“Okay, Red,” Morgan said. “Why don’t we head out to drop you at the airport a little early? You drive, and I’ll run it down to him.”
Five minutes later, Felicity was weaving through the morning northbound traffic, driving toward Los Angeles International Airport, barely seven miles up highway one. Morgan noted that the sun seemed brighter than in New York, even though Los Angeles had thicker smog. He leaned forward in the rental car’s back seat, elbows on thighs, his fingers loosely knit together. Paul sat beside him, and Morgan could see concern on Paul’s face. He was probably wondering if he had somehow stepped out of line.
“Red’s right, you’ve been with us from the start. I should have told you long ago about her and me.”
“I know you care a great deal about each other,” Paul said. “And I know there is no romantic relationship.”
“Not what I mean, Paul,” Morgan said. Road noise made him talk louder than he wanted. Without thinking, he pulled a throwing knife from his boot and started fidgeting with it. “You’ve seen me in action. You know how I never get snuck up on.”
“I’ve known a lot of professionals, but you have the best instincts I’ve seen.”
“There’s more to it than that Paul,” Morgan said, dropping his head to focus on the knife. “What I have is a little weird. I can sense when I’m in danger. It’s a psychic thing, a danger sense I guess.” Morgan looked up, searching for any skepticism on Paul’s face. Paul seemed to be waiting for more. He revealed no hint of doubt.
“Now, Red, she’s got the same thing, see,” Morgan continued. “Can feel when danger’s coming. Strange, huh?”
“A lot of mercenaries, thieves and bodyguards develop a sense of when things aren’t right,” Paul observed. “I would say you two have developed this to a higher degree than most of us.”
“Yeah, well here comes the really weird part,” Morgan said. “We seem to be on the same wavelength, her and me. I mean, I can tell when she’s in trouble and vice versa. Sometimes, when things get really intense, I can even feel what she feels. You can imagine what that’d mean in a romantic situation.”
Morgan was remembering a night so many months ago. He had known Felicity only days and already they had saved each other’s lives more than once. After escaping an ambush and fighting their way free, they had moved rather naturally into a romantic position. It was during an intense bout of lovemaking that they first received each other’s sensory input. Morgan literally felt himself being penetrated, in a place he didn’t have. It was a jarring, frightening experience he would never risk repeating.
Paul’s face showed he clearly could imagine how that may have been. Then a memory prodded him.
“In Paris,” Paul said. “In that case with the terrorist O’Ryan. She knew you were being hurt. And she knew… she KNEW where you were.”
“That’s right,” Morgan said. “She really knew. Just as I’ll know where she is, as long as we’re both in the city. If they bust her out on this case, I can go straight to her. I’m telling you all this because now you see why it’s not an unacceptable risk.”
“Yes.” Paul paused to think before speaking again. He had to know Morgan had shared a well-kept secret with him. He now belonged to a very small group. “I accept all this because I know you, and I’ve seen a lot in this world. I’ve learned that the likelihood of a person being right is directly proportional to how sure they are. But a lot of people would not accept.”
“A lot of people would think we were nuts,” Morgan said. “That’s why you’re the only person in the organization who knows. But I think you’re a good security risk.” Morgan smiled and slapped his shoulder. Paul responded with a rare smile of his own.
-9-
Felicity kissed Morgan’s cheek, gave Paul a good-bye wave and strode off as quickly as she could for Los Angeles International Airport’s air conditioned comfort. A small duffel hung on her right shoulder, but it wasn’t heavy enough to counterbalance her suitcase, so she leaned right a bit. She avoided redcaps because her luggage contained some special things, but her progress wasn’t as fast as she would have liked. She bobbed down the hall, past shoe shine stands and newspaper kiosks toward the gate listed on her advance ticket.
She traveled in comfortable clothes, but her pleated shirt dress wasn’t meant for athletics. Her long skirt got tangled with the suitcase. Freeing it, and pulling her hair from her face, kept her busy while she tried to avoid running into those arrogant businessmen and helpless old women permanently stationed, like barriers on an obstacle course, on all major airport walkways.
By the time she arrived at her destination, Felicity had also reached a high level of quiet frustration. She simply wanted to check her luggage and board the blasted plane. She started to perspire, something she hated except when jogging or doing her gymnastics routine. With a huff, she dropped her suitcase beside the conveyor belt, building up her strength to heft it up onto the scale. An instant before she actually yanked the handle, she felt another hand slip over her own.
“You look like you could use a hand,” Ross Davis said, putting her suitcase in its place. He reached for the duffel bag, but Felicity grabbed its straps.
“Not this one, thanks. It rides with me. Got some nice pictures in here of my time in California.”
Felicity was cheered by the pragmatic thought that she now had clear evidence that Davis represented no threat to her. If he did, she would have felt him there before his smooth hand contacted hers. Maintaining serious thoughts was hard around him. Today he wore a Brooks Brothers blue pinstripe suit with a gray French cuff shirt. The pattern on his tie was composed of those two colors with a midnight blue back. His shoes were gray alligator, she guessed from Stacy Adams. It worked for him. She found herself thinking he had the natural fashion sense Morgan lacked.
This was bad. When she started comparing a man to Morgan it was a sure sign of trouble.
In the waiting area, Felicity stood at the wall sized window, watching her plane get into position. Davis walked up beside her as if they were strangers.
“Have they filled the tank and checked the oil yet?”
“I’m waiting for them to check the tire pressure,” Felicity said. “Do I look like a nervous flyer, Mister…?”
“Davis. Ross Davis.” He took her hand. “And please call me Ross. Are you on the flight to New York as well?”
He was good, Felicity reflected. She reminded herself that he had just picked her up with the smooth practiced ease of a master confidence man. She must not forget that putting people into their comfort zone was his business.
Their conversation continued until a nasal voice called them to board their plane. As they started down the portable tunnel, Felicity picked up a gentle nudge from her danger sense, the kind she felt when she was under surveillance. It could be nothing, a pick pocket in the crowd looking for a target or a mugger attracted to her legs. Just in case, she scanned the group boarding behind her.
The woman pulling a shopping bag seemed a little too nervous. The small Japanese man gave a broad smile when her eyes slipped onto him. Too much? Two black businessmen hustled into the crowd, both quite determined that no one would pass them on their way to their seats. The one in front was tall, thin and very light for a black man. He was working hard at not looking at her. Shy, or an amateur tail?
“Something wrong?” Davis asked, his voice soft but guarded in her ear.
“Runaway paranoia,” she said with a smile. “Felt as though someone was watching me.”
“Any man behind us who ISN’T watching you is either blind or gay.”
Felicity was still chuckling when she found her assigned window seat. Davis paused long enough to feign surprise at his seat being next to hers. Then they settled into their places and became good passenger zombies for a few minutes. They straightened their seats, fastened their safety belts and folded up their trays. Then they watched attentively as a stewardess explained how to get oxygen and use their seats for flotation in c
ase the unthinkable happened. They checked the location of the exit nearest them.
A moment later they were bumping down the tarmac. Then came that stomach yanking elevator feeling and their wide bodied Boeing leaped into the air, arcing for the clouds. Felicity felt an invisible cord stretch, strain and finally snap, disconnecting her from her support group.
Whatever happened to Felicity O’Brien, cat burglar and jewel thief, she wondered. She had been a loner all her life, and happy with that life, until she took a robbery job for someone else, a simple job which turned sour. A double cross had left her stranded in a South American jungle, lost and terrified.
Along came Morgan Stark, mercenary soldier and self-proclaimed adventurer. He saved her life and so much more. They couldn’t be lovers, but he became her best friend, and she loved him now as much as a brother. He seemed to complement her, as if they thought with one brain sometimes. When they discovered their mysterious psychic link, it seemed they were destined to work together.
Her knowledge of alarms and locks dovetailed with his experience with bodyguard and counter terrorist work. The business they started, based on their individual and joint talents, had grown over a few short years. From personal, physical and information security, they had expanded to include major sub-sections of investigation, surveillance and a courier service.
That business had become a cocoon, protecting her from outside danger. She had moved from a life of constant risk, living on her own instincts, to a manager’s life. Moving back caused her a little apprehension.
A slight touch brought her back to the present. She was startled by the tingle going up her spine when Davis’ knee gently touched hers. She turned, looking again into his deep brown eyes. Beyond him, an attendant placed a split of champagne on his tray, along with two glasses.
“You talked about your vacation earlier,” Davis said, staying in character. “I thought you might be willing to let me see the pictures you took.”
“I only took one picture you’d be interested in,” Felicity said. She reached between her feet into her duffel bag. From it she pulled a plastic tube. She pulled off the tube’s cap, sliding a finger in to pull out the contents, but Davis put his hand over hers.
“Wait,” he said. While she watched, he poured champagne into both glasses. Then he lifted one, handing it to her. Moving slowly, as if to increase his own anticipation, Davis dropped his seat back, inhaled his champagne’s bouquet, and turned to his seat mate.
“Now,” Davis said. Felicity slid the canvas out, returning the empty tube to her bag. After letting her own seat back, she carefully unrolled her prize. She knew no casual observer would suspect this was anything but a cheap painting, perhaps purchased from any of the hundreds of artists who offer their wares to passers-by on California’s beaches. Her eyes savored again the delicacy of the artist’s hand. Beside her, Davis took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.
“Exquisite,” he said, after a moment. “Look at her hair. Astonishing. And the detail of that knit sweater. We’re privileged, Nicole, you know that? We may be the first two people in decades to view this masterpiece in natural sunlight,” He sighed, and his left hand dropped with casual confidence onto Felicity’s knee.
-10-
“I thought you said this guy was a gang leader,” Felicity said. They had been in New York barely two hours when their hired limousine parked in front of a restored brownstone on Manhattan’s West 53rd Street.
“Does that mean he has to live in the streets?”
“I suppose not.” Felicity glanced left at the white Mercedes stretch limousine, then right at two black men sitting casually on the stoop next door. Behind her, across the street, metal glinted in a window beneath a stern black face. Another large man with nothing to do stood just behind the glass doors at the top of the steps leading into the building.
Yes, as they said in old American movies, this must indeed be the place.
Her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Felicity climbed the brown stone steps with Davis holding her arm. Her suitcase stayed in the trunk. At the double glass door Davis walked in, brushed past the guard type and led her upstairs. Behind them, the guard spoke quietly into a small radio.
Felicity looked up toward the third floor, smiling at the wisdom of living in between. This gang boss was no fool. Davis knocked twice, and the door swung open. Felicity’s eyes widened. Through the door, she couldn’t see all of the man who opened it. He was very big, very dark, and looked like an inflated Macy’s parade balloon. He stepped aside, and Davis ushered Felicity inside.
The odor of frying meat struck Felicity as soon as she entered. Layered over the homey sound of grease crackling in a pan, rap music thumped unrelentingly from another room. It made for a mismatched image with the tasteful decor. The living room was done in soft pastels, the fireplace mantle littered with Hummel figurines. A black leather three piece living room group stood on a highly polished parquet floor.
Before they had been inside for a full minute, a thin, frantic figure in baggy pants and a slouching top hat rushed in from the back of the house. He was a teenager, Felicity judged, a black kid whose head looked stretched out and dented in on the sides. A large, black Doberman pinscher trotted at his side. His eyes flashed and he was grinning like an idiot.
“What up, my man, what it is, what it IS!” The boy grabbed Davis’ hand for a shake, and the two bumped chests in a half-hug. Then Slash stepped back, his attention drawn by Felicity. He stuck out his lower lip, nodding slowly, as if to say “not bad.”
“This is Nicole,” Davis said. “She is holding me down. Nicole, my dear, this is your benefactor, Mister J.J. Slash.”
“How do you do?” Felicity said, managing to keep her eyes from bulging. This was the mastermind behind millions of dollars worth of artwork changing ownership in recent months? She offered her hand politely. Slash slapped it.
“I do damned fine mama. Not bad, Sonny D. I didn’t know you was boo’ed up but I got to give you props for this one. Hey, there’s no shortage of chairs. Cop a squat. Let’s rap a little.”
Felicity and Davis took opposite ends of the leather sofa, while Slash perched on the very edge of a recliner’s seat cushion. His smile reminded her of a hungry shark’s. The dog dropped to the floor beside his feet.
“Lookahere,” Slash said, and Felicity wondered where he meant. “Sonny D. knows I like to cut straight to the bone. He say you pretty cool walking around with a hundred grand worth of, what is it, tempera? Yeah, that stuff, on you.” Felicity pulled the tube from her duffel bag and Slash accepted it without looking inside. “Hey, I don’t know from art, shorty, that ain’t my department. If Sonny D. says it’s real, it’s real, you know. Anyway, he says you want a job. That the deal?”
Felicity suppressed a smile at this boy calling her shorty when she was an inch or two taller than he. She watched as J.J. Slash scratched at his head, rubbed his chin and cracked his knuckles. Was this kid a speed freak, or just naturally hyperactive?
“As I told Ross I can steal anything,” Felicity said. “Art, jewelry, the occasional car. But sometimes after the real work’s done finding a buyer is the problem. I’d like to be part of an organization, and you look like the winning ticket around here.”
“That’s what I look like, huh?” Slash replied. He focused his attention on her as tightly and intensely as a theater follow spot. “Okay, so, how come the fake name and the phony accent before? Hey, you want something to drink? Coffee or maybe a shot? You do shots, mama?”
“J.J., could we just have some lemonade or something?” Davis asked, taking a deep pull on his cigarette. Slash glanced at the giant at the door who headed toward the back of the building.
“The name and accent are just common sense for safety,” Felicity said with a smile. “Like taking recorded messages on a phone routed through extra switches so it can’t be traced.”
“She’s pretty slick,” Slash said, looking at Davis for just a second before sending his gaze bor
ing into Felicity again. “It’s cool, mama. I don’t care who the hell you really are. If you’re running from somebody you’re safe with me. See I own the East Coast south of Boston, north of Miami. And them borders will be moving out soon. Not bad for a seventeen year old gang banger, huh?”
“If I may.” Felicity thought she might step onto shaky ground now, but if she was to sell herself as fresh from the Continent, she must ask certain questions.
“Don’t be shy, sugar. We all grown-ups here.”
“Well, this gang thing,” Felicity ventured. “I mean, I expected more of what I saw on the West Coast. Colored rags and machine guns and the like.”
“You seen too many movies, babe.” Slash laughed a high, long laugh, flipping back in his chair. His hand slid down to scratch behind the dog’s ear. A woman brought glasses on a tray, handing one each to Felicity and Davis. It was iced tea, but no one cared.
“Let me clue you,” Slash continued when he had control. “See, those ain’t gangs, those are franchises. Niggas like the Bloods and the Cryps, they all run by the South Americans to sell drugs. Outsiders moving in, just like the Japa-fucking-nese. This here is pure-D American enterprise. Which reminds me. Sonny D. here said something about more money?”
“Well…I took a special risk to obtain this special piece,” Felicity said. “I could have fenced it elsewhere without your ever knowing I had it. I wanted it to be my entree to you but I really think the risk and the initiative warrant ten percent.”
Silence blanketed the room, broken only by the Doberman’s panting. Slash froze in position, his eyes still on Felicity but glazed over. It was as if he was asleep with his eyes open, but Felicity somehow sensed his brain humming like a powerful turbine behind the mask of his face. She looked over at Davis, who smiled confidently back. He had seen this act before, and this J.J. Slash clearly impressed him. A full minute passed and Felicity was about to ask something when Slash’s mouth suddenly opened and words burst out.
Lost Art Assignment Page 5