and this,” Morgan said. “Break the deal, any part of it, and I’ll find you. After that, you won’t be pretty.”
Nicole walked over to Morgan, staring deep into his eyes. “You’ve never beaten a woman in your life. I can see it in there. But I won’t make you have to break your record. Now, if I’m to be on a plane in two hours, I suppose I must be going.”
“Your things?” Felicity
asked.
“The room is his, not mine, and I travel light. Au revoir, mes amis.”
When the door clicked shut behind Nicole, Morgan said “I’ll bet you’ve got a plan for recovering the lost paintings, huh?”
“Well, sure and I’ve got a hunch as to how we can locate them. But first, I think we ought to wake up the boy and take him home, along with this painting and a complete report.”
-3-
Felicity watched Gerard Cartellone’s hands trembling slightly as he lifted his newly returned Robert Bechtle oil by its plain walnut frame, hanging it in its own place of prominence beside two others by the same artist. He took one step back and ran a rough hand through thinning gray hair.
“Such sharpness, such practiced simplicity,” Cartellone said quietly. “How could I have missed that forgery?”
“Be fair, Mister Cartellone,” Felicity began.
“And again, will you please call me Gerry?” he asked over his shoulder, while he removed the next two paintings from the wall.
“All right, Gerry,” Felicity said. “But of all painters, the realists are the easiest to copy. Look at those two fakes you just took down. It’s a lot harder to see the style in their exact realism.”
“You’d have spotted it before long,” Morgan said, scanning the art lining the room. Track lighting highlighted each work on the two long walls. A bar stood at the room’s near end, opposite the stereo delivering Brahms at moderate volume. “We’re just lucky you invited us down here socially. Felicity knew because it’s her business. If we found out about the switch after the last one your boy was going to take, we’d have been stuck.”
“You know, it’s funny,” Cartellone said, although his face said just the opposite. “I started collecting art in the late seventies, when the first restaurant started making money. Most of these were brand new when I bought them. Not worth much, but I saw something in this stuff, you know? No philosophy, no point of view. You just get the picture clear and sharp so you can make up your own mind.” He paused a moment to sip from his scotch.
“Then Florence died giving me Tommy. Ain’t it funny how everything can be going great in your life and one thing can make it all empty? After that all I had was that boy, and these paintings. He grew. The business grew. This collection grew, and grew in value.”
“You raised him alone, right?” Morgan asked. “I mean, you did it all by yourself. And ran a string of Italian restaurants. And put him through school. And he pays you back by taking what you love the most.” Felicity shot him a devastating look, but Cartellone’s face didn’t change.
“It would seem that I’ve lost him too, Mister Stark. Maybe even my fault, I don’t know. But I’ve lost him. I can’t stand another loss.” Cartellone’s watery eyes suddenly pinned Felicity in place. “Can you get my two missing paintings back?” He pointed to the fakes, now on the floor, leaning against the wall. A boy riding a bicycle. A girl walking on a city street. Felicity opened her mouth to speak, but he anticipated her. “I know, I know. It’ll cost me, right? Well, I don’t care, and I don’t care how much. I want what’s mine. Can you make the set whole?”
“We can’t promise to find those things,” Morgan said, hands in pockets.
“But you’ll get our very best effort, you will,” Felicity added. “Don’t you be worrying, okay? We’ll give you a report in a couple of weeks.”
Rolling down Cartellone’s lengthy driveway, Felicity turned to stare for a moment at the extensive manor house the restaurateur had purchased from some actor who could no longer afford its upkeep. Cheap houses didn’t exist in Bel Air, but even in such elite company, this particular rambling Spanish structure stood out.
“Started out in New York, like me,” Morgan commented. “Came up from nothing in the world’s toughest city. Sure would hate to disappoint him.”
“Me too,” Felicity said. She steered her Corvette ZR-1 past The San Diego Freeway, preferring to take The Pacific Coast Highway down along the ocean to their offices in Manhattan Beach. “I’m glad I’ve got company this week. Raoul might have an idea how we can track those paintings. Maybe, if we can locate them, I can get in and steal them back.”
“Mind if I come up to your apartment for a couple minutes?” Morgan asked. “I don’t want to intrude, but I’m in no mood to hang out in the office. That kid, stealing from his own father like that. He doesn’t know what it’s like to not have a father.”
“Or to see him killed in front of you,” Felicity added. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be raised in this splendor. Nothing like rural Ireland.”
Felicity punched in her cipher lock’s combination and her penthouse’s door swung open. The aroma of blackened butter hooked her petite nose. She stepped in, her feet sinking into her deep, rose-colored carpet. Morgan dropped into his favorite overstuffed chair while Felicity skipped across her sparsely furnished sunken living room, then up the three steps to her small galley kitchen.
The man in front of her stove was handsome in a classical way, with a long aquiline nose and thin expressive lips. He was tall and quite thin, his brown hair carefully styled, his suit the pinnacle of fashion, even with an apron over it.
“Raoul, just what are you doing?” Felicity asked, stepping up behind him, delivering a kiss on his neck.
“I told the security man downstairs to signal me when you came in,” Raoul answered in a strong French accent. “I knew Morgan was with you, and, as it is getting late in the day, I thought a couple of omelets might be in order.”
“He knows you couldn’t cook your way out of a paper bag,” Morgan shouted from the living room.
“That is the worst mixed metaphor I’ve ever heard,” Felicity said with a grin. “Now get to the table.”
The table stood on a marble mezzanine at the back of the living room, against the glass wall. Actually, the wall was a series of glass panels running from floor to ceiling. Facing a huge orange sun settling into the Pacific Ocean, the three old friends enjoyed large mugs of strong coffee with fat cheese omelets, and discussed the day’s events.
“I knew as soon as we made that commitment that we’d live to regret it,” Felicity said at the end of her tale. “I hate to say it, but we may well end up running through every East Coast art fence alive to locate the missing paintings.”
“My darling,” Raoul began, around a mouthful of omelet, “your beauty is unmatched and your form would shame de Milo’s Venus, but I must admit I had more reasons to come to The States from Paris.”
“What?” Morgan gathered an errant mushroom onto his fork. “Don’t even smugglers ever just take a vacation? What’s the world coming to?”
“Me dear, we been friends and more than friends for too many years to be loading me with all this flattery now,” Felicity fired back, sipping her coffee. “I know you’re just taking advantage of me bed and board while you make business contacts.”
“Mmmm. Especially your bed,” Raoul said into his plate. “I just wanted you to know that I’m still in contact with the people in that business and, truth to tell, there might not be too many fences for you to sift through on the East Coast. There’s been a recent shake-up in the New York underworld, one of those periodic reorganizations. You know I sometimes deal in art myself.”
“So, you saying you know where we should look?” Morgan asked, emptying his cup and handing it to Felicity. She just stared at him. “I mean, you know a black, New York dealer who handles hot paintings?”
“You’ll never get that information out of me, mon ami,” Raoul said, quite straight faced. “But this charming young lady might very well get me to talk before daylight.”
-4-
“Nice car,” Paul said. He had just left Felicity’s New York City apartment with her and Morgan. After years as a bodyguard for hire and months as head of courier services for Stark and O’Brien’s security and risk management firm, nothing seemed to surprise him. The fact that Felicity owned an apartment in New York that was identical in layout and
decor to her home in Manhattan Beach, California, prompted no comment. Now, facing a brand new BMW 650i convertible in her parking space he merely remarked “Nice car.” Morgan wasn’t so subdued.
“Jeez, Red, you just can’t walk past anything on the lot if it’ll do a hundred fifty miles an hour, can you?”
“Every girl needs a hobby,” she said, settling comfortably into the driver’s seat’s emerald green upholstery and lowering the top. “You like to reload your own bullets, and hunt. I collect sports cars.”
“Yeah, and every one a special order,” Morgan said as she pulled into Fifth Avenue traffic. “I don’t think they come this way, with the interior matching your eyes. Your own I mean, not those stupid contact lenses. Now, you sure this De Camp Gallery is the place?”
“Well, Raoul named it as a place to find hot paintings,” Felicity answered. “The owner and manager is black. The place’s reputation is a little shaky, though nothing’s been proven. Course, we can’t be sure until I’ve been inside. Why do you think I’m wearing this wig, the contacts and a chinchilla wrap?”
They faced typically ridiculous traffic on Fifth Avenue that morning, four lanes of steel beasts clawing and snapping at each other, jockeying for position between traffic lights. Unnecessary horns blared as pedestrians walked calmly through the tangle of cars with an instinctive sense of velocity and momentum New Yorkers seem to acquire at birth.
Morgan sensed a tension in those streets that he found enervating, unlike Los Angeles’ artificial “laid back” feeling. True, New York drivers blew their horns and rolled down their windows to shout at one another, but they didn’t go around shooting at each other on the Expressway, did they? That was more of a West Coast thing.
A gentle breeze coasted in from the Hudson River with its attendant odor. A fireball sun tried to brighten everyone’s spirits, but it had to fight through a dense haze. In this way, Morgan’s native New York tried to keep up with smog bound Los Angeles.
Lost Art Assignment Page 2