Her Last Chance

by Michele Albert

  Unlike Arnetta, Vincent had the advantage of being able to switch between camera feeds to follow the customers through the five small gallery annexes.

  He tapped the pen impatiently against his lip as he noted departure times—the couple left with a ratty-looking old doll that cost as much as his monthly house payment—and his thoughts soon drifted to Claudia again.

  What was she thinking about him right now? Nothing flattering, to be sure, and if those old wives’ tales were true, his ears should be flaming—and then some.

  But he’d proved that his threats weren’t empty, so maybe she’d finally stay the hell away from him and his cases. He wouldn’t miss trading barbs and insults with her, or the cloying smell of her perfume, the sultry swing of her hips, those legs, that knowing smile . . .

  Not good, lying to himself like this. He prided himself on being smarter than that.

  “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing at the tight ache between his brows.

  Since the gallery cleaning crew arrived several hours after closing time, Vincent fast-forwarded to the point where they walked in from the back door. His current theory involved thieves working as employees for a janitorial service or security firm, or masquerading as such. It would be the easiest explanation for how they’d gained access to the buildings without leaving any evidence of a forced entry.

  This crew consisted of two people: a thin, older white woman, who looked as if she’d spent too many years smoking, and a young, heavyset Latino. The man mopped floors and emptied trash while the woman cleaned the break room and the small bathroom. They completed their tasks as quickly as possible and departed, leaving behind not even a whiff of suspicious activity.

  After that, the gallery’s lights dimmed to a bare glow and Vincent sat back with a grunt. He’d watched the end of the feed often enough to know there weren’t any further signs of activity until Arnetta arrived the next morning to open for business.

  The only useful information so far was a verification that small areas of the gallery, including the display case with the helmet, were not covered by the security cameras. A crucial detail, since there had been inadequate security camera coverage in several of the other thefts.

  “Anything yet, Vince?”

  Vincent paused the feed as his supervisor came up behind him. Edward Cookson was a tall and distinguished man in his early fifties. Shrugging, Vincent said, “More camera blind spots, which explains why there’s no pattern to what’s been taken. I just can’t figure out how they’re getting in and out without leaving any evidence except the decoy fakes.”

  The decoy at Champion and Stone had been bought from an Internet costume store, paid for with a money order, then sent to a post office box registered to a fake address. The PO box address hadn’t been used since.

  “We must be missing something obvious.”

  No shit. “They’re planning all this in advance, checking out the galleries and museums, which means they have to be on a camera, somewhere.”

  “Do you have recordings from every break-in?”

  “Mostly, but some only go back a couple days. Two galleries had no security data at all, and I was called in too late to retrieve older data on four of the cases, but I want to go back as far as I can with what I have. I’ll need a few extra pairs of eyes for that.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Cookson slipped his hands into his pockets, absently jangling keys and change. “You checked alternate entryways, right? Service doors, windows, basements?”

  “We’re dealing with small operations here, and there’s not a lot of money left over for security.” Vincent sat back. “Two galleries could’ve been accessed by windows, but police turned up no evidence of a forced entry. That little museum in New York had a couple of unsecured entrance points, but no evidence of a break-in, so again a dead end.”

  Cookson glanced over the Champion and Stone files, and pointed to a photograph. “Did you check that bathroom window?”

  Vincent nodded. “The glass and lock were intact. The windowsill and frame were painted over years ago and the window hasn’t been opened since, so they didn’t use that.”

  “Hang in there, Vince. You’re making progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet. What’s going on with your other cases?”

  As with most government-funded agencies, the Art Squad was overworked and spread thin. Vincent gave Cookson a quick rundown of his work and schedule, including an upcoming trip to Columbia, South Carolina, to meet with a local prosecutor on an interstate insurance fraud he’d wrapped up a few months back. Nothing unusual; most of his time was spent at his desk, in court, or meeting with state AGs.

  “Good. Sounds like you’ve got matters covered.” Cookson paused. “There’s something else I needed to talk to you about. Let’s go to my office.”

  Sensing that it wasn’t going to be good news, Vincent held back a frown as he followed Cookson into his office, which was a mess everywhere except the desk, its neatness an odd oasis amid the clutter.

  “Shut the door, Vince,” Cookson ordered as he sat, then motioned for him to sit in the chair across from the desk. “I got a call a short while ago from the detention unit.”

  Vincent knew what was coming but kept his expression blank. “Trouble?”

  Cookson leaned back, and well-worn springs squeaked in response. “You were apparently involved last night in an arrest outside your residence.”

  It wasn’t a question, but when Vincent nodded curtly, Cookson let out a small sigh. “And of course we’re both well aware of this woman’s identity. I recall discussing her at some length with you when she first started nosing around. I warned you then against escalating the tension.”

  “It was a legitimate bust. She had no permit to carry concealed and—”

  “I know what happened, as I’ve just come off a long conversation with the lady’s attorney. Ron Levine is not someone I enjoy speaking with.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vincent said after a moment, not sure how he should respond to his boss’s obvious irritation. “Ms. Cruz broke a law and paid the price like any other citizen. Sheridan’s money and his hotshot lawyers don’t mean anything to me.”

  “They’ll mean plenty if Cruz and Levine bring a lawsuit against you for harassment and abuse of law enforcement privileges. She had the appropriate paperwork at her hotel, a fact she claims to have made clear to you and which you chose to ignore, and now she’s out of jail and all charges have been dropped.”

  “You’re shitting me.” Vincent straightened from his slouch. “There’s no way in hell it’s real! She’s not a state resident, and I know Pennsylvania has some of the most lax gun laws in the country, but she—”

  “A certified permit was produced, rendering the charges against her invalid, except for a failure to carry the proper license on her person. The most you’d get on this one is a fine and a slap on the wrist. Let it go, Vince,” Cookson said in that calm, commanding tone that brooked no argument. “Your time and energy are better spent on catching criminals and staying the hell away from the private contractors.”

  For an instant, Vincent wasn’t sure he heard right, then anger flared. “I understand, sir.”

  “Look, you’re still young, still got that fire in the belly. But I have over twenty years on you, and I’ve been where you are now. I know how this story plays out.”

  His tone softening, Cookson added, “Every branch of Ben Sheridan’s travel agency, here and abroad, is legitimate. His taxes are paid, audits have turned up nothing irregular, and he’s very, very careful. Avalon has been in operation for almost a hundred years, and the bank accounts paying those people were established so long ago that they’re buried for good. You’ll never find a trail. You can’t touch this man.”

  “So I just roll over? Let her do whatever she wants?”

  “No, I’m telling you that whatever you do is just an annoyance to Sheridan, so stop going out of your way to harass this woman. In the end she’s more useful to us than not, so work with her
, ignore her, take her out for dinner, or even to bed if that’s what it takes to get her out of your system. I don’t care.”

  Stunned, Vincent opened his mouth to deny any such intent, but Cookson held up his hand to silence him. “I know what she looks like, Vince, so I can’t blame you for letting her get to you. But you’re being paid to recover stolen art and prosecute thieves—nothing more and nothing less.”

  “She was carrying an automatic with a suppressor. A few years ago she shot a man to death, four bullets through the back. And you know what happened in Boston just a few months ago. We don’t need people like her running unchecked on the streets.”

  “She killed an escaped felon who raped old ladies and little girls for fun. Nobody cared he was dead, including the police, and it still cost her a career because they didn’t like her. The Boston situation was resolved to the satisfaction of the local police. I don’t need to remind you there’s a lot worse than Claudia Cruz on the streets of Philadelphia.” As Vincent began to argue, Cookson held up his hand. “Nor do I need to remind you this matter is not open for discussion.”

  As far as reprimands went, it was mild but clear, and Vincent could only nod in acknowledgment. He returned to his desk, sitting quietly until he had his temper back under control.

  Once he’d calmed down and thought it over, he couldn’t deny Cookson was right; this thing with Claudia was affecting his ability to do his job. All it took was a glance at his notes to see one glaring mistake: he’d forgotten to mark the departure time of one of the late afternoon customers.

  “Dammit,” he said with a sigh, irritated at his sloppiness and knowing he’d have to watch the data feeds again. Maybe he’d head to the gym after work, grab a sparring partner for a round or two of boxing, and work off the frustration.

  Vincent fast-forwarded to the point when the customer in the gray suit appeared, then focused only on the activity on the monitor. Twirling his pen, shifting restlessly, he waited for Gray Suit to leave. As the minutes ticked by, Vincent switched between feeds, frowning, until he realized he hadn’t made a mistake.

  The guy in the gray suit had never left the gallery.

  “God, I hate jails. They stink and the food sucks. When I get back to the hotel, I’m taking a long, hot shower and then I’m going to eat at the most expensive restaurant I can find.”

  “The first thing you’ll do is check to make sure DeLuca doesn’t have any surveillance devices in the room. Ben seems to think he shouldn’t be trusted to play by the rules.”

  Claudia glanced at the man sharing the backseat of a taxi with her. In his late forties, tall and dark, Ron Levine was good-looking—if a girl went for soulless lawyers with strong, angular features and coldly assessing eyes.

  And those eyes told her he was utterly serious. Claudia started laughing, then couldn’t stop, even when Levine shot her an impatient, questioning glare. When she finally caught her breath, she gasped, “Oh, please. You obviously don’t know DeLuca. That man’s never met a rule he hasn’t vowed to obey with every breath in his body.”

  “Maybe.” Levine sounded doubtful. “But you might be that one exception.”

  Claudia heeded the warning in the attorney’s tone. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way here to bail my ass outta lockup.” She hesitated. “Was Ben mad?”

  “Not particularly, but make sure you’re more circumspect with your equipment in the future. The actual paperwork you need is forthcoming, but don’t lose the envelope I gave you. I have your pistol in my briefcase. Your suppressor was confiscated. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to get it back.”

  Claudia shrugged. “No matter. I’ll ask Ellie for another one. Are you staying in town for the night or catching a later flight back to Seattle?”

  “I’ll be here overnight to make sure there are no late-developing complications. I’m not anticipating any, as I believe I made my point clear to DeLuca’s supervisor, again, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

  Claudia grinned, then smacked Levine on his arm, ignoring his frown. “So how about I buy you dinner, huh? It’s the least I can do. My hotel’s in Old City, and there’s lots of great restaurants in the area. You look like the kind of guy who’d go for a sirloin steak served hot, red, and still bleeding.”

  “Deal,” Levine said without hesitation. “I never say no to free food, especially when it’s offered by beautiful women.”

  “That makes you sound desperate,” Claudia said teasingly. “Where’s the machismo, man? Aren’t you supposed to tell me you’ll pick up the check?”

  Levine arched a brow, amusement warming his eyes. “I’m Jewish. Just living the skinflint cliché.”

  Claudia relaxed back in her seat. “Wow. I had no idea.”

  “That I’m Jewish?”

  “No, that you had a sense of humor. You almost made a joke.”

  Levine pretended not to notice, but she spied a tiny smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

  Back at her hotel, Claudia showered, then primped while Levine paced inside her room. She grimaced and made a mental note to steer him away from anything caffeinated at dinner. Enough already with men who were wound too tight!

  Going out with Levine was a means to an end—being with a handsome man in Armani would boost her bruised ego—and she intended to take full advantage of the moment, even if it meant having to civilize Levine first with a few glasses of wine. Whereas Mr. FBI Man would need a tranquilizer dart strong enough to take down a bull elephant before he’d make decent company.

  Ugh . . . to hell with DeLuca, no matter how fine he looked even in his plain black suits and strange, skinny ties. The next time they met, she’d have a few choice words for that man. And they would meet again. She’d make certain of it.

  In the bathroom mirror, Claudia surveyed the results of her efforts. The little black sheath emphasized the curves of her breasts and rear as well as the toned muscles of her arms and legs, while the upswept curls softened her face and did great things for her cheekbones. She’d made liberal use of her bag of Lancôme and looked nothing like a woman who’d spent most of the day in jail.

  Puckering up glossy, dark red lips, she air-kissed her reflection.

  Not bad at all, for a dirt-poor girl whose parents had slipped across the border so their baby could be born in the land of plenty, automatically assuring she’d get at least a shot at achieving that Great American Dream. She’d come a long way from the barrio, and once out of it had never looked back.

  Not until disaster struck, bringing the stark reminder that nothing mattered more than family, even when she’d betrayed their hopes, their hard work, and all the sacrifices they’d made so she could wear that uniform and badge, and pose for a picture in front of those stars and stripes.

  Claudia closed her eyes, then took a long, deep breath to clear her head. Oh, yeah, nothing like spending hours in jail with a bunch of foulmouthed hookers to bring a girl back to her not-so-pretty roots—and bring all her regrets home to roost with a vengeance.

  Levine stopped pacing when she walked out, grinned wolfishly, and said, “Sometimes I really love my job.”

  “Now that’s what a girl likes to hear. None of the men I’ve met so far in this city know how to treat a lady right.”

  “Their loss.”

  The interest in those usually chilly eyes lightened her mood a thousandfold, and she flashed her most dazzling smile. “So . . . how about we go find us an obscenely expensive restaurant?”

  “Do you want to check on a few things first, as we talked about earlier?”

  Ah, the likely nonexistent bugs. The idea that Vincent might bend his rigid principles to such extremes was highly doubtful, but she’d make sure—after dinner.

  “Later.” At his look, she lightly touched his arm and added, “I promise and pinkie-swear.”

  Levine would assume she was too hungry to do a quick search, but the truth was that if a few Feds really were eavesdropping, sweating in a dark, cramped panel van, she had no qua
lms about making them wait as long as possible.

  Tit for tat, boys.

  As Levine escorted her out of the hotel, men turned to watch, admiration clear in their eyes. Satisfied, her confidence zooming back to full power, she took Levine’s arm and hugged it close to her breasts. She doubted his ego would mind a few extra liberties on her part, and his barely perceptible smile told her she’d guessed correctly.

  Hmmm, maybe he wouldn’t mind a few other liberties after dinner? Lately, her nights had been awfully long and lonely.

  Imagining Levine in her bed didn’t trigger the same hot pull of lust as when she imagined Vincent DeLuca naked on her sheets, but Levine hadn’t arrested her, either. Reward points in his favor for that!

  If Vincent was watching, she wanted him to get a good look at her, wanted him to feel a sharp regret that it wasn’t him walking beside her on this very fine August night, and he would—

  What the hell? Enough of that; she’d dressed up tonight to feel good for her own sake, no one else’s.

  “That’s not a very nice smile.” Levine’s cool, amused voice broke through her thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

  Claudia smiled back at him; in her heels, she almost met his eyes on the level. “The truth? That I’d be some pretty hot shit if I could charm even a bloodsucking lawyer like you.”

  Surprise crossed his face—a look she bet he didn’t wear very often—and then he cleared his throat. “This should be an interesting dinner.”

  ***

  Vincent stood, throwing down his pen as he fought back a whoop of triumph. No need to jump the gun, there might be another reason for Gray Suit not having an obvious departure, and he had to make sure he could account for every conceivable option. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d head back to Champion and Stone for another look around and ask Arnetta if she remembered—