Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  She picked up her mobile. She had to call the police. Her gaze flicked to the door. If the killers came, she’d have no escape. They could be here any minute. “Hurry.” She tucked the mobile away.

  But she couldn’t leave him like that.

  “Oh, God, René. I can’t face this. Why—” she choked out. She tossed a clean sheet over him and hit the door.

  ***

  “The bastard’s dead.” Ricci fingered his mustache as he stared at the body on the sofa. “Keep your gloves on. The polizia will undoubtedly show up soon.”

  He let the sheet drop over the waxen face, then whacked his shorter partner on the head.

  “What’d you do that for?” Panaro stumbled back a step, holding up both hands as if to shield his bald pate from further attack.

  “You need target practice. How’s he going to tell us where the necklaces are?”

  “They’re sure as hell not in his studio.” They’d tracked Moreau from the Piazzale Roma to his atelier on an obscure calle in Santa Croce. Panaro’s shot was supposed to stop him, not kill him. The bastard had gone down, but while they were searching for the real necklace and the copy Moreau had made, he’d somehow escaped.

  Panaro waved a hand toward the body. “At least he didn’t stink up the place. And somebody covered him. The girl?”

  Ricci peered around the flat. Couple of tiny rooms, closet-sized kitchen. Shabby but neat and clean. Laptop on a worn desk. Table set for two. “Split. Search the bedroom.”

  He checked out the kitchen. Lifted the saucepan lid and dipped in a finger, tasted. “Not bad.” And still warm.

  She left in a hurry. Moreau had time to warn her. Maybe she was going for the necklaces. She had to know where her lover stashed them.

  Returning to the other room, he sat on the straight chair at the laptop. “Password protected?” His computer skills were good but didn’t rise to the level of hacker. Awkward with gloves but he would manage.

  “Bloody shirt on the floor. Easel and paint stuff in one corner,” Panaro called. “Big suitcase still in the closet but racks pushed to the side, drawers left open. Didn’t find makeup or a toothbrush. She could’ve packed a small bag.”

  “You find a mobile phone?”

  “No.” Panaro came around to look over Ricci’s shoulder. The chunky man’s breath reeked of garlic and fried sardines. “Anything?”

  Ricci stifled a snarky reply. Panaro owned the pistol with the suppressor. And, loosely speaking, he was the local talent. He knew the city’s crazy maze of canals and islands and streets. Porca vacca, he needed the idiot. “Just booting up.”

  There were two user icons, one for each of the lovers. He clicked on Cleo and her desktop appeared. No security whatsoever. People were so naïve, so trusting. So stupid.

  He opened the browser to her home page. Facebook. Of course. With a picture of her wearing the necklace. Bella, this Cleo Chandler, with her dark red hair pulled up to display the gold choker that spilled a jeweled net from her throat across her elegant pale shoulders.

  Did she have anything on but the necklace? If Ricci had been in charge of the camera, she’d have been naked and there would be more pictures. “Moreau must have gotten a kick out of his girlfriend having the same name.”

  “Is that the original necklace or the copy?”

  “As soon as I get my jeweler’s certificate, I’ll tell you.” Ricci hated that Panaro habitually stood too close. If he was nearsighted, that explained a lot. But not all. Today the Venetian seemed to have eaten a big bowl of stupid.

  Panaro made no reply to the sarcasm, but moved aside, thank the Madonna. Ricci clicked through to the woman’s personal information. The airhead had listed everything, including what they needed—mobile number and place of work.

  “Let’s see where she ran off to.” Ricci navigated to an illegal website for tracking mobile phones. He keyed in her number. A detailed street map appeared. A flashing icon pinpointed the mobile’s location, stopped in one place. In case she’d called the polizia, they had to get out fast. “You know this street?”

  “Between here and the Rialto Bridge in San Polo.”

  Ricci sighed. More walking through these impossible alleys. He’d be lucky not to fall in one of the filthy canals. “I don’t know why, but she could be headed to the jewelry shop where she works. You’d better be able to find the address.”

  “Si, si, on a side street near the bridge. My cousin owns a bakery nearby.”

  The icon was moving again.

  Ricci flipped over the laptop and pried open the bottom panel. The hard drive popped out easily. Now the polizia could not follow his search, and he might find useful information in the memory. He slipped the metal device into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 2

  CLEO WHEELED HER carry-on bag down the bridge’s wide steps. The still waters of the Rio di San Cassiano gleamed beneath the streetlight. Light from windows spilled misshapen shadows onto the paving stones. For company, she had the occasional dog walker and the ever-present briny smell that permeated the city’s ancient stones and mortar. The aromas of sautéing fish and spicy sauces drifted by.

  She hustled along beneath the streetlights, turning one familiar corner after another, the route she followed every day to and from work. Automatic and it had to be because she could barely see through the tears that kept welling up. She kept picturing René’s body, his staring eyes, the blood. He’d been so charming, such fun, so… alive.

  She stuffed her mobile back into her jeans pocket. Once she’d made it at least two canals away from the flat, she called the polizia, but didn’t dare give her name. Eventually they’d trace the call, but she’d be far away by then. Where she had no idea. She’d face that issue once she’d reached the mainland.

  The second call had gone unanswered. Drat her brother. But maybe leaving a message on his voicemail saved time. And anguish. He’d have asked more questions than she could answer, more than she could bear to answer. Calling Mom would be disastrous; no way did she want her dad to know. She sniffed back tears. Where would she go? The image of René dead on the sofa played in her brain in an endless loop and she couldn’t focus.

  Now thirty minutes later, she was almost to the Rialto shop. Her key would let her in and she’d leave a note for her boss. Yes, think about the future, not the grief and panic clawing at her throat. Fewer vaporetti ran this late, but she could take the number one to the taxi square, then catch transportation to the mainland.

  “Oh, Cleo, there you are! I was afraid I was lost.”

  Her heart took off like a Grand Prix racer, and she gasped and swung around. Mimi. Thank heavens. Only Mimi. Oh, no, she’d forgotten their date. Seeing her cousin hurrying toward her on the narrow side street, Cleo took a deep breath.

  When Mimi had first contacted her, she thought their being related was a scam. Until she learned about the other woman’s family and saw photos of Mimi on Facebook. Not just cousins, they were within two years of the same age and were mirror images of each other—down to the hair length and eye color.

  We could be twins. Maybe not identical twins, but fraternal for sure.

  Now that Cleo had changed from her work attire, they were dressed similarly, except Mimi’s jeans were designer and pressed with a knife-sharp crease and she’d bound her auburn hair into a sleek tail. A black quilted backpack hung off one shoulder.

  Mimi rushed toward her and enveloped her in a warm lilac-scented embrace. Her cousin’s touch was just what she needed, a living human being to reassure her she was still alive, only numb from shock.

  Mimi stepped back and cocked her head. “You’ve been crying. Here, damage repair.” She fished a hand mirror from her pack and offered a tissue.

  Cleo dabbed at the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Eyes that looked shell-shocked. She forced herself to focus on removing the mascara smears.

  Mimi said, “René didn’t come with you. What’s wrong?”

  René had warned Cleo that“they” were
everywhere and they would be after her. Telling Mimi might involve her, put her in danger. She could say nothing.

  She waved an airy dismissal. “No biggie. Tears of happiness at seeing René. He was too exhausted from his trip to join us. You have to make do with me.” She stretched her mouth into the semblance of a cheerful smile.

  “That’s so like a man, eh?” Mimi chuckled. She slipped her arm through Cleo’s. “Make you wait and then bug out on you. Where shall we go?”

  The “they” who’d shot René wouldn’t look for her at the Mattio Bar. Too out of the way. Maybe a Campari and soda was what she needed to calm her stomach. If she could manage to choke it down. She couldn’t take long or the killers might think of watching the vaporetti. “I know just the place.”

  “A suitcase, Cleo?” Mimi grinned, indicating the orange-flowered carry-on. “It’s a little small if you’re joining me on the cruise.”

  “Oh, that. Just some new beads to deliver to a craftsman tomorrow.” Amazing how the lie tripped off her tongue. “But I need funds from the ATM before we hit the bar. Would you stay here a minute and watch my case?”

  “Sure, but don’t be long. I have to make it to the Piazzale Roma to catch a taxi tonight or I turn into a pumpkin.”

  “No word for pumpkin in Italian,” Cleo replied as she whisked around the corner. “Maybe a zucchini.”

  Her cousin’s light laugh echoed in the empty street as she fished out her debit card. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She could do this. They would have a drink before saying farewell. She only hoped this night wasn’t the last time she ever saw Mimi. They’d hoped to get the families together and figure out why the split so many years ago.

  She inserted her card and withdrew it, slipping it into her wallet before punching buttons. She slid out the euros as a commotion broke out nearby. A scuffle. Then low-pitched, angry words.

  Male voices grunted threats in Italian.

  “No! No! Leave me alone. Go away.”

  Mimi? She stuffed the euros in her pocket, then raced back. Nearing the corner, she heard an odd phumph followed by more Italian curses and the slap of leather-soled shoes on the street.

  Cleo turned the corner as two men ran down the calle with her bag. The echoes of their steps disappeared in the maze of intersecting streets.

  On the paving stones in front of Bijoux Murano Rialto, Mimi sprawled on her side, facing away from Cleo. Her legs and arms splayed like a discarded doll’s, unmoving. The street light glistened on the crimson spreading down her face and beneath her head.

  Cleo’s heart stopped. She jerked forward, her limbs stiff as if frozen. She willed her feet to carry her forward. “Oh God oh God.”

  She fell to her knees beside her fallen cousin. “No,” she breathed, a low moan welling up from the depths. “It can’t be, Mimi. Not you.” Her throat stung as if she’d swallowed acid. Please, God, let her be all right. I’ll do anything.

  She punched the phone buttons. Once. Twice. Damn her clumsy fingers. How could this be happening? First René and now… Finally the emergency dispatcher answered and Cleo stammered a report. “P-per pi-piacere, hurry! She could die.”

  After she disconnected, she reached out. Stopped. Reached out again, her hand trembling. She drew a deep breath and pressed a finger to the still-warm neck. Laid a hand on Mimi’s back.

  Nothing. No breath. No pulse.

  She knelt there, white noise roaring in her ears, as the poisonous miasma of reality sank in. The now familiar metallic smell of blood assaulted her senses. Her hand went to her throat.

  Mimi was dead.

  Cleo could barely think for the sludge clogging her brain. Mimi must’ve been shot by the thugs who shot René. They thought she was Cleo. They thought the bag contained the necklace. She brushed her cousin’s ponytail from her shoulder. Beautiful, innocent, sweet Mimi. Lightheaded, Cleo fought for air. Fought back the useless sobs crowding her throat.

  Think, Cleo, think.

  The killers wouldn’t find what they wanted in her bag. They might return. If they knew she was alive, her life would still be in danger. She had no idea where René had hidden the necklace. His last words had made no sense.

  But she knew what did make sense.

  Mimi’s death was her fault. Calling the emergency number did nothing to change that. But she couldn’t stay, couldn’t be seen here, couldn’t answer questions by police or emergency techs or anyone.

  “God forgive me. Mimi, I couldn’t save you but maybe you can save me.”

  She pushed to her feet. She dropped her handbag onto the street beside her cousin and grabbed Mimi’s backpack. She stared at her mobile. Was that how the killers had found her? The GPS chip? If so, they could track her again. She opened her hand and the black object clattered to the stones. She glanced around. No one.

  Familiar two-tone sirens penetrated her panic. Rescue. Too late for Mimi.

  Approaching footsteps echoed from the direction the killers had gone.

  “Oh, Mimi, I’m so sorry.” Slinging Mimi’s pack onto her back, she turned and ran toward the Rialto Bridge.

  ***

  Marco Zervas paced the spacious office of his London townhouse. He looked at the set of world clocks on the wall opposite his desk. Six A.M. in Tehran. Yousef would expect his call in no more than five hours. Where the hell was Ricci?

  “Two in the morning. What about ‘Keep me posted’ did Ricci not understand?”

  “Big mistake, Z, crossing you.” Nedik adjusted his bulky frame to a more comfortable position on the sofa. He scraped a wide finger down the scar bisecting his right cheekbone. Carbon-black eyes beneath thick black brows gleamed with anticipation. “I can take care of the fucker anytime.”

  Zervas waved away the offer. “Perhaps later. Moreau should’ve been easy to track. Talented at jewelry design but pitifully ignorant in the ways of business.” Or so he’d thought. Until the Frenchie emailed him two weeks ago demanding a renegotiation of their deal. Renegotiation? A fucking insult. Zervas shot back his own ultimatum. Then Moreau had disappeared.

  He could afford no time for screw-ups. Three other deals needed his attention. This one promised the highest return but he couldn’t neglect other contracts. Staying on top meant completing deals, expanding his network, searching out new acquisitions. And recovering all his father had lost.

  He smoothed a hand down the tail of hair at his nape. He wanted to pour himself a calming glass of single-malt except he needed to remain sharp. The plan had been for Moreau to turn over the necklaces, then to eliminate the man quickly, but plans change.

  The ancient Centaurs were man-horse hybrids. Warriors, unforgiving and powerful, the reason he’d chosen their name. For double-crossing Centaur, Moreau would die slowly and painfully.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and he pressed the button. “What is it?”

  “Bloke name of Ricci’s on the line. Says it’s important.”

  Zervas hoped like hell it was more than important. Ricci better have found the damn necklaces, both of them. With the chip intact. “Put him on, Hawkins. Then you can go.” He gestured toward the door. “Call it a night too, Nedik.”

  The bodyguard sketched a salute and silently let himself out of the study.

  Nedik and the tech whiz Hawkins were the only men Zervas could rely on. If not trust, their instant obedience and total loyalty were ensured by generous compensation. They knew what would happen to them if they ever failed him.

  When he was certain he had privacy, he punched the speaker button. “You’d fucking better have good news for me.”

  “Signore, I regret I do not,” Ricci said in heavily accented English. “The Veneziano and me, we follow Moreau to his studio, but—”

  “Cut to the chase, Ricci.” When there was a pause, he realized the Italian didn’t understand the American idiom. He sighed. “The most important facts. Now.”

  “Si, si.” Zervas heard a deep breath, as if the other man sucked in courage. “Moreau is dead. His
lover is probably also dead. We cannot find the necklaces. Either of them.”

  Son of a bitch. These fools could not find their asses with a GPS. Guns were a clumsy way to make people talk. Dead, Moreau and the girl could reveal nothing. Bumbling idiots. “Details.”

  Zervas ground his teeth so hard his jaw popped while he listened to Ricci’s stuttered account of his fucked-up mission. “The girl was running. We got her bag. Then she got shot. An accident. Her fault. We went back to the flat and searched again. Nothing there or in her bag,” Ricci concluded.

  “You shot the girl?” An accident? The man was lying. “How so?”

  Away from the phone, another voice spoke rapidly in Italian to Ricci. “Not me. Mi dispiace. Sorry. My local guy held the gun on the Chandler girl. She cried out, waved her arms. Tried to push away the gun and it went off. The bullet hit her in the head.”

  Head wound, Zervas mused. Lots of blood. Deceptive. “Where exactly did the bullet strike her? You’re sure she’s dead?”

  From Ricci’s reply, he could tell the two lunkheads had fled the scene without checking to making certain. If the girl lived, he had a chance to find out what she knew.

  He dragged in a breath, then forced a calm tone. “Find out if she’s dead. If she was taken to whatever they call the morgue or to a hospital. Next, eliminate your local muscle. Quiet and clean. No more shooting accidents, you got that? Just say yes and shut up.”

  “Yes, signore.” Ricci’s words came out labored, as if rocks weighted his tongue.

  “Good. Call my secure mobile when you have carried out both orders. Then I’ll tell you what to do next.” He recited the number before ending the call.

  The prestige of the deal and the exorbitant amount he was charging Yousef would cement his position at the top of the art-theft world. And allow him to add to his own collections. The Picasso lost for years and recently discovered in Rouen would be his next acquisition. He knew just the space for it in his villa.

  Zervas poured that scotch and drained the glass. Worthless, his old man had called him. Told him he’d never make anything of himself. “You were wrong, old man. Fuck you.” Too bad his voice didn’t carry to the depths of hell.