Identity Crisis

by Eliza Watson

  That was insane. After twenty-four years, what were the odds the mob suddenly materialized three days after her dad’s death? Talk about coincidental.

  Unless…they’d showed up before he had died.

  Rather than suffering a heart attack from natural causes, had her dad been taken out by the mob? He’d been having health issues for the past year, and there was nothing suspicious about his death that had warranted an autopsy. He’d been cremated, so an autopsy was now out of the question.

  No, the trauma of discovering her dad’s past had kicked her imagination into overdrive. The idea of a hitman having killed him was too far-fetched, like the plot for some mafia movie.

  Wasn’t it?

  Even if he had been murdered, they’d have no reason to come after her. Her dad’s letter assured her she was now safe. Her gaze darted frantically around at the mess, evidence of just how desperate and determined the intruder had been to find something. What if he thought she had whatever this was?

  If there was something, she had to find it first.

  Fueled by sheer survival instincts, she bolted down the hallway, praying the safe was still intact. Her dad had likely been too paranoid to leave much information in an envelope and had more details locked away in the safe. She flew into the den. Her gaze locked on the Impressionist-style painting of a lake scene on the floor in front of the fireplace, the corner of the canvas sliced and torn away like the others. She grabbed a letter opener from the desk and went over to the fireplace. She dropped down on her knees, running her hands over the floor, searching for a loose board. Finding one, she pried off the board, then three more, exposing the safe.

  Hand shaking, she punched in the code—each of the six digits one off from her birth date. She opened the safe to discover a bound stack of twenties and two large envelopes. She shoved everything in her briefcase. After quickly closing the safe and replacing the floorboards, she snagged the pepper spray off the floor and grabbed the lake painting. Thankfully, it hadn’t been severely damaged. It had supposedly been in their family forever.

  One of the only links to her past.

  The sound of the front door creaking open echoed through the house. Olivia flattened herself against the wall, several feet from the den’s doorway, and set down the painting. Heart racing, she raised the pepper spray in her hand. Footsteps creaked against the wooden floor in the foyer. The intruder paused briefly, then continued toward the hallway leading to the den and kitchen. Her palms were sweating so badly she feared the small canister of pepper spray would slip from her hand. She tightened her grip around it, finger poised against the spray nozzle. Hopefully, she could zap the person from a safe distance. She’d screwed up and bought stream spray instead of mist, which required an accurate aim.

  The footsteps drew closer. Her breathing quickened. The intruder paused outside the door and she held her breath, a death grip on the pepper spray. The barrel of a gun appeared through the doorway, followed by a man. In that split second, she blasted him with a steady stream.

  “Shit!” he yelled, snapping his head away from the line of fire.

  Unsure if she’d made a direct hit, she flew past him, still spraying the air behind her. Although it wasn’t a blanket mist, she couldn’t help but inhale some of the toxic vapors in the air. Her eyes burned slightly and she coughed, racing down the hallway and across the open foyer.

  She was almost to the door when the guy yelled out in a raspy voice, “Touch that door handle and I’ll shoot it off.”

  She came to a screeching halt, unsure if he planned on aiming for the handle or her hand. The blood pulsating in her ears muffled the roar of the lawn mower as it passed by near a window. Nobody would hear her scream. She eyed the security alarm keypad on the wall by the door. Two quick steps and she could hit the panic button. Two quick steps and she might get shot. She slowly turned around, her gaze locking on the gun pointed at her from the opposite side of the foyer. Sheer panic pressed against her chest, and she sucked in a deep breath.

  The guy cleared his throat. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He cautiously lowered the gun but didn’t holster it. “Unless you spray that crap again.” He blinked rapidly and ran a hand up over the top of his head, sweeping back a clump of wet hair. Her aim had obviously been off. It was impossible to spray straight when her body was shaking uncontrollably.

  The guy’s dark hair was just shy of touching his shoulders, and he had a five o’clock shadow. A black T-shirt covered his broad chest and faded, relaxed-fitting jeans contradicted his rigid stance. A scar across his cheekbone, and a thin one slashing his eyebrow, added to his don’t mess with me look.

  “I’m Ethan Ryder with the U.S. Marshals.” The man flashed a badge, then slipped it back in his pants pocket.

  If the mob had hunted down her dad, who was to say it hadn’t been through a U.S. Marshal snitch? He’d trusted Roy Howard, not Ethan Ryder. Maybe he wasn’t even with the U.S. Marshals. Rather coincidental that he showed up right after a robbery.

  “I assume you’re Olivia Doyle?”

  At the back of her mind she heard her dad’s voice. Don’t trust him, Livvy. Be leery of people you know and certainly don’t trust someone you don’t know. She was about to give a false identity when the guy’s gaze narrowed on a framed photo sitting on an antique table—Olivia and her dad at her college graduation.

  “Sorry to hear about your dad.”

  Her gaze narrowed with suspicion. “How’d you know he died?”

  “His obit. I read them on a daily basis. It’s sometimes the only way we find out about a witness’s death. Why’d you call me?” He slipped his gun in its holster.

  “I didn’t call you.”

  “I took over some of Roy Howard’s case files when he died a few months ago.”

  “Roy Howard’s dead?” She nearly dropped the pepper spray. “How’d he die?”

  He looked taken aback by her question. “A fire. Why?”

  She shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.” It was kind of suspicious both men had died within months of each other. And her dad had died just months after Ethan had taken over his case. She wiped the moisture from her eyes, unsure if it was caused by pepper spray fumes or the fact that she was about to snap emotionally.

  “Roy’s number is forwarded to mine. When you didn’t leave a message or pick up my call, I thought you might be in trouble, so I tracked you down through your cell phone’s GPS.” He glanced around. “Glad I came.”

  “If you were in charge of my dad’s case and work for the Witness Protection Program, why didn’t he know about you?” He had been too anal not to have provided her with the updated info.

  “It’s actually called the Witness Security Program, despite what the movies claim. And besides his case not being active, it was just one of dozens I took over. You found me easily enough when you needed me. Any idea who did this and what they were looking for?”

  “Random robbery I would guess. Thought I’d better call and report it.” He’d undoubtedly noticed the artwork that was still there.

  He arched a skeptical brow. “According to your cell phone’s GPS, you called me before you were here and knew the place was robbed.”

  “I’d left and just came back.”

  “You called a U.S. Marshal to report a robbery?”

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Should have called the local police. I’ll do that. Right now, I have to get going. I’m late for a talk.” Hopefully, her going to work would make it appear she wasn’t totally panicked about the break-in. And she wanted this guy out of her dad’s house. She’d come back later and conduct a thorough search to figure out what the intruder might have been after or have taken. She slid the pepper spray into her briefcase, then swept a hand toward the door, gesturing for him to leave. He didn’t move.

  “It’s not your job to investigate robberies, remember? I have to grab a painting from the den and get going.”

  He walked down the hall to the den and returned moments later carrying the pa
inting. “I’m guessing this is it. It was by the doorway where you nailed me.”

  She accepted the painting from him, holding his gaze. “Thanks,” she muttered.

  “Kind of odd the burglar didn’t take the paintings, don’t you think?”

  “Actually”—she glanced around—“it doesn’t look like anything was taken. Probably wasn’t even a burglary, just a bunch of kids vandalizing the place, looking for cash.”

  “Right.” He looked at her like she was full of crap. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Standing so close, she could see just how thick his eyelashes were and the tiny laugh lines around his caramel brown eyes. Hard to imagine this guy had a sense of humor. Yet, his eyes seemed to soften ever so slightly with concern. She had the urge to tell him she feared her dad might have been murdered. But without any evidence, he’d probably claim her imagination was running wild and that she watched too many Oliver Stone movies. Same thing she was telling herself.

  Unless, of course, he’d murdered her dad and knew she was right.

  “I’m late for a talk on Chagall.”

  The corners of his mouth curled into a faint smile, yet he didn’t look particularly amused. “You have my number if you remember why you really called me.”

  “I didn’t call you, remember? I’ll be just fine, thanks.”

  “Will you?” He arched a skeptical brow.

  Was it her imagination or did his tone sound a bit threatening? He stepped toward her, and she held her breath. When he continued past and out the door, she heaved a relieved sigh. Yet, her gut told her the sense of relief would be short-lived. Even if Ethan Ryder wasn’t after her, someone else might be.

  Chapter Three

  Lawrence Edwards, curator of the Winston Museum, gestured to Olivia. “If you could all please give Ms. Doyle a round of applause for taking the time to speak tonight on Chagall’s influence on Modern Art. As usual, it was most informative.”

  She gave a faint wave, mouthing You’re welcome to the group of a hundred plus patrons of the arts.

  Lawrence turned to her. “You did a splendid job, Olivia. Thank you again.”

  “It’s important to keep people educated.” And to give her gallery some exposure. While she still had a gallery. Acting like business as usual was critical right now.

  Lawrence strolled off, schmoozing his patrons as they dispersed throughout the Modern Art exhibition.

  Olivia slipped on her black Donna Karan suit jacket, rolling her head to the side, attempting to relax the tension gripping every muscle. Her dad’s past could ruin her career if it became known. Although her dad had helped put the biggest crime boss in Chicago behind bars, he’d altered history, tampering with the masterpieces of artists she’d admired her entire life. This was the ultimate in art crimes. How could he have done such an awful thing? Because he’d always been out to make a buck.

  She should be mourning her dad’s death, not his life.

  She now understood why he’d limited his exposure to the art world. That declining her invitations to art fairs and major auctions had nothing to do with not wanting to spend time with her. He’d gone to great lengths to ensure nobody tracked him down through art channels, including not pursuing a career in art. Yet, his passion for art was reflected in the number of paintings filling his walls, which mainly included obscure works from unknown galleries. Outside of the lake setting painting, he hadn’t owned one Impressionist work—like the forgeries he’d sold. Even after changing their identities and moving across country, he’d likely still worried that the mob could find them through the art world or her.

  They hadn’t, had they?

  Olivia walked across the room, navigating through patrons admiring artwork, bestowing their astute wisdom on each other. She and her dad used to play I Spy. In public places, he’d have her close her eyes and quiz her on the people around them. Even in a packed room she could still close her eyes and describe the corporate suit with his trophy wife analyzing the Matisse to her left or the refined, elderly woman studying the Chagall to her right. While riding in the car, he’d pump her for details on the cars behind them without allowing her to look. He’d claimed she’d get more out of life if she was conscious of her surroundings. But it hadn’t been a game.

  He’d been trying to keep her alive.

  For the past twenty-four years, he’d likely been looking over his shoulder, fearing when and if they’d be found.

  As she headed toward the door, she spied Ethan Ryder entering the exhibit. With his shoulder-length hair, jeans, and a black T-shirt, he stuck out among the patrons like a Picasso in a Rembrandt exhibit. Their gazes locked. His brown eyes seemed able to penetrate her thoughts without betraying his own. His stare was fixed on her, yet every cell in his body was likely on red alert, acutely aware of his surroundings. This guy would have kicked butt at I Spy.

  She reluctantly walked toward him.

  He glanced over at Picasso’s Woman with a Flower. “His muse must have been one butt-ugly woman.”

  “Actually, the women in his paintings were often composites of several different lovers.”

  The corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile. “Then he should have taken each of their best features, not their worst.”

  She stifled a smile, not being a huge Picasso fan either. “You’re obviously not an art lover, so what are you doing here, Mr. Ryder?”

  “I’m interested in hearing more about this Chagall guy.”

  She gave him her best Yeah, right look.

  Gaze narrowing, he studied her intently, as if appraising a Monet on auction at Sotheby’s. “Considering your father’s past, it’s rather ironic you own a gallery. Was he a partner?”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting I followed in his footsteps?” She lowered her voice, even though the chattering was deafening.

  He arched a curious brow and stepped toward her, seriously invading her personal space, yet she didn’t shy away from him or his accusation. He leaned in toward her, mere inches from her face. “Did you?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I just found out about…his previous life today.”

  He looked skeptical. “At least twenty percent of relocated witnesses continue their lives of crime. We can’t keep an eye on them forever.”

  “I guarantee you he was part of the eighty percent.”

  “Maybe his partner tore apart his place searching for unsold forgeries and ripping backs of furniture looking for money stashed from their lucrative scam. He had to have been looking for something behind those canvases. Why else slice them? Whatever he thought might be behind them was obviously worth a helluva lot more than the paintings themselves.”

  She wanted to pull out her pepper spray and blast this guy right between the eyes again. At this close a range, she wouldn’t miss. “And there wasn’t another canvas behind any of them, or the front canvas would have been stripped away.”

  “His partner would have taken the entire painting and stripped it later.”

  “There wasn’t one painting missing from his collection.” Even though she’d only looked in a few rooms.

  “Besides the one you took.” He quirked a curious brow. “Why exactly did you choose that painting?”

  She glared at him. “What the—”

  “Forgot to mention,” Lawrence said, walking up, “I have an interested buyer for your Trapeze Artist. Gave him your card.”

  “That’s wonderful, Lawrence. Thanks so much.”

  Her gallery could desperately use a sale like Trapeze Artist. With the sucky economy over the past year, she’d struggled to stay afloat. This painting was a middle market piece worth just over a half million.

  Lawrence looked at Ethan. “If you haven’t already, you should check out Olivia’s Chagall collection sometime. It’s really quite splendid.”

  Ethan flashed her a smug grin. “Have to do that.”

  While Lawrence continued praising her collection, the thought of Ethan snooping around her gallery
kicked her body into panic mode. What if Ethan was right and her dad had resumed his life of crime, using her gallery as a front? Over the past few years he’d seemed to let down his guard, like attending several of her gallery’s showings. After successfully hiding his entire past from her, concealing the fact that he was once again selling forgeries might not have been difficult.

  What if Trapeze Artist was a forgery?

  Dozens of fakes were brought into her gallery annually. She’d been studying Chagall since she was eight, and her gut instinct told her when something wasn’t right, even before she requested the painting’s paperwork. The color could be off or it didn’t have the playful feeling of an original Chagall.

  Trapeze Artist felt right, didn’t it?

  She was selling it on consignment for an established client who’d had it authenticated locally. But according to the newspaper article, her dad had swapped out lesser-known middle market paintings that wouldn’t attract attention with fakes. What if her dad had replaced it with a fake after she’d contracted it and he’d sold the real one? He’d given the fake painting the provenance, knowing the authentic one could likely be sold without papers documenting its history of ownership. Maybe he’d fabricated a provenance for the original Trapeze Artist. He’d had the codes for the security alarms in her condo and gallery.

  Lawrence finished boasting about her Chagall collection and gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Good luck with the sale.” He waved at someone across the room and strolled off.

  “I have to go,” she told Ethan, who followed her into the nearly empty hallway. She spun around. “Stop following me.”

  Ethan’s expression and stance relaxed slightly, as if he momentarily slipped out of marshal mode. “Hey, I was out of line implying your gallery is anything but legit. I’m sorry. It’s the cop in me.”

  She glared at him. “While I was growing up, every birthday my dad took me out for my favorite dinner, spaghetti and meatballs. Each Christmas, until I was eight, he brought me to the mall to see Santa. He always remembered to slip a quarter under my pillow when I’d lost a tooth. Not the type of man who would destroy his daughter’s life by selling forgeries in her gallery.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as Ethan. Regardless, his gaze seemed to soften ever so slightly.