-6-
“Remarkable,” Raoul whispered, sipping his brandy. “Truly, an American classic. Look at that fog, so real.” He stood between Morgan and Felicity, gathered around her new painting. It hung at eye level against the rose colored living room wall of her California apartment. She had placed it in a plain cherry wood frame which offset the darkness of the subject. A small lamp hung above it, creating a spot light for the star.
“Absolutely delicious,” Felicity said. “Can you blame me?” Morgan looked hard, but only saw a small girl on a farm, looking sad. This was classic art? He hesitated to admit he just didn’t get it.
“I understand the temptation, ma chère,” Raoul smiled, “but was it not a miscalculation? Surely with patience you could have gotten a lead to the paintings you want from this De Camp, eh? Now, he would not speak to you, except perhaps with a gun.”
“You could be right, lover, but I simply couldn’t leave such a prize.” Felicity sipped her Bailey’s Irish Creme and moved to the sofa to get the long view.
“Hey Red, you sure it’s hot?” Morgan asked, heading for his favorite easy chair. “Couldn’t it be an undiscovered painting, found in somebody’s cellar last week or something?”
“My poor, naive partner. Trust me, there are no undiscovered Andrew Wyeth paintings. The man was at the height of his popularity when he inspired all those so-called new realists Mister Cartellone collects. The art world went crackers in ’87 when some publisher displayed two hundred and forty Wyeth paintings he’d just bought for umpty-ump million dollars. Believe me, bucko, they’re all out. Some collector’s private showroom is short one very beautiful painting right now.”
“I must thank you, Felicity, for this chance to view greatness close up before I leave,” Raoul said, lifting his suitcase. “Now, I fear I will miss my flight if we do not leave soon. Good-byes take so long with you.”
Morgan thought he was being a good boy. He stayed quiet all the way to Los Angeles International, and while they put Raoul on a plane to Paris, and on the long ride back. He followed Felicity up to her apartment and stood facing the brilliant sunset which filled her living room’s west wall before he spoke.
“Okay, Red, what’s the story?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, his bluntness stopping her short.
“Come on, pal. I’ve known you too long. You don’t make stupid mistakes. Why’d you take the painting?”
“I wanted to own it, to see it close up.” She poured herself another drink.
“And?”
“And I didn’t want that fence to get off scot free,” she added, popping a beer open for Morgan.
“Yeah, and?”
She handed him the beer. “And I think I can use it to get in, maybe get the other two paintings back.”
Morgan settled into his chair. “Okay. So, enlighten me. Must be messy, cause you sure didn’t want Raoul to know.”
“Raoul worries.” She hitched up her jeans’ legs to settle into the couch. On the oak cube she used for a coffee table she found the stereo remote control. Pushing a button filled the room with Branford Marsalis’ unmistakable alto sax.
“Okay, look, we want to get Mister Cartellone’s paintings back, right?” she asked. Morgan nodded. “Right, but we don’t know where they are. But, we do know where they went.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, we know who stole them and who she gave them to,” she explained.
“Sure, we got a phone number to some contact Nicole never even saw.”
“That’s right. She never saw him,” she paused to take a drink, “and he never saw her.”
“I don’t think I like this.”
“Why?” Felicity asked. “I’ve been undercover before. It’s just until I find out who ended up with those two paintings.”
Morgan stood and paced uneasily across the carpet. “They never saw Nicole, but they sure heard her enough, and she sure as hell wasn’t Irish.”
“Watch this.” She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number from memory. She listened to a taped message, and then spoke. “This is Nicole.” Morgan was startled at how perfect the imitation was. “I have something you want very badly. Very fresh. Available now. But, I want ten percent. And I want eye contact, to discuss future work. Call back as usual.” Felicity hung up, looking very pleased with herself. “Any questions?”
“Just two. First, the return call.”
“Already found Nicole’s phone and voicemail setup,” she said. “Ms. Fox was able to trace it from the number. We’ll get the message. What’s number two?”
“How do I stay close to you, so you don’t get killed playing these stupid games?”
-7-
Felicity pulled her rented Le Baron into the parking lot, shut it off, and shook her head one last time. Felicity O’Brien didn’t meet men in motels. Hotels maybe, if they were grand enough. But the motor lodge was one bit of American culture she had not adapted. Yet, there she sat at the downtown Motel Six. This she would only do in the line of duty.
She was dressed to get a man’s attention and hold it. For modesty’s sake, she had to get out of the car with great care. Her red knit dress would make a casual observer think she was injection molded into it. She had on heels high enough to bring her long legs into perfect tension. Her long, loose hair flowed down about her shoulders. She wore little makeup and no jewelry except for a single square cut emerald ring which picked up her eye color perfectly.
Perhaps her dress should have been cut lower, but she was still uncomfortable with the scar on her left breast, acquired not long ago. She couldn’t forget what happened on another undercover assignment.
The image burst into her mind, uninvited. She was again sitting in the tractor trailer converted to an office, her hands chained behind her. Anaconda was sliding a knife slowly along her neck. Anaconda, the four foot eight inch tall leader of the Colombian terrorist organization known as the Escorpionistas. Anaconda, who had captured her and Morgan when they were supposed to be tracking her.
She remembered her chills and sweat as the razor sharp steel moved against her skin. Then Anaconda had smiled and slashed down, leaving a trail of red from three inches below Felicity’s collar bone to just above her left nipple.
It had become more than a scar on her body. It was a scar on her mind which had kept her distant from her lover, Chuck. She had shut him out, and then Anaconda had him killed and the chance for reconciliation was forever gone.
At room number six’s door she paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts, getting into character. The message from her contact had yielded little information. Just agreement to a meeting, the place and time, and that she should come alone. The male voice at the other end spoke perfect American English without any accent. She prepared for anything as best she could, took one more deep breath and knocked twice at the door.
“Entrez-vous.”
It was the voice of the taped message, the man who had given the real Nicole her orders. Felicity opened the door, aggressively pushing herself in.
“Enchante, Nicole. Je m’appelle Ross Davis. Asseyezvous, s’il vous plait.” He had asked her to take a seat; his French pronunciation was perfect.
“Your French is excellent,” Felicity said, still imitating Nicole’s voice, “but as this is your country, let us proceed in English.” Davis stood beside the small round table in front of the windows. Felicity judged him to be six feet tall and slim, with broad shoulders. His hair was short and kinky, but neatly cut. His teeth seemed too white, his eyes too clear, his skin too smooth. He was the color of coffee with just a bit too much cream in it. A long filter cigarette hung from between his right hand’s middle fingers. She sat down, fighting for objectivity, but she had to admit it. This man was beautiful.
Unasked, Davis uncorked a bottle of white wine. As he leaned forward to pour she caught a gentle wave of an expensive men’s cologne. She had never seen a man drink from a wine glass with so much style.
“Ah.
Now we can discuss business,” he said. He had a killer smile and used it to telling effect.
“You are hardly what I expected,” Felicity said from behind her glass. “I thought I had brought all the surprises with me.”
“Well, I hope I’m not some sort of disappointment. Were you expecting a thug? Well, I’m heavy on the wrist,” Davis said, flashing the gold Rolex on his left arm, “but not heavy on the waist. I don’t carry a forty-four magnum. It would ruin the line of this jacket.” His suit was in the latest European style and he appeared to really belong in it. He certainly didn’t look like a hooligan off the street. In fact, Felicity found herself staring at his high cheekbones and almost pointed nose. His features were not black at all. He looked like a handsome white man who had somehow gotten himself dyed the perfect tan skin tone.
“You are certainly no disappointment, my friend,” she said. “I am truly glad I asked for a meeting.”
“Me too, but just what was the reason?” Davis gently guided them back to business.
“Well, if we must. I have a painting which fits the most wanted group. It was not an assigned theft, more a target of opportunity.” Felicity crossed her legs, her low class surroundings all but forgotten.
“Excellent,” Davis replied, leaning back in his chair and placing his ankle on his knee, “but that would not prompt a change in established procedure. Surely there is something more.”
“Of course. A couple of things. First, I want to come in from the cold, as they say. I am tired of being a stringer. I figure you work for a big organization and I want to be part of it.”
“Interesting,” Davis said, fixing her with eyes like milk chocolate marbles. “Your work has been quite impressive to this point. I suppose I could suggest you be given a more permanent position. When I talk to my supervisor about it, what is this prize you’ve brought me?”
His supervisor, Felicity thought. How businesslike. “What I have is an Andrew Wyeth, egg tempera on canvas.” She held her glass forward.
“Really?” Davis refilled her glass, leaning forward just enough. “And how did you come by this item?”
Had De Camp already missed it, she wondered. “I happened to meet, socially, with an independent in this business. An amateur, really. He had it. I took it. I thought the piece would be important enough to get me in good with the organization. I hope so, anyway. I don’t want to return to the street after, well…”
“After ripping off the competition?” Davis said, not quite laughing. “I see your point, dear lady. May I see this prize?”
“Now you can’t believe I would bring it with me?” Felicity turned her face away, smiling a vixen smile.
“I suppose that was asking a lot. Well, assuming it’s genuine, a hundred G painting they’ll sell for maybe a hundred twenty on the shadow market. A neat six thousand dollars for you. I think worth the gamble, eh?”
“Actually, I will have to ask twelve thousand. Ten percent. My set up, my risk, done on spec. Ten percent from now on.” Felicity’s smile didn’t change. Neither did Davis’. After a moment, he stood and extended a hand to her.
“I see. That is your entire proposal, mademoiselle? I will let you know my contact’s decision on these matters within twenty-four hours.”
Standing, Felicity took his hand. “I certainly hope we can continue to work together in any case,” she said.
“As do I,” Davis said, staring deep into her emerald eyes. He held out his hand to take her fingertip. “I hope you recognize this gesture of trust and good will. I met with you with no back up present. If you wished me harm you could have certainly caused it, knowing my location. I hope that in return you will extend me the courtesy of being at home when I call.”
“You won’t have to talk to a tape machine again,” Felicity answered, walking with him to the door. “In fact, when you call I’ll give you directions if you like. You can see the painting at my place.”
“I prefer neutral meeting places,” Davis said, his lowered voice making her move closer. “Surely you didn’t think I was staying here?”
“Surely not,” Felicity said, wondering if he was wrestling with his emotions as much as she was right then. She was getting lost in his eyes and that was a bad sign. Her cover was too thin, too easily broken by a simple slip of the tongue. Then it occurred to her to make life easier for herself.
“By the way, there is one other thing I can offer you, as a gesture of good will.”
“And that is?”
“The French accent was a cover, to make me harder to trace,” Felicity said. “I’m really Irish as you could have guessed by my eyes and hair.”
“Oh, wow.” Davis stepped back, stunned. “You dropped that accent like flipping a switch. You are good. And your real name?” His fingers brushed the back of her neck now and Felicity feared her control might totally break down.
“One free gift at a time,” she said, gently removing his hand. “For now, let’s stick with Nicole.” She slipped outside, headed for the parking lot, trying to regain a level breathing pattern. Davis stood in the open doorway and she could feel his eyes on her, watching her strut to the car.
-8-
Morgan’s booted feet hung on Felicity’s oak cube table. He was casual in black jeans and tee shirt, staring at her thirty-five inch television, half watching a movie with a lot of shooting in it. Paul sat stiffly on the couch, coldly appraising the unrealistic action on the screen. When Felicity entered from the hall, Paul stood up. She was hauling a small soft sided duffel bag and a suitcase barely within her lifting weight limit, which Paul took off her hands.
“I’ve got to go in about a fifteen minutes,” Felicity said, settling into her couch at the end away from Morgan. “I’m flying to New York with the charming Mister Davis and if all goes according to plan I’ll be hip deep in his organization by tomorrow noon. Ought to have a lead on our missing artwork in a couple of days, Lord willing. Now, what we got on these guys?”
“Lay it out, Paul,” Morgan said, turning off the television. Paul stood before Felicity and pulled a small notebook from an inside breast pocket. He was an excellent employee, but Morgan felt he needed loosening up a bit.
“To start with your contact, Ross Davis does seem to be a legitimate name. A small time confidence man with five years known experience on the East Coast. Before that his history is cloudy.”
“Okay, so Ross is Ross,” Felicity said, slipping off her shoes. “So what about this team he’s on? How big, how diverse?”
“This information is too new to be solid,” Paul said. He glanced at Morgan, who gave him a nod to continue. “There appears to be a shake up going on in the New York underworld. A major power play by a newcomer known only as J.J. Slash. He has a team of, well, ‘convincers’ they are called, convincing small criminal cells to become part of his apparatus. Appears to have a good feel for organization. Anyway, Davis is a small cog in Slash’s machine. A middle man in the fencing operation, specializing in stolen paintings, swindles and such. They move a large volume of quality art, cars, antiques and rarities to an upscale clientele.”
“I kind of hate to get in the way,” Felicity said. “I love to hear about crime being treated like the business it is. It could be clean commerce, if it wasn’t for the violence that so often goes along with this kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” Morgan added, “There was nothing wrong with bootleggers except for blowing away the guys who got in their way.”
“So, Morgan. You were saying you had a plan?” Felicity asked.
“Well, here’s the deal.” He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I figure I’m not known in those circles, but a guy with my skills ought to be in demand. I’ll just walk up to the front door and ask for a job. That way I’ll be inside and I can get close if you end up in a jam. Paul will be backup on this at your place. We can both call in to him every day. If you miss a call, I’ll come straight to you. If you’re in serious danger, I ought to be headed that way anyway.”
; “Miss O’Brien,” Paul said. “If I may be so bold.”
“Speak your mind, lad.” Felicity found Paul’s attitude toward her either frustrating or laughable, depending on the day. He treated her like a princess, but gave Morgan the respect and deference he would give a king. She would have liked that a lot more. “Paul, we’ve saved each other’s life and you’ve been part of Stark & O’Brien Security and Risk Management almost from the beginning. You’re practically a stock holder. Say what you’ve got on your mind.”
“Miss O’Brien, this is a dangerous position you are considering,” Paul said. “You must not underestimate these gang members. They are ruthless. If these people find you’ve lied to them, they may kill you immediately. Mister Stark may not learn of your endangered position until after the fact. I’m not sure recovery of a client’s property warrants this extreme risk.”
“Well, I can buy myself some time with this little gift Morgan gave me,” Felicity said, tossing Paul her purse. “Not inside. Reach underneath.” Velcro held the bag’s bottom together. From the small hidden pocket, Paul pulled what looked like a stainless steel toy revolver, four inches long and less than two inches high.
“North American Arms makes that little five shot,” Morgan explained. “It’s called the Black Widow, and it’s chambered for twenty-two magnums. Just thumb back the hammer and squeeze. Strictly for emergencies.”
Paul returned the little gun to its hiding place. “It hardly seems adequate,” was his only comment. Felicity glanced at Morgan as if to transfer something. He smiled, both in recognition and agreement.
Lost Art Assignment Page 4