I rolled my eyes and popped another cracker into my mouth. It was downright unnerving how adept Nate had gotten at reading me. Made me seriously question my aptitude for the latest undercover gig the director of the Art Crime Team had conscripted me for.
“Aren’t you going to track down the forger? Chances are good he’s local, don’t you think?”
I gnawed on a chicken wing to rein in the smile tugging at my lips. It was too much to hope for to imagine the Renoir had been copied from the original. But if I could find out who forged Gladys’s piece, chances were good that I could convince him to tell me who bought it.
Nate’s eyebrow lifted expectantly as I took my time wiping sauce from my fingers.
“Copying paintings isn’t a crime, but yes, I plan to try to find the forger. There’s a professor at Wash U who’s made a study of forgers. I’m hoping he might be able to identify my artist.”
“You talking about Ledbetter?”
“You know him?”
“The newspaper had an article about him a few weeks ago. He’s on a sabbatical in Italy for the fall semester, studying the masters.”
My chest deflated a little too audibly.
Nate’s expression turned sympathetic. “I guess the FBI won’t pay for you to hop a plane to Italy to pay him a visit?”
“Hmm.”
“Hey, I know where you might score a lead.” Nate snatched up the remote and flicked off the TV. “Let’s go.”
“Go where? I thought we were watching a movie.”
“We can do that anytime. You have to set the bait before news of the FBI’s find hits the streets.”
“Bait for what?”
“Your forger.”
Now look who was sporting a giddy glint in his eye. “And where are we going to set this bait?” I asked, deciding to humor him.
“The Grotto. It’s an underground bar popular with the avant-garde crowd.”
“If it’s so popular, why haven’t I heard of it?”
“We’re talking the kind of experimental art someone would need a crane to steal.”
“Ah. And how do you know about it?” Hanging out at a bar didn’t fit the impression Aunt Martha had given me of her favorite apartment superintendent.
“My brother went through a stage where he thought he might like to be an artist.”
“Interesting.” Nate didn’t talk much about his family. I knew his brother was his only living relative, and that his grandfather had bequeathed them each a couple of valuable paintings. And that his brother had sold his to live the good life, while Nate held on to his. “What happened?”
“He realized the term starving artist was coined for a reason.”
“Ha! But you think someone at the bar might know a good forger?”
“A guy’s got to eat, no matter how progressive his views on art.” He stuffed what was left of the chicken and cheese in his fridge and covered the rest of the snacks with plastic wrap. “Sometimes that means painting a portrait for a business mogul, sofa art for a furniture store, or a copy of a soon-to-be-ex-husband’s six-figure Monet.”
Goosebumps rippled my arms. “Do I want to know how you know all this?”
3
Nate didn’t answer my question on how he knew so much about forgers. Instead, the corners of his lips twitched, and he lifted his shoulders in the slightest of shrugs.
He was baiting me, but I couldn’t resist. I grabbed Harold and my coat and bag. “You know if anyone there recognizes me, word will spread that I’m a Fed and no one will admit to anything.”
“You’re right. You need a disguise.” He rummaged through his hall closet. “Your aunt left a cape here one time, and I forgot to return it.”
Harold squirmed in my arms. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The FBI had strict rules about working only one undercover case at a time, and I was currently involved in an ongoing one based in Boston. Not that this was technically an FBI op. More like a whim.
Nate pulled a batik floral poncho, reminiscent of the ’60s, from the back of the closet. “What do you think?”
“Very hippy.”
“Yeah, it’s perfect. Add a floppy hat and some glasses and nobody’ll recognize you.”
I grinned, imagining one better. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you at your car.” I grabbed the poncho and dashed upstairs to my apartment. First, makeup.
I dropped everything, Harold included, on the bed and started with the outlandish false eyelashes I’d bought for a costume party next month. Next I swiped a streak of glittery green eye shadow over each eye, then pinned dark brown hair extensions beneath my shoulder-length blond locks, added a floppy sunhat, and—Voilà!
I glanced at my shoes. Okay, they wouldn’t work. Far too sensible. I dug my pair of knee-high black leather boots out from the back of the closet and grabbed my tan, distressed-leather courier bag while I was at it. I dumped the contents of my purse inside, then zipped the boots up over my black leggings. Then I chose the biggest and brightest necklace I owned, courtesy of my aunt, and fastened it around my neck. Scooping Aunt Martha’s poncho out from under Harold, I twirled. “What do you think?”
He yowled something that sounded unnervingly like “Not good. Not good. Not good.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not my mother. Or my handler.”
With one last don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you yowl, he turned his back and pawed at the bed.
“Whatever.” Flouncing out, I snapped off the light and cheerily called over my shoulder, “Don’t wait up!”
By the time I reached the parking lot, Nate was leaning against the hood of his car. He sprang up and did a double take. “Wow, I scarcely recognized you.”
I grinned. “Good. All those years of playing dress-up are finally paying off.”
He opened the passenger door of his Land Rover, and I slid in. I usually drove my FBI-issued sedan whenever I went anywhere, in case I got called to an emergency, but I sure couldn’t show up anywhere in that car, looking like this.
Nate kept glancing my way as he drove.
“What?” I felt my face. “Is one of the eyelashes falling off?”
“No, I was trying to decide who you look like. You’ll need a new name.”
“Call me Sara. It’s close enough to Serena that if you goof up, you can easily catch yourself.”
“Good thinking.” He parked. “Here we are.”
“You weren’t kidding when you said underground.” The Grotto’s entrance was off a back alley near The Loop, known for its trendy boutiques and nightlife. Only “The Grotto” didn’t seem to fit the billing. Nate led me down steep, poorly lit stairs into the basement of a dry cleaning business. “You sure the place is still open?”
“The shady appearance is part of the appeal.”
“Oh? Patrons like to think they’re above the law?”
“Let’s just say they weren’t the kinds of kids who liked to color inside the lines.” Nate reached around me for the door handle. “Follow my lead, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Missus?” And where did Thompson come from?
“Trust me. This will work.”
“You know I’m not wearing a wedding band, right?”
“That’s okay.”
The lounge wasn’t lit much better than the stairwell, and a haze hung in the air from more than just the smoky pillar candles in the center of each table.
“Let’s hope the police don’t pick tonight to raid this place,” I whispered close to Nate’s ear. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I surreptitiously surveyed the room, and apart from one art dealer and a real estate agent, who I only recognized because his face was plastered on all his For Sale signs, I didn’t recognize anyone.
“Nate!” shouted a shaggy-haired guy standing next to the bar.
“You’re a regular?” I asked, not managing to keep the surprise from my voice.
Nate snorted. “Look again, detective.” He clasped my hand and drew me toward the bar.
At his touch, someth
ing far too pleasant I didn’t want to begin to try to identify zinged up my arm. I dragged my attention from our interlocked fingers and scanned Nate’s friend.
He wore designer clothes that complimented his slim build. And his well-manicured hands, without a hint of paint staining the cuticles, didn’t look like any painter’s or sculptor’s I’d ever met. A dealer’s maybe?
As our eyes met, his seemed curious. No indication we’d met before, although something about him seemed familiar. “Should I know him?” I whispered to Nate.
“No, I guess not.” Nate shook the guy’s hand. “Randy, good to see you. I’d like you to meet Sara Thompson.” Nate turned to me as the guy extended his hand in my direction. “Sara, this is Randy, my brother.”
“Your br—” I choked down my surprise and returned Randy’s limp handshake with a firm one. Even if we’d met on the street, instead of at this dive, his handshake alone would’ve told me Randy and Nate were nothing alike. Reminding myself to doctor my voice, I said, “Nice to meet you.”
“A Brit. Very nice.” Randy motioned to the bartender. “What’ll you have?”
“Just a cola for me, please,” I said, wondering if Sara Thompson would be expected to order something stronger. We hadn’t exactly fleshed out my identity, let alone backstopped it.
“Make that two,” Nate added.
“Same old Nate.” Randy grabbed his bottle of beer from the bar and led us to an empty table in the center of the room. “So what brings you here?”
“I want to hire someone to copy a painting, and Nate said this was the place to come.”
“What kind of painting?”
Recalling Nate’s story, I smirked. “One my soon-to-be-ex-husband doesn’t want to part with.”
Randy laughed so hard, beer spurted from his mouth.
Nate curled his arm around the back of my chair and whispered close to my ear, “You’re a quick study.”
I took that to mean I needn’t worry about his brother’s laughing fit.
Randy wiped his mouth with his sleeve as if it were flannel and not a two-hundred-dollar Armani. He shook his head at his brother. “And you’re okay with this?”
I tilted my head his way, inexplicably pleased his brother expected him to be more straitlaced. Okay, yeah, not so inexplicable. I didn’t want Nate to be the kind of guy who’d stoop to helping a woman forge a painting so she could steal the original—even if it were from a make-believe, deadbeat husband.
Ducking my head, I rubbed my fingers back and forth on the polished, dark-wood table and injected a self-conscious wobble into my voice. “I’m sorry, Nate. It wasn’t fair of me to ask you. You’re a better—”
Nate stopped my performance with a warm touch to my jittering fingers. “Any man who uses his wife as a punching bag deserves what he gets.”
I caught myself staring at him. Where did he come up with this stuff?
Randy snorted and tipped back the rest of his beer. “You better hope her husband doesn’t spot you holding her hand like that, or you’ll be the punching bag.”
I jerked my hand out from beneath Nate’s and slipped it into my lap. “My husband’s away on business at the moment.”
“From my experience, men like that don’t leave their women unwatched. If you know what I mean.”
I gasped and darted my gaze about the room, as he would expect. “You think he’d have someone follow me?”
“It’s likely. And not too many painters are going to like the odds.”
“There’s no one following her,” Nate said in a tone that, from a mob guy like Malgucci or SWAT guy like Tanner, meant he’d made sure of it. But coming from Nate, it made me want to burst into laughter. The man used no-kill mousetraps, for goodness’ sake. Not exactly the kind of guy who’d take someone out, abusive husband or not.
But Randy took him at his word without so much as a raised eyebrow. Pushing up from the table, he scraped his chair backward across the scarred oak floor. “Let me get another beer and ask around. See what I can come up with.”
“Thanks, Randy,” Nate said. “I appreciate it.”
“Did you know your brother would be here?” I whispered once he was out of earshot.
“No, but it’ll make finding you a forger a lot easier.”
“Sure, until he asks to see my painting.”
“Show him one from today’s bust. The forger’s reaction would tell you in a second whether he painted it or knew who did. Then you tell him you want to think about it and send in Serena Jones to question him further.”
“If he figures out it was a setup, it could ruin you for this place.”
Nate looked around and shrugged. “No great loss.”
His brother strutted back to our table. “The guy I have in mind isn’t here tonight. I’ll have him get in touch with Nate, okay?”
“Thank you so much,” I said breathlessly.
Nate shook his brother’s hand once more, then whisked us outside.
“Sounds promising,” I said as we climbed the stairs to street level.
He grinned. “That British accent is so—” He coughed nixing whatever descriptor he’d been about to use.
“Nate?” Tanner stood at the top of the stairs, his gaze shifting from Nate to me.
My stomach plummeted. I dipped my chin so my floppy hat blocked his view of my face. What was he doing here? Had he recognized me?
And why did I care?
Tanner frowned. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Nate. Not me.
I hid a smile. He didn’t sound any happier to see Nate out with another woman than he’d been about him watching a movie with me tonight.
“None of your business,” Nate said, not sounding like Nate at all and clearly not appreciating how sweet Tanner was being, worrying about me being two-timed and all. Tanner looked at us as if he’d like to say more, but Nate slipped his hand through the crook of my arm and guided me past him.
Oh no. What if Tanner recognizes my walk or something?
Nate opened his passenger door for me, and at the burst of light, I tugged my hat brim lower and dove into the car.
Except I needn’t have bothered. Tanner had turned his attention to his cell phone.
Unless . . . I scrabbled through my purse for my phone. Nate shut the door just as my thumb found Mute. I peeked at my phone’s screen, and Tanner’s name appeared.
Whew! Thwarted him catching me out just in time.
As Nate slid behind the wheel and the car’s dome light went out, I peeked from beneath my hat brim.
Tanner held his phone to his ear, frowning at me through the windshield.
Guilt tightened my chest. What if I was wrong and he’d just been checking up on me, maybe thinking Nate had stood me up? I didn’t need to lie to him. Not really. He might’ve been disappointed in my lack of judgment, but he wouldn’t have reported me.
I let the phone go to voice mail. Ten seconds passed, then a text came in. You okay?
My heart stuttered.
Nate glanced across at my phone. “He telling you he saw me with another woman?”
“No. Just asking if I’m okay.” I typed in I’m good. What’s up?
His next text came back: I thought you might have trouble sleeping after today’s scare.
Warmth filled my chest. He didn’t mention seeing Nate, apparently more reluctant to risk upsetting me than to prove Nate unworthy.
Nah, I’ll just dream about a hunky hero coming to my rescue, I texted back, expecting him to respond with the latest movie star he figured was his likeness.
He texted back a smiley face.
Sometimes the man was hard to figure out.
4
I finished off my morning run through Forest Park with leg stretches on the stairs to my second-floor apartment.
Mr. Sutton’s frantic voice echoed through the stairwell. “If she’s not answering, you should unlock the door. She might be hurt.”
“She’s probably out for her mornin
g run,” Nate said, his voice the epitome of patient reason and, considering I was the only woman in the building under seventy, he was talking about me.
I sprinted up the stairs to my floor. “What’s up?”
Nate’s warm smile made my pulse forget it was supposed to be in cool-down mode. “See, she was running,” Nate said to my elderly neighbor, then to me said, “Your phone has been ringing nonstop for the past twenty minutes, and Mr. Sutton was concerned something had happened to you.”
I squeezed Mr. Sutton’s elbow. “Thank you. I appreciate you looking out for me.”
He huffed. “Lot of good it does when all this young man does is stand there and gongoozle your door.”
Gongoozle?
Nate must’ve seen my confusion. “Means to stare at,” he explained. “Today’s word of the day.”
“Ah.”
My phone blared through the door. Wow, I really needed to turn down the volume on that thing.
“See,” Mr. Sutton said. “Someone’s desperate to get hold of you.” He turned back to his door as I fit my key into my lock. “Don’t forget the new word.” He lifted his chin toward Nate with a chuckle. “That one has gongoozling down to an art.”
I shot a glance back to Nate and caught him gongoozling me. I fumbled the key in the lock. The phone stopped ringing, then started up again. I refocused on the key. “I’d better see who that is.”
“Sure thing. Have a good day. I’ll let you know if I hear from my brother.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.” I tumbled into my apartment, hoping he’d attribute my breathlessness to my run, and snatched up the phone.
“Serena, it’s about time you got up,” Nana scolded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked rather than explaining where I’d been. Knowing Nana, I was pretty sure she’d think I was being disrespectful or something.
“Gladys doesn’t want you to come to her house. I think she’s afraid the neighbors will see you and tell her son.”
“Nana, if I’m going to investigate a theft from her house, I need to examine the scene of the crime.”
“Of course, of course, but I was thinking we could make it seem like we’d run into you.”
Another Day, Another Dali Page 3