Her Last Chance
Page 4
Claudia grinned, her gaze dropping down his T-shirt to his khaki cargo shorts. “If I got a leg up on you, DeLuca, you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, but you’d like to know what it’s like, wouldn’t you?”
The darkness—and the duskier skin of his Italian heritage—hid the color flooding his face. “Would it fuckin’ kill you to just answer me straight for once? Did you turn up anything or not?”
She arched an eyebrow at his dodge, her expression far too smug. “We could go inside your house and discuss it.”
Vincent laughed, which surprised her almost as much as it surprised him, judging by how her eyes briefly widened. “I don’t think so.”
“Aw, and it’s such a nice house, too. A testament to the great American dream.”
He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or being sincere, but he thanked her curtly, thinking that his mother and grandmother would’ve approved of his politeness under fire.
“I guess you don’t trust me, huh?”
“No, I don’t,” Vincent said drily. “And I especially don’t trust you not to leave behind an unwelcome accessory the second my back is turned.”
“That would be rude of me, but I’m sure you’d handle the matter. You’re a smart guy, even if you got no sense of humor.” Her gaze lowered again. “Though you do casual a lot better than I expected.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
Claudia shrugged. “Did you find anything on those security tapes?”
“Nothing useful.” It was the truth, yet vague enough to let her think he might be holding back.
“And if I did find something and you found something but we can’t find common ground to share it, then nothing gets accomplished.” She moved closer, her heat brushing along the surface of his skin, and the perspiration-smudged mascara made her eyes look larger, darker . . . and tired. “C’mon, work with me here, Vincent. We could solve this together.”
The weariness, real or imagined, made him hesitate, then he shook his head. “You’re asking me to step too far into the gray. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asked quietly. “I did, and it’s not so hard to dabble on the dark side. The pay’s pretty good, too.”
“Claudia, I read the case file on the incident in Boston back in April. I read the coroner’s report on Kostandin Vulaj’s cause of death.”
“What’s this got to do with—”
“I know you were there,” he snapped, cutting her off. “There’s no question that Will Tiernay put a few bullets in Vulaj, but the coroner has evidence that Vulaj was also hit twice by a high-powered rifle.”
When she said nothing, he repeated, “I know you were there. Jesus Christ, Claudia, how often do you go around killing people?”
“I didn’t kill Kostandin Vulaj. Tiernay didn’t kill Vulaj,” she said, flatly. “Vulaj was killed by a bomb he set himself, and in the process also managed to kill his equally stupid girlfriend.”
“But you don’t deny that you shot him.”
To her credit, she met his gaze straight on. “Vulaj was a little nuts by that point. He had an assault weapon and was firing at my colleague and at an innocent woman who, through no fault of her own, got caught up in an ugly mess. That mess was our responsibility to clean up. I’m sure you also know Vulaj had kidnapped and threatened to kill this woman.”
“You shot him.”
She let out her breath in a huff. “Yes, I shot him—and I aimed to disable, not to kill, which the coroner’s evidence should prove. I didn’t want him dead, and neither did Tiernay: Vulaj would’ve been more helpful to us alive. But there was the small matter of a shitload of explosives in an old factory, and the fact that Vulaj wasn’t going to be taken alive. For the record, I don’t get off on putting bullets through living flesh and bone, but sometimes I don’t have a choice. You got a problem with that?”
“Yeah, I do have a problem with that kind of armed force being used outside federal and state laws with impunity. You don’t get to shoot people, even bad people, and then walk away. I don’t get to do that. Cops don’t get to do that. Nobody does.”
Vincent took in a long breath, then let it out slowly. “When it comes to enforcing laws, there’s no gray area for me. You either uphold them or you don’t—and if you don’t, then you pay the price. If there are any gray areas, it’s for the courts to decide. That’s their job, not mine.”
“You really do have that self-righteous stick shoved up your ass,” she said softly, but again, without the bite he’d come to expect.
“Make fun of me all you want. Tell me I’m nothing but a government yes-man or a naïve asshole. It changes nothing. You might think you’re doing the right thing, but I know I’m doing what’s right. I’ve got the law on my side. What do you have besides Ben Sheridan’s dirty money?”
He met her gaze, refusing to feel embarrassed by his beliefs, no matter how out of step they seemed nowadays. Trusting and believing in his sense of right and wrong, of justice and fairness, was the only way he could get by in this crazy, fucked-up world. But she wouldn’t understand that.
Claudia stared at him a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then shrugged. “Well, can’t say I didn’t try to save us both a lot of frustration. In more ways than one.”
She gave him a teasing smile and a wink as she brushed past him, adroitly plucking the car keys from his hand, then swung open the door.
The streetlight gleamed on the gun revealed as her sleeveless vest caught on the holster at the small of her back.
“Nice gun,” Vincent said. And it was: a no-nonsense 9 mm Beretta in basic black, to match whatever the lady might be wearing.
She glanced back at him impatiently. “I’m licensed.”
And no doubt she was—to own the gun. “You licensed to carry concealed firearms within the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?”
Her impatience sharpened to irritation. “I’m covered.”
Not a yes. “Show me your license.”
“I only have the owner’s permit with me, not the license to carry concealed. I left it at the hotel.”
Got you, sweet thing. Vincent grinned, though he suspected it looked more like a sneer. “It’s a third-degree felony in Pennsylvania to carry concealed without a valid license. You’re under arrest.”
Claudia stared at him, then blinked and snarled, “What?”
Chapter Four
Tuesday morning, Seattle
“What?” Ben Sheridan stopped dead in front of the large reception desk outside his office, certain he must’ve misunderstood Shaunda.
“Claudia’s in lockup in Philadelphia, Mr. Sheridan. The detention unit, down on—”
“I know where it’s located,” Ben snapped. “What the hell is she in there for?”
“Carrying concealed.”
“Oh, for Chrissake.”
He briefly squeezed his eyes shut—so much for his morning getting off to a good start—then took a deep breath as he opened them. He’d never seen his receptionist-bodyguard look this flustered. Dressed as severely as ever, in black pants and a chocolate brown sleeveless shirt that was a shade darker than her skin, every line of her body was rigid with tension.
After he’d barked at her, she probably thought he was angry with her. He flashed her a reassuring smile, then turned to his other bodyguard, who was also his executive secretary. Ellie was small and wiry, and much tougher than anyone would expect if judging her only by her long blond hair, blue eyes, and penchant for pink.
“Find Ron Levine,” Ben ordered. “If he’s not in the middle of something demonstrably critical, get his overpriced ass on the first available flight to Philadelphia. I want Cruz back to work today.”
“Will do,” Ellie said, moving past him to her usual spot behind the desk. “I don’t think he’s in court for anything this week. If he is stuck in court, should I send in Janet instead?”
Ben nodded. “Tr
ansfer whatever funds are necessary to post her bail, then get her licensed to carry concealed. Christ, I can’t believe she was so damn careless.” Ben leaned against the desk, scowling, and folded his arms across his chest. “Did you get any details on what happened?”
“Not really, sir,” Shaunda answered. “She just said to tell you the asshole FBI guy did it.”
He rubbed his jaw, hiding a smile as he eyed his still-flustered receptionist. “You’ve been working with me for six months now. You can call me Ben. And what’s the asshole’s name?”
Shaunda pushed little round glasses up the bridge of her nose and scanned her notepad. Between the glasses and the hair pulled back into one of those complicated twist things, she looked like a librarian, albeit a tall, elegantly lethal librarian.
After a moment, she said, “Vincent DeLuca.”
“Gather everything you can find on him.” Ben pushed away from the desk. “And I mean everything. I’m in the mood to make this bastard squirm.”
Shaunda grinned, her dark eyes gleaming. “It will be my pleasure, Mr. Sheridan.”
He didn’t ask her again to call him Ben, since “mister” was at least an improvement over “sir.” Apparently “casual” wasn’t in Shaunda’s comfort zone in the workplace, although it was certainly well within Ellie’s: she’d always treated him as if he were one of her many brothers.
“That’s the team spirit. Nobody messes with my people and gets away with it.”
Ben headed into his office. On good days he considered it his home away from home, complete with a foldout sofa bed, kitchenette, and shower down the hall. On his bad days it felt more like a fancy prison.
The headquarters of Sheridan Expeditions occupied a three-story building overlooking Puget Sound, its log cabin style well-suited to an international adventure tour agency. The rustic theme carried through to its interior, from the main floor of the travel agency, to the corporate offices on the second floor, and up to the third-floor private executive suite that was locked down as tight as any vault.
People assumed the stiff security was partly because he was Ross Sheridan’s heir, and partly because he was worth plenty in his own right. Ben did nothing to dispel that assumption. But even if he’d been stupid enough to try, no one would believe a man with his background and resources was in charge of a secretive organization of mercenaries who hunted down art thieves, looters, and forgers around the world.
He still had days when he wondered how his life had ended up like this—and where he’d be now if he hadn’t begged to go along on an ill-fated fishing trip to Malta twenty years ago.
Ben moved toward the wall of tall windows, hands in his pockets. When the weather cooperated he had a great view of Elliott Bay, but this morning a dense fog blended almost seamlessly with the gray water. This was nothing like the view from his hotel window all those years ago, surrounded by an oppressive Mediterranean heat, nearly blinded by the harsh glare of sunlight off the sea’s surface and a blue, cloudless horizon stretching out forever and ever.
“Ben, if anything happens to me or my father . . . can I ask you to promise me something?”
Odd, how some memories held strong while others faded. He could still hear Gareth’s voice, as well as his own, brushing off the question with an irritated yes. A few hours later, his life changed forever because of that promise. Three months shy of his eighteenth birthday—Gareth had just turned twenty—and every-thing went all to hell.
He still didn’t know who’d killed Gareth and his father, or why. Initial attempts to find answers resulted in blundering into something he wasn’t meant to know about, even if it did shed light on what kind of people would’ve wanted Arthur Whitlea and his son dead. Later Ben had turned up a tantalizing, if tenuous connection between the Whitleas’ disappearance and the unsolved murder of an Italian girl in 1943, but it went nowhere except to alert him that Nazis, murdered Jews, and stolen art were all likely involved.
Stolen art was the key; it always had been, or else he wouldn’t be doing what he was doing now. To his surprise, he’d become moderately successful at putting art thieves and forgers out of business, although that cause had been the Whitleas’, not his. He’d taken up the gauntlet in honor of their memory, and because it gave him the cover and the connections to track down their killers.
Pushing aside his thoughts, Ben headed for his desk just as Ellie called out from the reception area, “Don’t forget you have payroll checks to sign! They’re in the red folder.”
Payroll was always a red folder. After years of signing checks for his company, he hardly needed to be reminded, but he knew better than to take his soured mood out on Ellie.
He sat, then shuffled the various piles of paper on his desk into priorities. Besides payroll, he had to proof a report for his stockholders, write a speech for Wednesday night’s fund-raising dinner at a local businessmen’s club, call his mother, buy a birthday card for his youngest nephew, and last, but not least, teach an overzealous FBI agent not to interfere where he wasn’t wanted.
Just another day in the life of the CEO of Sheridan Expeditions, and Big Dog—if not Top Dog—of Avalon.
Ellie poked her head inside his office. “Ron’s on his way to the airport. He’ll be in Philadelphia this afternoon and should have Claudia out on bail right away.”
“Good. Get a message to him to have Claudia call me as soon as she can, no matter how late.” Ben booted up his computer. “Anything else I need to know about? It would really improve my mood if someone finally tracked down my favorite German archnemesis.”
“Still nothing on von Lahr. It appears he’s vanished into thin air. Again.”
“Funny how archnemeses have a habit of doing that,” Ben said wryly. “Especially this one.”
After fifteen years of eluding Avalon and numerous international law enforcement agents, Rainert von Lahr—thief and purveyor of the stolen, the looted, and the forged—had made a fine art out of disappearing into thin air, leaving behind nothing but the occasional betrayed lover or corpse.
One of these days, though, von Lahr would make a mistake—take up with the wrong woman, piss off the wrong mobster—and Avalon would be there, waiting.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Ellie exclaimed.
Ben gave a small sigh. “Forgot what?”
“I heard from Will. He’s wrapping up the theft in Edinburgh, and all the stolen coins are in the custody of the local constables. When he’s done there, he’ll be heading to London.”
With some exasperation, Ben noted Ellie’s smile. Tiernay had that effect on women, even the staunchly committed ones.
“Why the change of plans? His last message said he was going back to Italy.”
“Didn’t ask.” Ellie shrugged. “You told me Will was working on his own these days.”
On a very private project; information Ben had shared only with Tiernay, who he hoped would put his ex-detective skills to good use in connecting two dead Englishmen to a dead Italian girl. Tiernay was smart, patient, and thorough, and could be trusted to keep a low profile.
At least most of the time, Ben amended, recalling the near-disaster outside Boston four months ago. Recalling another annoying shortcoming on Tiernay’s part, he said, “Be sure to watch his expense reports for any unauthorized extras.”
“Of course—but you know it’s a game with him. If he didn’t try to slip something by me, I’d be disappointed.”
“You’re just enabling his bad behavior,” Ben said as she headed out the door. “But I give up trying to tell you that.”
A minute later, scrolling through his new emails, Ben’s lingering smile faded as he recognized a familiar nickname. He clicked on the message, then swore softly.
I’ve met with the other representatives, who continue to express their reservations over your handling of Avalon’s resources. I’ve prepared a dossier of their concerns as well as proposals to restructure the current system of crisis management. I’ll send the report by courier. Stand by.
PS: I told you this would happen. I win. You owe me a beer.
Chapter Five
Tuesday afternoon, Philadelphia
Sprawled back in his desk chair, tie tugged loose and sleeves pushed up, Vincent rewatched the security data from Champion and Stone. Notes, photos, and interviews lay scattered across the desk, with only one small spot cleared for the can of Coke dripping condensation into a ring around its bottom. He yawned as he picked it up, his jaw cracking.
The Claudia situation had resolved very late, and he’d expected to fall asleep the second he hit the sheets. Instead he’d tossed and turned all night, and after he finally did fall asleep, it seemed his alarm had gone off only seconds later. His head felt as if it had been scoured out by a wire brush, and the dull headache did nothing for his concentration.
The camera in his head kept replaying the fury and shock on Claudia’s face in an unending loop that added to his guilt. Not that he had anything to feel guilty about. Or any reason to feel like an ass.
With a low curse, he refocused on his monitor, although he’d already spent hours watching Arnetta answer phones, work on the computer, make tea, dust cases and shelves, and straighten perfectly straight frames.
Such was the exciting life of an FBI special agent. On days like this, he regretted not joining the ATF. Or even teaching high school. Either one would’ve guaranteed an occasional moment of sheer terror to keep his adrenaline pumping.
Unlike watching security tapes. Again. And again.
This morning’s fun involved taking notes from the moment the first customer arrived at Champion and Stone. It had been a quiet day until late afternoon. The first of those customers arrived at 4:23 pm, and Vincent jotted down a description: male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties, gray suit, short blond hair, with a messenger bag. Arnetta chatted up the guy until a young businesswoman in a tan suit walked in at 4:36 pm, and Vince added her time of entrance and details. An elderly couple came in right on the heels of the businesswoman, at 4:40 pm, and Arnetta hustled to keep track of everyone in the right-before-closing-hour rush.