Abandoned

by Allison Brennan

  And it worked.

  For three months, Martha lived with Colter in his mansion. She traveled with him, saw his other paintings—the real and the fake—and never let on that she knew he was lying when he said they were all reproductions he’d commissioned.

  But Colter grew increasingly dangerous. Possessive and demanding and while the sex was absolutely fabulous, he was pushing her hard outside of her comfort zone. The game was no longer fun. She had to get out before she couldn’t, because Phillip Colter wasn’t a man who liked to share, and he certainly wasn’t a man who liked to lose. But to make this work, she had to take the real paintings and he could never know it was her.

  The one benefit she had was that she’d figured out that Colter had many, many paintings copied—and when he stole one from a museum or private collection, he put the fake he had been showcasing in a storage facility. It was Jimmy’s job to break in and retrieve the right paintings, and Martha’s job to replace the authentic pieces with the reproductions.

  Slowly, they moved through Colter’s Dallas collection, picking seven of the best paintings, the ones Martha loved above all the others, and replacing them one by one over a five-week period. The last was the Degas over Colter’s bed, and replacing that gave her an intense joy. That night she instigated sex because it would be their last time.

  And then she started the fight. It was dangerous. He could hurt her. But she had to trust her instincts and her skills.

  “That was…” She sighed, pulled herself up from the bed.

  Phillip pulled her back down. “I’ll be ready again soon.” He climbed on top of her, pinning her down.

  “Phillip, give me five minutes. You wore me out.”

  She extracted herself, but he held on to her wrist.

  “What.” He was blunt; it wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

  “Nothing.”

  He massaged her naked back. “It’s not nothing.”

  “I want to go to Paris.”

  “We’ll leave next week.”

  “Alone.”

  His hands stopped, tight around her upper arms. “Why?”

  “This is all … just too much. It’s too intense. Too … intimate.”

  “I told you that you would love me.”

  “Maybe I do, but I need time alone.”

  “No.”

  She pulled away from him. He didn’t release her easily, and it hurt. “If you can’t respect that, you don’t respect me, and we have nothing.”

  He stared at her, stunned. “Are you seeing that low-life Truman again?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone else.”

  “He’s back in town. That’s what this is. You’re cheating on me.” He rose from the bed, his face red, his body tense. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not cheating on you,” she said. She and Jimmy hadn’t slept together since she moved in with Phillip, so that wasn’t even a lie.

  He slapped her. It came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that she stood there, stunned.

  Then she turned and ran to the closet he’d given her and dressed.

  “I’m sorry,” Phillip said from the doorway. “I need you so much, I want you. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

  “You slapped me!”

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  She didn’t have anything she cared about in this house. She walked up to him and slapped him back. His eyes flashed with anger, then he said, “Does that make us even?”

  “No. Good-bye.”

  “Don’t you dare walk out.”

  “I will not be manhandled or manipulated. All I asked for was a couple weeks alone and you go all ape-man on me. It’s over, Phillip.”

  She walked out. He ran after her, begging her, then threatening her. At the front door she turned to him and said, “You come after me or touch me again, I will destroy you.”

  He stared at her, then laughed. “Oh, you bitch, you think you can threaten me?”

  “I’m taking your Mercedes. You can pick it up at the airport later.”

  She ran down the stairs in the dark, worried for the first time that he would come after her. If he really wanted to hurt her—if he wanted to kill her—he could. No one would know or care that she was dead, except Jimmy—and Jimmy would then confront Phillip and get himself killed, because Jimmy didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

  He loved her, really loved her, and he would miss her.

  But Phillip didn’t come after her, and she drove to the airport where Jimmy was already waiting for her. He looked worried.

  He should be. Martha was worried. Phillip wasn’t a man to double-cross, and if he ever found out she replaced his stolen paintings with his own reproductions, he would hunt her down to the ends of the earth.

  “Baby, are you okay?”

  “I will be. Where are the paintings?”

  “I did exactly what you said. I drove them to Miami, put them in a temperature- and humidity-controlled storage locker under D. Jane Sterling, and paid for a year up front. I know what I’m doing. Does he suspect?”

  “Not about the paintings, but about us.”

  “Us? We haven’t been together. I haven’t even talked to Colter, not after his New Year’s party.”

  “He’s a jealous man, Jimmy. I think we should lay low for a while. Just in case.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He handed her the tickets he’d bought that morning. “Monte Carlo?”

  She smiled. “Perfect.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  PRESENT DAY

  “When did you arrive in town?” Ryan asked, clearly impressed with Max’s timeline. “This is extensive.”

  She smiled. “I’m good,” she said simply.

  “No argument from me.”

  “Most of the past information came from my personal journals, postcards my mother sent me, and confirmation—as much as I need, anyway—that Jane Sterling was really Martha Revere.”

  “I see.”

  Ryan was focused on a section of Max’s timeline from nineteen years ago. “She was in Dallas.”

  “For approximately three to four months. You’ll note that on December first, she withdrew her allowance in New York, then in January through April she withdrew her funds in Dallas. In May she was in Miami. From my own personal experience, my mother always left town right after she received her allowance, so I suspect she left Dallas the first week of April. Also, my private investigator indicated that there may have been some withdrawals that were wired overseas. He’s analyzing years’ worth of financial data that our family trust accountants have finally shared with me.”

  “I promised I would tell you what I can. This was the time frame that a painting was stolen from a museum in Dallas, it’s what started the initial FBI investigation.”

  “And you knew it was Jimmy Truman?”

  “No, we suspected someone else, and we still believe that he was working with Jimmy, but could never establish a connection. However, we have evidence that Jimmy is the one who moved the painting from Miami to DC. Based on the MO, we determined he—possibly with your mother and another partner—stole more than two dozen paintings from all over the United States.”

  Max let the information sink in. “Have any of the other paintings turned up? Other than the one Jimmy sold?”

  He nodded. “Three. There was a storage locker under the name J. J. Sterling that went into default. The owners auctioned off the contents. The buyer took the paintings to be appraised—he had no idea they had been stolen—and the appraiser notified the FBI. This was a year after Jimmy disappeared. I suspect he took one of the paintings from the locker to sell, but planned to return.”

  “And he didn’t.”

  “There were no prints on the paintings that could be lifted, but we had his identification from renting the storage space and confirmation he used the J. J. Sterling identity.”

  “If he has stolen more than two dozen paintin
gs, where are they?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. We confirmed he sold one, and then we recovered three. It could be the accomplice has the others.” He reached for one of the postcards and asked, “May I?”

  Max nodded. Ryan read the postcard.

  “Your birthday’s this month? April?”

  “No, my mother habitually sent me cards late. My birthday is December thirty-first.”

  He turned the postcard over and stared. Then he laughed.

  “She was snide, not funny,” Max said flatly.

  “This, do you know what this painting is?”

  “Degas. One of my mother’s favorites.”

  “It’s one of the stolen paintings.” Ryan then turned over all the other postcards, one by one. Frowned. Read the messages, then looked at the pictures again.

  Finally, ten minutes had passed and Max couldn’t stand it anymore. “What? What do you see?”

  “There’s what”—he quickly counted—“sixteen postcards, and seven of them are of paintings that were stolen. Seven of the nine most recent postcards from April nineteen years ago until January sixteen years ago. The others are more generic. Hawaii. The Caribbean. Eiffel Tower.”

  “I never found it odd because my mother loved museums and those are her favorite artists. Degas. Boudin. Renoir. Not so much Toulouse-Lautrec, a little too post-Impressionist for her sensibilities, but she appreciated his talent and whimsy.”

  “Can I take these?”

  “No.”

  He stared at her. “I’ll bring them back.”

  “I have a copier, would copies suffice?”

  “For now.”

  “Fair enough.” She took the cards and photocopied both sides on the small portable color copier she had shipped to herself from her office.

  Her mother, an art thief. That was not what Max was expecting to hear.

  “Who did you initially suspect?” Max asked Ryan. “Who may have worked with Jimmy and Martha all those years ago?”

  He didn’t say anything. He reached for the copies she had in her hand, but Max pulled them back.

  “Max, that is information I can’t share. He’s not under indictment and if it gets out, it could jeopardize years of work.”

  “I’m not working this case for the network. I’m working it for me.”

  “Max—”

  “I’m investigating this case, Ryan. I’ll find out.”

  He shook his head. “That would be a neat trick.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.” If her mother was involved in something as high stakes as art theft, maybe she stole from the wrong person.

  “Time-out,” Ryan said. “Let me talk to my boss. These postcards could be huge for us. Where she bought them might give us information about where the other paintings are stored. Or maybe there are clues in her messages to you. Please, Max. I’ll ask to bring you in, but this is the first new information I’ve had in years.”

  Max handed him the copies, then put the postcards back on her timeline—only this time with the art facing out. Maybe she’d see something different if she looked at the photos rather than the words.

  “My mother went to Miami at least once a year, even when I was with her. She loved it there. My assistant located an apartment she’d rented prior to traveling here, also under the name Jane Sterling. He’s down there now, tracking down her old landlord and anyone who knew her then. He’s also asking about Jimmy—aka J. J. Sterling—and if he learns anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Max, I don’t intend to block you on this, but you have to understand—”

  “I do.”

  “Then why do I think you’re giving me the cold shoulder?”

  “I just told you that I’ll share what I learn.”

  “It’s your tone.”

  She laughed. “Really. Well, I’ve shown you all my cards, and you won’t tell me one thing I might be able to work with. I’m very good at research. This is the only thing I’m working on, and I’m not leaving until I get every answer I’m seeking. You have other cases you need to work, and something this old can’t possibly be a priority for you.”

  “First, you’re wrong—it is a priority because if I want to get a conviction, I need to solve this case, and get an indictment before April of next year because of the statute of limitations, unless I can prove Truman stole more than the three paintings we recovered. So it is important to me. Not to mention the missing paintings are virtually priceless, they deserve to be recovered and sent back to their rightful owners—both the individual owners and museums. The insurance companies who paid have a right to the paintings or their money back. And you have a job—you’re here on vacation, and I honestly don’t think you’ll be able to solve in two weeks what two FBI offices haven’t been able to solve in nineteen years.”

  She laughed again. “You really don’t know me, Ryan. It’s kind of adorable that you think I’m first, here on a vacation, and second, doing this in my spare time. You looked me up, but you didn’t really understand what you read, so let me make myself clear.

  “I’m not leaving Cape Haven until I know exactly what happened to my mother. It might take two weeks, a month, a year, or the rest of my life. I have a job, but I don’t need a job. I took a month off, but I will quit NET before I give up this cold case. I have almost unlimited resources and time, and I will use both to find the truth, wherever it takes me. So you can work with me and take advantage of my skills and resources or you can work around me. I guarantee I will learn everything you know and more, and then maybe, when I’ve solved your case, I’ll share what I’ve learned with you.”

  Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it and cleared his throat. “I don’t know whether to admire your self-confidence or criticize your ego.”

  “My ego can take your criticism.” She left her den for the kitchen. Time to cut the fed off. He was clearly cherry-picking what he wanted to share, and she wasn’t going to put up with that bullshit. She took a bottle of wine out of her refrigerator and poured herself a glass.

  “Were you going to share?” Ryan asked.

  “You have a long drive ahead of you.” She sipped, stared at Ryan.

  He didn’t move. “You are something,” he said. She couldn’t tell what exactly he meant because his tone was neutral.

  “Yes, I am.”

  He held up the copies of the postcards. “I appreciate this, and I’d like to come back this weekend—on my own time—to study the information you compiled during the time the paintings were stolen.”

  “You’re welcome to look at anything I have, but call first. I have my own investigation to run, and now I have twice as much work ahead of me.”

  “Stubborn,” he said.

  “Determined,” she challenged.

  “I’ll talk to my boss.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. I’ll find out what you know whether you tell me or not.”

  She watched Ryan head for the stairs. He turned back and said, his tone turning serious, “If Jimmy and Martha had an accomplice like I suspect, he may still be around. Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “Why do I not believe that?”

  “I’m not reckless,” she said. “I’m methodical.”

  “I’ll call.”

  He walked down the stairs. A moment later, the door closed, and Max stood at the window, the wind howling outside, the rain blowing sideways.

  Though Ryan Maguire irritated her because he didn’t share all his information, he had certainly been more forthcoming than she expected when he first sat down at her table in the restaurant.

  She called David, told him everything that had happened that evening, and said, “Can you reach out to Marco and ask him for background on Ryan Maguire?”

  “Marco won’t like it.”

  “I don’t care. I could call Rogan for help, but it would take longer since I’m not his priority this week. I really need to know what makes Maguire tick.”

  “You showed him yo
ur research, you must trust him. Which surprises me.”

  “It shouldn’t. He was mostly open and honest, so I was mostly open and honest right back. Did you or Rogan get anything on Boreal?”

  “Rogan hasn’t called, and I can’t find much on the company. They are based out of Delaware, however.”

  “Delaware. I’ll bet it’s a shell corp.” She would be able to get the attorney of record and an address—likely the attorney’s business address—and not much more.

  “What would a shell corp have to do with Martha’s disappearance?”

  “I don’t know. But Maguire is a white-collar crime agent. He does art crime on the side, it seems, and the white-collar division knows business. Besides, I always get antsy when a business owns property, especially property within two miles of where someone disappears and is never heard from again.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Go over there. You’re asking for trouble.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone in Cape Haven knows why I’m here by now, I’m just going over to ask questions about something that happened sixteen years ago. I promise to be careful.”

  David was clearly not pleased, but he dropped the subject. “I tracked down the landlord of the condo your mother was leasing. She had it for three years.”

  “Three years? She lived in the same place for three years?”

  “According to the landlord—Annie O’Neill, who’s now retired and living in an assisted living facility in Orlando, but seems to have all her faculties—Jane Sterling and her husband J. J. Sterling paid each year up front because they told her they traveled extensively and wouldn’t always be around. That much is true, as the place was barely lived in and the landlord only saw them a few times over the years. But there’s something you should know: according to Mrs. O’Neill, the last time she saw Jane, she was carrying a baby, two weeks before she left without notice.”

  Max did not hear that correctly. “You said baby. Like, a child?”

  “Yes. An infant.”

  A baby? That could not be accurate. Or maybe she was wrong and Jane Sterling was not her mother.