The look in his wife’s eyes was still keeping Ben awake at night.
The third photo was the main point of interest, however. It showed a note affixed to the dead man’s back by a large hunting knife. The note read: Tag! You’re it.
The note, and its method of delivery, were all too familiar.
“It wasn’t von Lahr who killed him,” Ben said. “We know without a doubt that he was in London when this happened. I bet our knowing that throws a kink in von Lahr’s plans, because he clearly intended us to think he’d killed Wilcox and that he’s still somewhere in South America.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t like the implications of this one bit.”
“Nor do I,” Ben muttered.
“We’re going to have to handle the situation carefully, and to do that I’ll need your absolute cooperation.” The woman fixed him with an unblinking, pale-eyed gaze. “So we need to make one important matter very clear here: Who gives you your orders, Mr. Sheridan?”
Ben, if anything happens to me or my father . . . can I ask you to promise me something?
He returned her stare. “I’m not ever allowed to forget that, am I?”
“Answer the question,” she said coldly. “Whose orders do you solely obey?”
As he always did, Ben replied, “Only yours, Izzy.”
Promise to take care of Izzy. Watch over her and keep her safe.
Ben had kept his promise to Gareth for twenty long years. Too bad the sweet little girl he’d nearly died for, way back when, had grown up to be such an icy, controlling bitch.
“So tell me what you want me to do,” he said flatly. “And I’ll do it.”
Author’s Note
The FBI recently added an Art Theft Program to the bureau, since art theft, looting, and forgery have become a complex and worldwide problem. Over the years, a few police departments in the United States and in other countries have created specialized units for art theft, most of them flourishing or fading depending on funding and available personnel. Italy’s Carabinieri, a paramilitary police force, has a long involvement in investigating and prosecuting art-related crimes. Avalon, however, is a total figment of my imagination, and any dramatic license taken with factual organizations was done for the sake of adding a bit of “ye olde derring-do” to the plot.
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