Facing A Twisted Judgment

by K. J. McGillick

  We placed our mugs on the distressed wood table, and I studied my old friend. Her relaxed face told the story of a person at peace and happy with life. Married life with children was good for her. Thank God she was free from that sociopath Jude White, the devil’s spawn. A man whose criminal activities had taken her down a road that involved a near-death experience. And, if you were one to believe in silver linings, there was one here. From that disaster, she’d found her soul mate, Cillian O’Reilly, who was now her husband. Cillian had been an undercover FBI agent tasked to target and arrest her and Jude for money laundering and art fraud. What had started as a small operation for Cillian wound up taking down an international terror group, which had led to Jude’s death and Emma’s kidnapping. Her rescue by Cillian had been a twist of fate that led to her happily ever after.

  My mind had wandered to that horrid time a little too long, and I’d missed half of the conversation. By the time I came back to the present, Emma was asking about my future. It was her repositioning on the couch that brought my mind back to play catch-up.

  “I get it; you’ve had enough with the government job. Cillian reached that point as well. That’s why he and Jackson started the security firm. It’s been a struggle to get it off the ground, and without Aunt Mary’s financial investment in it, it might not have been possible. But he’s happy, and every day, it gets easier. Have you made any firm plans or received any job offers?” she asked, now balancing her cup on the wide arm of the couch.

  “This might sound odd, and honestly, it scares me, but I’ve thrown it out to the universe to direct me where I need to be,” I said.

  That garnered a raised eyebrow. I understood her skepticism. The words universe and no plans were something no one would associate with me.

  “Dalia, you have always been the overachiever of our group with a plan C in case A and B fell through. That’s why, in college, you were tasked with collecting money for the rent and making sure we all stayed on task financially. We knew, if you oversaw the bills, we wouldn’t be evicted or pooling pennies to eat.” She laughed, reminding me of my days as the rent enforcer.

  “Believe it or not, I have no plan. I’m wavering between starting a business—and don’t ask what business; I have a vague idea but nothing solid—or leaving everything in storage and traveling through Europe until my money runs out,” I replied, sitting back in the comfortable, over-stuffed chair.

  “No freakin’ way will you be able to throw caution to the wind and live a life filled with carefree adventure. If I know you, you’ll have five guidebooks on your Kindle and every day mapped out two weeks ahead of time,” she said, petting her sheepdog, Lucy’s, head.

  “Nothing wrong with being prepared,” I agreed. And yet, I wanted to be that woman who lived on the edge of life and grabbed all the gusto I could. “I admit, my DNA seems to be of a planner. Surprisingly, to be honest, I have recently sensed my biological clock ticking, and I’ve listened to it drum on in my head. I’ve never been one to crave a family filled with children. Yet here I am, thinking about how nice it would be to have someone to share my life within a stable home.”

  “Jesus, you are all over the place, aren’t you?” She laughed. “Frankly, knowing you, I am surprised that you haven’t placed the marriage card somewhere in your life plan and ticked that box already.”

  I heard a door open somewhere with a slight whine and then heard the twins squeal as someone came in from the garage. Before I asked her who it was, Lucy’s heavy tail thumped the ground, and then she was racing for the kitchen.

  “That’s Cillian. Give him a minute to get a food-smeared kiss, and he’ll be right in. He’s so excited that you’re here, and I’ll let him tell you why,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Several minutes later, amid sounds of thumping fists hitting trays in the kitchen, Cillian entered the room with Lucy on his heels. Sigmund, their cat, wove himself between Cillian’s feet, trying to trip him and almost achieved his goal. Cillian barely avoided the disaster, and this appeared to be a well-practiced dance between the two.

  Emma and I both rose to greet him as he walked toward us. It hit my gut how lucky she was to have someone eager to see her and share her day of food spills and diaper explosions. I didn’t even have a cat or bird to share my end-of-the-day news. From the time I’d graduated law school, my life had been all about my job, and now, there was a void that left me feeling very lonely.

  Before Cillian had a chance to sit, Emma was making her way to the kitchen to retrieve a cup of coffee for him. I was sure she was making it to perfection and delivering it with love. It seemed to be a routine they had honed.

  I relaxed back into the chair and studied him for a moment. I watched him settle in across from me as Lucy nuzzled her head for more doggy love. We each sat in comfortable silence, waiting for Emma, and she soon returned with a tray of sliced pound cake and his coffee. As I reached for a piece of cake, I was alerted to the sound of the metal snap of the high chair trays being undone and toddlers being set free.

  All I could think was, Let the games begin.

  “Well they will be a bloody mess, if you’ll excuse me I’ll give Mary a hand in bathing the kids. My only other option is taking them in the back and hosing them down,” she said. “Cillian has something he wants to talk to you about, and I hope you keep an open mind.”

  Before I responded that it would be fine, I heard the cat’s nails scratching at the floor in a frantic attempt to gain traction. Apparently, Sigmund knew what was about to happen and frantically tried to escape the action coming our way. Within seconds of the trays being released, I heard the thumping of feet before I saw the blur of running children, followed by Aunt Mary. All three ran past us and toward the stairs without a break in their stride. As they flew by us, Emma turned to join the pursuit of giggles and squeals of the children as they made a valiant break for freedom. That liberty was short-lived as each child was scooped up, and the group made their way toward the stairs. From the stairs, Roan and Riona threw wet kisses at us with their chubby hands, and I pretended to catch them.

  The flurry of activity and noise disappeared upstairs, followed by the sound of running water and feet running about in the hall.

  “Good. This nightly ritual will give us a few minutes to talk,” Cillian said. His body was tight as he leaned forward for his cup. With a quick sip from the mug, it seemed the coffee goodness relaxed him, and he was ready to share what was on his mind. “Emma tells me you haven’t decided what direction you want to take after leaving the DA’s office,” he said.

  “Yep, no plans yet. I’m waiting for divine intervention to hit and a ray of light to shine a path in front of me.” I smiled. That sounded flippant, even to me.

  “Well, I might be that light you’re looking for.” He grinned, placing his cup back down.

  “Oh, and how’s that?” I asked, repositioning my legs under me.

  His lips parted to answer when the familiar whine of the door reached us. From the kitchen came an undertone of swearing and chair legs scraping as if being pushed about into place. Lucy scrambled to her feet, hell-bent on discovering what was going on. She cautiously entered the kitchen, and what she saw sent her tail wagging. As she backed away from the kitchen door, her bark indicated a friend was approaching us. Sigmund, who had found solace after the children left, remained curled on a chair, not caring that someone was about to join our group.

  My eyes moved from Cillian’s cautious stare to see Jackson Evans walking through the door. My heart pounded against my ribs as I caught sight of him. His face had matured, the scruff was a new addition, and he had put on a few pounds.

  But all I could think was, He’s the one that got away.

  I hoped my facial expression did not reflect the pang of sadness I felt for something that could have been but now would never be. Years earlier, we’d had a somewhat serious relationship but never taken it to the next level of talking marriage. We had parted on good terms, and I should be hap
py he’d found his happily ever after with Emma’s best friend, Eloise. But there still was that touch of regret. I was the one who wouldn’t commit, and now, I was paying the price, regretting the choice I’d made.

  We exchanged polite social hugs and greetings. Then, the Jackson Evans I remembered did what he always did—cut to the chase.

  His eyes engaged Cillian’s, and he asked with a touch of excitement, “Have you asked her yet?”

  “Well, same old Jackson—no small talk and not too many polite pleasantries.” I laughed, and it felt as if four years hadn’t passed since I last saw him. I’d thought I’d feel uncomfortable, but things seemed to be falling right into place.

  “Oh, you’re right, Dalia. That’s my bad. You look great. Tired but well put together,” he said.

  The comment was jarring, and I shook my head. “Ever the charmer, Jax.”

  Apparently, he missed my point and barreled through on what was on his mind. “Has Cillian told you about the job yet?”

  Yes, he still had that annoying habit of his leg moving when he got excited.

  “Jesus, Jax, I just walked in the door. Did you not see the explosion of baby food in the kitchen and an almost-full cup of coffee in front of me?” Cillian said as his eyebrows shot up.

  Suddenly, a noise came from upstairs, and Lucy was on the move toward the stairs. Cillian took this moment to assess the situation and suggested we move outside to the deck.

  “Wait, a job?” I asked, not sure I wanted to leave the soft chair and air-conditioning for stiffer chairs and a blast of heat outside.

  “A job offer,” Jackson clarified, rubbing his hands together in glee.

  I suppose they could read my reaction, as they both stopped what they had been doing, but I sallied forth.

  “Whoa, slow down. Who says I want to return to work so fast? The door has barely hit my backside, leaving the DA’s office. I was just saying to Emma that I might want to travel for a few months and chill,” I responded.

  This type of talk made me feel uncomfortable. I’d arrived in town yesterday and not even started binge-reading my romance novel stash. I gripped my coffee mug between my two hands for some grounding and remained right where I was in the comfort of air-conditioning.

  Cillian broke out a smile aimed at me, and Jackson winked. Oh God, a conspiracy was afoot.

  “Trust me; you can’t pass this up,” Cillian said, pushing forward to leave the chair.

  My mind wanted to stay in neutral; however, it gradually spun forward. There had been no indication of what the job was, but they had made me feel as if I were part of some plot or caper. Against my better judgment, I nodded and followed them out to the backyard deck. I was happy to note that Emma had brought her comfortable chairs from Maine, a slight reason to remain outdoors. I plopped in the red cushioned chair and placed my coffee on the wide wooden arm.

  “We have a new client, an insurance company that insured an expensive art collection, which has been stolen. Dalia, we are talking about one hundred thirty million dollars of art,” Jackson said, casually leaning against the deck rail. His arms crossed over his chest gave the sign that he was getting warmed up with the details.

  “What? Are you telling me some crazy person had one hundred thirty million dollars’ worth of paintings sitting around their home?” I asked. Could even the best security system keep that amount of art safe?

  “Don’t judge until you hear the whole story. In a nutshell, the paintings and real estate property were part of an ugly probate matter among siblings. After a yearlong battle, the judge awarded everything to the named beneficiary, Samantha Bennington, which caused an uproar in the family. Now, Samantha, the beneficiary, has vanished along with the paintings. Cutting to the chase, the husband made a claim for the theft of the paintings,” Jackson said. He pushed away from the rail and sat in the chair diagonal to mine.

  Before he could continue, I jumped in. “Okay, now, wait. Is the woman dead or missing? What does vanish mean?” I asked, a tad confused. Or maybe she’d tired of his ass and taken off with the paintings because they were portable.

  “That’s the one-hundred-thirty-million-dollar question. Who knows? The police have opened a preliminary inquiry and are investigating it as a robbery. There has been no ransom demand or good-bye, good-luck letter left,” Cillian interjected. “She’s just gone. The husband said he was away for a few days for depositions in another city, and when he came back, the real estate broker had left a message that the paintings were gone. Obviously, when he got back, so was she.”

  “Real estate agent. Where does a real estate agent come in?” I asked, feeling as if I wasn’t keeping up.

  “Samantha and her husband decided to put the house on the market. You know the way it goes; the market is hot, and the house too big. So, they engaged some real estate broker to prepare it for sale, and while the husband was away, this occurred,” Jackson said.

  “The wife is not answering her phone, and her credit cards haven’t been used, but her car is gone,” Cillian added. “No one knows where she is or why the paintings but nothing else is missing. You would think the average criminal who was lucky enough to get in would at least take all the electronics and trash the place, looking for cash and jewelry. Nope. None of the above. Only the paintings are gone.”

  “Why is the husband making a claim so soon?” I asked, bewildered. “Maybe she sent them out to have a bit of art conservation done on them. Or moved them to a safer place before all kinds of people started traipsing through the house. What makes him think it was a robbery?”

  “Bingo! That’s why the insurance company wants to bring us into the investigation. There are too many questions. The insurance agent felt our expertise with the FBI and art crimes would be an asset to tracking down the location of the paintings. Their goal is to retrieve the paintings and not pay out a claim. However, your hands-on experience with art robbery and fraud would be invaluable,” Jackson said, reaching for his cup.

  I sat back, and the wheels turned. Wasn’t I here to do a mind dump for two weeks and then decide where to go from here? No, I felt this would be too convoluted for me at this point.

  “I’ll pass,” I replied.

  I watched Cillian’s face drop and Jackson’s mouth tighten. They were disappointed, but really, I didn’t owe them an explanation.

  “It’s a puzzle, Dalia,” Jackson continued as if I had not said no. “You know how you love a good who-done-it. Did the wife leave with the paintings to sell to make a new life? Probably not. They are newlyweds. Or maybe the paintings were fakes, and it’s a scheme between a husband and a wife to rip off the insurance company. Maybe the husband killed the wife, and the paintings are halfway to Russia and China. The possibilities are endless. Right?”

  “I don’t know about the husband having much of a dog in this fight. He’d have to declare the wife dead for him to inherit the paintings and then put a claim out there for the money,” I said, giving it more thought than I should.

  “If the paintings were joint and several were owned by husband and wife and insured by both, then he would hit pay dirt if he could convince the insurance company it was a robbery. We don’t have that information yet. Like I said, there are a lot of moving parts.”

  Well, there was that, I supposed.

  “When are you meeting with the insurance guy again?” I asked. I had to face it; I was being hooked and slowly reeled in like a wiggling fish.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Cillian replied. He saw it in my eyes or maybe my tapping fingers that he almost had me.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to hear what he has to say,” I said with a shoulder shrug. No need to commit to anything.

  “That’s all we can ask,” Cillian said with a smile.

  “I’m going to excuse myself to spend time with Emma,” I said.

  I needed time to breathe. Before they could trap me further, I excused myself to see if Emma needed help to wrestle the twins into their pajamas. Then, I’d be heading bac
k to the hotel to chastise myself for getting involved.

  Was I ready to jump into a new project? My heart said yes, but my mind wasn’t sure I wanted to say yes.

  An hour later, after story time and kissing the kids good night, Emma and I returned downstairs. Aunt Mary had wrapped a few slices of cake for me to take back to the hotel, assuring me I’d want a piece later.

  “Here. Take the file, and after reading it, if you decide not to get involved, no harm, no foul. But I think, with your love of art, you’ll want to bring those pieces home,” Jackson said, handing me a manila folder.

  One pitfall of having spent as much time together as Jackson and I had was, he knew way too many of my hot buttons, and he had just pressed one.

  Dalia

  The worst part about having too much time to think was having too much time to think. My body was still on Eastern Standard Time, so my eyes were looking at the dead of night in Denver at 4 a.m. instead of the gray light of a New York City dawn.

  If I remained in bed, my mind would continue to taunt me with the question of why I’d let myself get sucked into this meeting. The file was intriguing and right up my alley, but it also was clear that this would involve so much more than just art recovery. It had overtones of kidnapping and murder, and solving one crime might solve the other. Maybe I should call Cillian and say I had given it more thought, and it wasn’t something I wanted to get involved in. All this sounded good in my head, yet my feet directed me to the little coffeepot set to brew while I took an early shower.

  I had two choices to pass the time. I could entertain myself with a mindless engagement of old Law & Order SVU segments or review the file once more for the meeting. The latter choice was the winner. However, had it been a marathon of Chicago P.D., then my choice might not have been so clear.

  The second pass review reflected much the same as my initial read, except for a few more pink Post-it notes added to the papers. The summary was a sad story of a family torn apart by greed and anger over the grandfather’s choice of the beneficiary of his estate. Nothing reflected why he had chosen the young Samantha Bennington to be the sole heir to his art collection and property, but it was clear that it was his wish, and the judge upheld the bequest. It became especially interesting that, after the matter had concluded, Alex Clarke, Esquire, had swooped in and made a marriage proposal. She’d accepted the day the order was signed, and immediately thereafter, they had been married. That screamed sleazy and unethical beyond all conventional, professional boundaries but not criminal. He must have focused in on her vulnerability during the litigation, and when the case was over, he’d won his prize. In my mind, I pictured a smooth ladies’ man with an undertone of menace.