Lost Legacy

by Dana Mentink

  Denise sighed. “He’s a tenacious little guy. I don’t know why I thought I could find him or the painting by wandering around on my own.”

  Brooke told her what Colda said about Lock.

  Denise’s eyes glowed with anger. “So Lock tried to take the Tarkenton for himself. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Victor looked over Stephanie’s shoulder. “Tuney afraid to come back down?”

  Stephanie frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Muscles tightened at the bottom of Victor’s stomach. “Tuney didn’t fill you in?”

  She shook her head. “I never saw Tuney. Luca and I showed up and found the grate locked at the top of the ladder. We forced it open and came in to get you.”

  Brooke bit her lip. “Do you think he didn’t get out?”

  “Oh, I think he got out, all right,” Victor said.

  The truth hit her like a sandbag.

  Tuney got out.

  And he’d left them there.

  Perhaps he went to meet up with Lock.

  Or the former bad cop had found the painting somewhere and decided to cash in for himself. She sensed that was what Victor was thinking. Once again, Brooke had not been able to see the treachery right in front of her nose. She hadn’t liked Tuney, but she’d believed him.

  Victor led them forward. “We can worry about Tuney later. Right now we’ve got to get Colda before he disappears.”

  “With the Tarkenton,” Denise said grimly.

  Brooke’s frustrations over the past days boiled over. “I don’t care if he has the painting or not. I don’t care if we find the Tarkenton anyway. I just want to get Dad out of the mess he’s in.”

  Denise’s eyebrows shot up. “That painting is priceless. We can’t leave it down here. If Colda gets away we might never know where he stashed it.” She gestured to the filth around them and shuddered. “Your father would not agree with that decision.”

  “Maybe Dad is wrong, then,” Brooke said, kicking aside a piece of broken pipe. “It’s just a thing, not a person.” Not a living, breathing Tad, or a wounded Stryker, or, she thought with a look ahead, a Victor Gage.

  Denise took her around the shoulders as they pushed along. “You’ve been through a lot. I forgot that for a moment. I’m sorry.”

  The way narrowed until they moved into single file. The air was still warm, carrying the faint scent of burned wire from the explosion. They came to another dead end and a ladder, which they climbed one at a time until Brooke found herself in a utility room. The sight of painted walls after the endless expanse of concrete was a shock to her vision. “Are we out of the tunnels?”

  Victor examined two sets of doors on either side. “Hard to say. Which way did Colda go? He couldn’t have gotten out any other way.”

  Stephanie bent over and squinted at the door frame. “This one,” she said, pointing to another pawn drawn on the metal.

  They tried the door but it wouldn’t open. Victor kicked at it a few times, hard enough to crash against the metal with an awful din. The door gave just enough for him to push a hand through and remove the chair that was wedged against the handle on the other side. Brooke followed Victor into a bleak hallway, her eyes dazzled by the fluorescent lighting, dim though it was, and the strange feel of smooth floor underfoot.

  “Where are we?” Denise said, blinking.

  Victor read the sign on the utility room door. “Administration building. Lock’s office is to the left.”

  They padded quickly across the linoleum, listening as they did so for hints that Colda was ahead of them.

  Victor stopped suddenly, near an open door. Angry voices came from inside.

  “It’s Lock’s outer office,” he whispered in her ear before turning to Stephanie. “Go call Luca.” She nodded and moved silently down the hallway.

  Brooke finally recognized the two voices, Tuney and Dean Lock.

  “You’ve used me from the start,” Tuney barked.

  “You were paid well for your trouble.”

  “I wasn’t paid enough to lose Fran.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “You don’t care about your missing professor.”

  “No, and you didn’t either,” Lock said, voice low and steely. “You came for the paycheck, so my motives aren’t important here.”

  Tuney spoke again, his voice so low Brooke almost didn’t catch it. “That’s where you’re wrong. Something you don’t know about me is that I go after the truth like a starving dog after a steak dinner. You will tell me what I want to know,” Tuney said. There was the sound of a gun being cocked. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Victor was through the door before Brooke processed what was happening. As she entered, Tuney’s face and Lock’s wore the same expression of surprise. Tuney kept a gun pointed at Lock in spite of their unexpected arrival.

  Tuney grinned but the smile did not reach his eyes. “I see you got out okay.”

  “No thanks to you,” Victor said.

  “I finally slogged my way out of the tunnels in time to see your sister and brother on their way in. I knew they’d find you quickly.”

  It was probably another in his long string of lies, Brooke thought. “Or you left us there to die.”

  He looked at her and she thought she saw a flicker of emotion deep down in his eyes. “Think what you want.”

  “Why are you doing this to Lock?” Brooke said.

  Tuney kept the gun steady. “You won’t believe what I found walking around those idiotic tunnels.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to Victor. “Colda’s. An old model, doesn’t even text, and the professor has no idea how to delete messages. He has over a hundred on there. Took me quite a while to go through them. There’s a very interesting message from the dean here.”

  The dean’s face turned ashen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Play it,” Tuney said, rage thrumming through his words. “Come closer so we can all enjoy.”

  Victor held up the phone and pressed the button.

  The message was tinny but clear, the voice unmistakably Lock’s.

  “Send the note to Donald and tell him it was a fake. There will be an accident, a fire or flooding problem, and you’ll let him know the painting was destroyed. I know a collector who would die for it. We’ll split the fee. Don’t talk to anyone about this.” The message clicked off.

  Tuney’s face was a mask of disgust. “He was pressuring Colda to lie to Donald. Colda probably went on the run because he couldn’t figure any other way out, poor sap. What I want to know now is, did you have Stryker keep tabs on Brooke? Worried that she might hire Victor and find your painting?”

  “No,” the dean said, lips nearly as white as his pale face. “I’ve never heard of any Stryker. Colda disappeared with the painting and that’s why I hired you to find him.”

  “Do you believe him?” Tuney asked, looking at Brooke and Victor.

  “I don’t,” Denise said. “I learned a long time ago that he wasn’t to be trusted.”

  “I don’t either,” Tuney said. “I’m not going to be satisfied with any half-baked truth. I want to know why Fran is dead, and you’re going to tell me.”

  Sweat rolled down Lock’s face. “I don’t know anything about that. Shooting me will not change my story. It’s the truth.”

  “Put the gun down,” Victor said to Tuney. “He’s telling the truth. Lock wouldn’t have any way of knowing Brooke would come to us, so he couldn’t have sent Stryker.”

  Tuney hesitated and then lowered his weapon.

  Lock hunched over his desk, hands pressed to his temples. “You all have no idea. That was a Tarkenton, a previously unknown work done by a master artist, the greatest of his time. How could anyone see such a thing, touch such a thing and let it out of their grasp?” His eyes were wide, the whites showing wetly in his pale face as he focused on Brooke. “It was not right that your father should have it.”

&n
bsp; “Not right?” Denise hissed. “He spent years on the trail of that painting. It was all he had left after being disgraced.”

  “I was disgraced, too.” A bead of sweat rolled off Lock’s chin and plopped onto the desk.

  “You deserved to be disgraced,” Denise said. “You were never worthy to be the curator of that museum.”

  “No,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth. “That’s what you should have been, cold woman that you are. You would have been right at home in a gallery of stone and glass.”

  Denise stepped forward and slapped him, the sound making Brooke jump. “And how could I ever hope to be a curator when I lost everything because of you?” She whirled on her heel and stalked out of the room.

  Lock sank down with an expression of utter defeat, his twisted hand lying limply on his desk.

  Brooke tried to sort out what she’d just experienced. “I’ve got to go after her.”

  Victor nodded. “We’ll stay here in case Colda shows up.”

  Brooke went into the hallway but saw no sign of Denise, so she returned to Lock’s office. Stephanie strode up with Luca at her side, bringing him up to speed.

  Luca shook his head. “So you’ve got no Colda and no painting. Losing your touch, big brother? The barracuda is going to take a loss on this case?”

  Victor laughed, but Brooke could see the remark had hit home. Victor was not a man who liked to lose.

  She had other reasons to feel defeated. Colda hadn’t been able to shed any light on the long-ago theft and it seemed he never would. She sank into a chair and watched Luca and Victor prowl the space, opening the door and checking again the inner office where they had met with the dean before. The space was empty and cold, the same rich carpet and solitary piano.

  Stephanie clicked off the phone. “Cops are waiting outside. They’ve got a few questions for us. The university president is with them, and he’s not in a good mood from what I gather.”

  Brooke struggled to her feet and they made their way outside and found two police vehicles waiting. Tuney escorted Lock firmly by the arm. “I’m sure the president will want to have a word with you, Dean Lock.”

  Brooke was asked by Detective Paulson to sit on the administration-building steps while he proceeded to debrief Victor, who recited in weary detail everything that had transpired. It took him quite a while, but the bottom line didn’t change—no Colda, no treasure.

  Her heart sank. No hope for her father.

  The sun sank into the horizon and fingers of fog began to twine themselves through the campus in and amongst the buildings. Detective Paulson had only begun to listen to Brooke’s version of the events when he got a call on his radio.

  “You’ll need to come down to the station so we can continue this. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

  She nodded.

  Paulson leveled a stern glance at her. “I’ve got two more units coming to search for Colda, so don’t get any ideas about going back into those tunnels.”

  Even the thought of heading underground made Brooke shudder. “I understand. I’ll just pack my things and meet you at the station.”

  Victor walked her back to the dorm. After a few paces he put his arm around her and she relaxed into his touch, fatigue suddenly overwhelming her.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t find your Tarkenton.”

  She was too tired to do anything but nod. The fog lay thick over the campus, stars beginning to twinkle in the dark patches between the eerie tendrils. “You’re going back tonight.”

  It wasn’t a question, more a statement.

  He cleared his throat. “I guess so. I think the police are going to lock this place down. I thought maybe—” he looked down “—maybe we could go somewhere after you talk to the police.”

  His tone mystified her. “Go somewhere and do what?”

  “Just talk. I…I want to tell you some things.”

  She saw the guilt in his face. He felt bad that he hadn’t been able to find the painting. The treasure seeker had failed. What was more, she thought she could detect pity, pity for the girl that would return to a father about to be arrested and a brother whom she did not have the means to bring home again. Tears welled up. “It’s better if we just say our goodbyes. I’ve got to get to the airport as soon as possible.” Before they have enough evidence to put my father away.

  Victor raised a hand and she thought he was going to cup her cheek.

  He let it fall away and for a moment the ache inside her was overwhelming. She hurried her pace until they came to the dorm. The lights were on when they entered. Stephanie was already nearly packed up.

  Brooke frowned. “I thought my aunt would be back here.”

  Stephanie shook her head. “Haven’t seen her.”

  “She wouldn’t have left without her things,” Brooke said, fingering her aunt’s jacket. A feeling of dread rose inside her like rising floodwaters. Slowly she looked to Victor. “Did you see her at all when we were talking to the police?”

  He shook his head, face grave. “No. Second time she’s missing.”

  Brooke waited only a moment before she ran back out into the night.

  * * *

  Victor exchanged a look with Stephanie as she grabbed her jacket. “I thought we were done.”

  “I did, too,” Victor said, jogging down the hall.

  Luca met them on the threshold. “Who are we after now?” he said, falling in behind.

  Victor didn’t answer, emerging into the darkness just in time to see Brooke darting across the grounds back toward the building where Tuney had recently held Lock at gunpoint. He overtook her after a hard sprint. “Where are you going?”

  “I saw a light. At least I thought I saw one, in the window of the dean’s office.”

  He stopped her. “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  He was unsure, too, but not about what she’d seen. Something had changed inside him down in the tunnels and he desperately wanted to tell her, but now was not the time. He had the despondent feeling that there never would be the right time. She would return to her father. He would go back to treasure hunting. Whatever he’d felt or imagined would slide back into the darkness. He swallowed back the feeling.

  “We’re going, too,” he said as Luca and Stephanie joined them.

  “And I thought the fun was over,” Luca said. “Are we going to do some breaking and entering?”

  “Just looking around. If there’s anything out of place, we go to the cops,” Victor said.

  “Stick-in-the-mud,” Luca said with a grin.

  They skirted the building and made it around to the farside, where Lock’s office faced the courtyard. One small window was covered by a curtain. He opened his mouth to suggest they search another area when Brooke gasped. “There,” she whispered, grabbing his arm.

  He saw it, too, the quick flash of light where there shouldn’t be any, visible for only a second behind the curtain.

  Stephanie pointed to the side of the building. “Luca and I will take the front in case it’s Colda and he makes a run for it.”

  He understood. “Okay. We’ve got the back.” He took Brooke’s hand and they jogged around to the rear. They found the door locked with a padlock. He narrowly avoided the urge to kick the door.

  Brooke tugged at his arm as he looked for another way in. “The window,” she whispered, pointing.

  The window in the next office over was slightly ajar. He pushed at it, easing it as far as he could before giving Brooke a boost and hauling himself over the sill. They dropped down onto plush carpet, the room completely dark and silent.

  Moving quietly, he raced to the door, Brooke right behind him. Easing it open they were now in the hallway just outside Lock’s office. Luca and Stephanie had not arrived yet. From inside Lock’s office they heard a soft clang.

  Victor crouched low and turned the knob. The door opened and they could see into the outer reception area. Quiet and empty.

  The intruder was in the rear,
in Lock’s personal chambers.

  He knew it would do no good to tell Brooke to wait until he checked it out, so he endeavored to keep her behind him as he crept to the second door. It was ajar but he could not make out any movement inside. He straightened slowly and ran his fingers up the wall near the door frame, searching for the light switch.

  A soft scraping sound made him freeze. Someone was in the office, not four feet away.

  The soft shush of feet across the carpet.

  His nerves fired.

  The squeak of an office chair.

  Victor realized he could wait no longer. He found the switch and flipped it on.

  The room sprang into view and he blinked against the sudden brilliance.

  The intruder did, too. Denise shaded her face with her hand from her seat in Lock’s office chair.

  Brooke gasped. “What…?”

  Denise’s surprise gave way to consternation. She put a finger to her lips. They heard the scratching noise coming from somewhere in the walls. Before he could stop her, Denise ran to the wall and turned off the light again.

  “Aunt Denise,” Brooke whispered. “What is going on here?”

  There was just enough moonlight shining through the open drapes in the outer office for him to see her response. She merely shook her head, bits of debris from their tunnel adventure still caught in her hair. Victor was about to turn the lights on again and force Denise to come clean when the panel covering the air duct on the ceiling suddenly came loose. A set of feet shimmied down through the space, followed by legs in dirty trousers.

  When the feet hit the floor, Brooke turned on the light again and Leo Colda covered his eyes and collapsed to the carpet, hands clapped over his eyes.

  “How did you know he’d come back here?” Brooke said, her own eyes wide with surprise.

  Denise folded her arms. “I was upset, after hearing Lock’s confession. I walked the halls of this building for a while and I heard him, up there, in the ductwork.” She glared at Colda. “I knew he would have to wait until night before he would make his move. I went into the next office to wait for Colda.” She moved closer. “You shouldn’t have taken Donald’s painting. He trusted you, Leo. Now where is it?”