Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  “I’ll be here,” Thomas said.

  “Something to think about, big brother. You can leave the country without me knowing where you are or when you’ll return, but I have to schedule every minute of my day for you.” Phone to her ear, she disappeared down the hall.

  The bitter words hurt more than her ring tone. She was right, but his conditions weren’t changing. And her major attitude didn’t bode well for what he was about to ask of her during his absence.

  Even after breast cancer took their mother when Andie was seven, she’d remained a cheerful, reasonable kid, bouncing back from the terrible loss. She and Thomas had coped together with the constant rotation of nannies and their dad’s focus on his navy career and not on his kids’ grief and problems. Thomas and Cleo’s brothers had watched over the two little girls and sometimes let them tag along.

  Until the teen years hit Andie. Boys, alcohol, drugs—mostly prescription pills—and total disregard for every rule the old man imposed. And God knew Thomas Devlin, Senior—then a mere rear admiral—expected everyone to live by his rules.

  Anger spurted and Thomas squelched it. His bitterness didn’t matter. He’d moved on. His objective was for Andie to be able to do the same.

  At thirty, her lifestyle and attitude made her seem ten years younger, the fallout of a troubled youth. The shrink had concluded that depression was the original cause of her rebellion and drug abuse. Now Andie lived under Thomas’s roof, Thomas’s rules, and her therapist’s guidance. Until she could make it on her own. What he did was for Andie’s good, not arbitrary, as she obviously thought. He downed the last of his tea and set down the glass. He might pour a scotch after this conversation.

  The click of heels on the hardwood announced her return to the kitchen. “One of the other bartenders called in sick. I have to go in now. Are we done?”

  “Not quite. You’ll be solo here while I’m gone.”

  “Hallelujah. Alone at last.”

  Ignore that. “I want you to phone me every day.”

  “To keep tabs on me, you mean. You don’t trust me.”

  “I want to. But Dr. Olsen—”

  “Fuck Doc Olsen. You just want to control my life like the old man.”

  His gut clenched but he schooled his temper. “I want you to control your life.” Working in a bar wasn’t the best way for a recovering addict to do it but he’d stow that subject for now. “Call me at this time every day. Like we usually share our days before you go to work, except it’ll be on the phone.”

  “What you really mean is you’re checking on if I’m staying clean.” Cheeks flushed, she snatched up her purse and stalked out of the kitchen.

  He followed her through the living room and into the foyer. “That’s part of it. I care about you. Promise me, Andie.”

  Hell, he’d only made things worse between them. He would hug her but she’d probably construe it as force. He put his hands behind him and balled them into fists.

  “Trust me or not. It’s up to you. I’m making no promises. Have a fabulous trip.”

  The door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the mirror on the wall.

  ***

  Venice, Italy

  Ricci grinned. Entering the Ospedale Civile during the shift change had been laughably easy.

  In the staff laundry closet, he found white pants in a bin he could pull on over his dark ones. He didn’t look closely at the rusty stuff on them. Dio knew what it was. The white jackets had different colored stripes or no stripes. No time to figure out which were techs and which nurses.

  He’d had little trouble discovering the Chandler woman had survived and tracing her to this hospital. At least he didn’t have to deal with that dead weight Panaro. A smile curved his mouth at his own joke. Si, nobody would find the Veneziano for a long time, and Ricci now had the Beretta.

  He racked the slide and chambered a round. After securing the pistol in his back waistband, he peered out. Nobody looking his way. He slipped into the hallway, dimly lit at the late hour. All the espresso he’d downed at the bar had his pulse pinging and nerves buzzing.

  This floor—General Medicine, according to the sign—was quiet, patients tucked in. Nobody walking the hallway, making rounds, or whatever you called it. Two women at the nurses’ station gabbed about another’s cheating husband. He nicked a clipboard from the counter and strolled toward the stairs. No lift for him, where somebody might have time to look at him with suspicion.

  He bounded up the stairs and opened the door, surveying the intensive-care unit before he stepped out. More active here. Monitors beeped and ticked and hummed. Nurses and techs looked more alert. No polizia guarding the floor. Lucky again.

  He strode down the hall, clipboard front and center. On the fifth door down he saw a card with Chandler’s name. He started to enter but heard a voice inside. The deep male voice was speaking English. He flipped through pages on the clipboard, trying to look official while straining to hear. His nerve endings crackled.

  The man’s tone was soothing—a doctor with a good bedside manner, but not all the words were clear. “... is on his way. He’ll... sure they catch...”

  What did it mean?

  “You’ll be fine. You just need to wake up.”

  Wake up? She was in a coma? No interrogation. Ricci would have to eliminate her, finish what Panaro had started. He glanced around for somewhere to hide until the doctor left. No obvious closets, no door labeled Laundry. Not as easy to pull this off during the day. His hand shook so much he nearly dropped the clipboard.

  “You have to get better,” the voice said, a little louder. Clearer.

  The door swung wide open. A man stood there. Scarred jaw. Lumpy face like a boxer. Built like a boxer. Grim and hyper-vigilant like a soldier. Not a doctor.

  Ricci shoved the clipboard at the man’s face and sprinted for the stairs.

  ***

  Lucas knocked aside the clipboard. Papers skated across the tile floor like wind-blown leaves. The wiry man in hospital white pelted down the hallway, knocking over a cart and barreling past a startled nurse. The bulge at his back waistband screamed weapon.

  And Lucas had only his fists.

  His whole body clenched with the need to chase down the fucker and find out who he worked for. But he gripped the door jamb and cemented his feet to the floor. Protect the principal. Never leave the client alone, vulnerable. There could be a second hit man waiting for the opportunity. Cleo needed him. For now.

  “Aiuto!” Help, he yelled in Italian. “Call the police!”

  People sprang into action. An alarm buzzed through the hall like a hive of bees. The desk nurse reached for the phone. A man and a woman dashed for the intruder as he reached the stairwell door.

  “No! Don’t chase him. He has a gun.” Again in Italian.

  The creep slammed through. The white-jacketed staff raced after him. Thumps receded down the stairs. Shit.

  Two nurses ran to his aid. Or that of their patient.

  “She’s fine,” he told them. “The imposter didn’t get inside.” But he stepped aside to allow them to check their patient. Couldn’t hurt. Cleo was sleeping, undisturbed, as usual.

  The women’s smiles were wobbly as they left, glancing furtively at him with a mixture of admiration and fear. Same effect he often had on women. They were happy to have his protection but that was all. He kept the clipboard and the papers he’d retrieved. The cops would want to see where they’d come from.

  “The polizia are on their way,” a nurse said.

  He thanked her and she skittered away like a mouse.

  A moment later the staff who’d pursued the hit man returned, out of breath but whole.

  He beckoned to them. “Did you see which way he went?”

  The two looked at each other. “Si, signore, but only partly,” the man said, breathing heavily after his exertion. “He ran around the building toward the piazza. But there were too many people.” He lifted a shoulder in apology.

  Lucas
had gotten a good look at the guy but he should ask anyway. “Can you describe him?”

  Both shook their heads. “Only his back,” the woman said, edging away with her colleague. “I must return to my post.”

  “The polizia will ask the same questions,” Lucas told them. “So try to think of details about his appearance.” Satisfied he’d done what he could, he returned to his vigil beside Cleo’s bed.

  If the man had made furtive sounds outside the room, he’d heard nothing dammit. Thank God he’d seen the shadow of feet beneath the door. A nurse or technician would’ve entered right away without hesitation. He’d known as soon as he opened the door the man was an imposter. Deer-startled eyes. No ID on his jacket. But the kicker had been brown leather shoes.

  He would alert Thomas when the doc came to examine Cleo. Hell, if only he’d been able to chase down the bastard. He laid his head against the padded chair back. Pounded a fist on the arm rest.

  ***

  Thomas walked down the steps from the Venice taxi square to the Grand Canal. He checked his voicemail for the tenth time but found no message, no text from Andie. Six hours earlier in Arlington, so she’d still be asleep after her late shift tending bar. But what the hell. Might be the only time he’d catch her.

  As he waited for the international call to connect to the condo’s land line, he smiled despite the urgency knotting his shoulders. He inhaled the canal’s briny smell, never forgotten. A water bus called a vaporetto pulled out of its station to the rumbling music of engines and water. Three gondoliers steadied their black boats in its wake. Tourists rolled suitcases toward bridges crossing the canal.

  No answer. Voicemail. Andie wasn’t in the condo? His right shoulder cramped. Dammit, where was she at this hour on a Saturday? Or else she saw his number on Caller ID and blew him off. He stowed the concern and irritation for later and gazed at the scene around him.

  Venice. Years since he’d visited the city when he and two other SFOD lieutenants had leave from training in the Turkish mountains. The ancient buildings with the typical Venetian arched windows might have faded more. Scaffolding webbed different palazzos and hotels. A new boy at the kiosk hawked maps, carnival masks, and post cards in English and German. Still the same glorious, crumbling city. The only real differences were the clothing and the mobile phones at everyone’s ear.

  And on the other side of Venice, the flame-haired woman who lay unconscious.

  Thomas felt the muscles around his mouth tighten. An intruder in the hospital—likely a Centaur hit man—had been stopped last night thanks to Lucas. Cleo would be all right. Dear God, she had to be.

  No time for a leisurely vaporetto ride around the city’s perimeter. He hiked his carry-on bag higher on his shoulder and strode to the nearest water taxi stand.

  A half hour later he arrived at Cleo’s hospital room door, slightly ajar. Over the hum of monitors and the whoosh of a respirator, he heard Lucas’s low voice, mellow and soft rather than the usual growl.

  “No wonder you stayed in Venice to work. Spent some time in Italy when I worked over here. The food. Friendly people. There was this one job—”

  Thomas pushed through the doorway.

  Lucas sat beside the bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees, facing the doorway. He jackknifed upright, suddenly no longer a bedside comforter but a soldier on alert.

  Broad face flushing as recognition sank in, he lurched away from the bed. “Thomas.”

  Thomas had expected Lucas to occupy a guard position outside the room. He felt his brows snap together and dismissed the rush of anger. Lucas’s attention focused as much on a possible threat as on Cleo.

  He nodded, the odd tableau forgotten as he walked to the foot of the bed. He couldn’t take his eyes from Cleo. Covers to her chin, smooth except for the rise and fall of her breasts. A still and pale Sleeping Beauty. Perfect except for the respirator tubes in her nostrils and the bandages on the left side of her head, where the bullet had struck. He shuddered in a breath.

  He flexed his fingers, cramped from being clenched. “Hey, excellent reaction time. I tried to be quiet.” Lucas would accept the compliment better with only an oblique reference to his hearing issue.

  “Thanks.” Lucas edged away from the bed, as if deferring to his boss.

  “The admiral was pleased someone was here so fast. But I couldn’t reach you on the phone. How is she?” From the moment Hoot Chandler had told him about Cleo’s injury, fear had tied knots in his shoulders. Rotating them to loosen the tightness, he kept his gaze on her while he listened.

  “Can’t use mobile phones in here. Something about all the electronics. I left the voicemail as soon as I could.” Lucas cleared his throat and brought Thomas up to speed.

  Swelling on the brain. Medical coma. The words sank into him like wet cement. But he told himself she was getting the best care. And protection. “And the intruder? Did you get a look at him?”

  “Affirmative. A good look. Dark hair, thirties, deep-set eyes under a heavy brow. Brown leather shoes. About my height but scrawny. Might’ve looked thinner than he was because the scrubs he stole hung on him. Cops found them in a trash bin two streets over.”

  “ID?”

  “Negative. So far. Commissario Castelli had his men ask around and check the closed-circuit tapes. Yesterday several of the nurses here saw a man who fit the description at the local bar. They admitted he probably overheard their gossip about Cleo.”

  “Explains how he found the right room. Could be one of Centaur’s men. You said he had a gun under his jacket. Maybe the same one used to shoot her?” And her lover, but Thomas couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Don’t have confirmation from Castelli, but the bullets recovered from both crime scenes were nine mil. The man, one René Moreau, an alias. Castelli said they found three other false passports hidden in the bedroom. Real name is Farris Pandareos.”

  “Greek?”

  “Affirmative. Small-time thief and talented jewelry designer. Arrested in France for making paste copies of Marie Antoinette’s necklace. Didn’t stick. Clean ever since.”

  “Or more careful. Looks like Centaur contracted with him to make a copy of the Cleopatra necklace. Then everything went to hell.” Studying Cleo’s face, he angled his head to the right. Peered at her. Something was off.

  “You sure, Thomas? That’s a leap.”

  He moved around to her right side. “Not so much. Her Facebook page has a picture of her wearing the necklace. Or the copy.”

  Lucas punched a fist into his other palm. “Shit. The reason they were after her.”

  Thomas made no reply. He was barely aware of his operative backing farther away. He trailed a finger along the soft cheek, the fall of auburn hair on the pillow. Moved aside the sheet and blanket. Lifted the cotton sleeve so he could see her upper arm. At the sight of the smooth, unblemished skin, a wave of relief washed over him. His shoulders began to relax until the implications flooded him.

  He turned. “This is not Cleo Chandler.” Not the girl—correction, woman now—who’d heated his dreams for nearly a decade.

  Lucas’s watchful gaze morphed to shock. If he wasn’t already leaning against the wall, he might’ve crashed to the floor. “How... how can you be sure?”

  “I’ve known Cleo Chandler since she was a kid. Both our dads were stationed at the Charleston Naval Base then. When she was thirteen, she climbed a tree to rescue a kitten. In the process, she threatened a hornet’s nest. They attacked with fury.” He’d caught her—and the kitten—when she fell.

  “Yeah, so?” Lucas said.

  “One of the stings, here—” he pointed to a clear spot on the injured woman’s upper right arm “—got infected, left a big scar. She covered it years later with an armband tattoo. Her hair is a sunnier auburn, and curly. The shape of her face is different. It’s not Cleo.”

  Lucas’s wide hands gripped the bed frame. “Then who is she?”

  Thomas’s shoulders cramped
for the umpteenth time. “And where the hell is Cleo?”

  Chapter 5

  Crystal City, Virginia

  MARA MARTON GRABBED a bottle of green tea from the machine in the DSF employee lounge. Cort had gotten her hooked on the stuff. Better for you than all that high-test coffee, he insisted. She smiled, emotions welling up, suffusing her with the power of their connection.

  Tea in hand, she took the elevator up to Thomas Devlin’s office, where Max Rivera was helming the ship. Sort of.

  When Max had called her early this morning with the assignment from Mr. Devlin, she chuckled at his gruff apology for waking her on a Saturday. Poor Max was having trouble issuing orders while he sat in the boss’s executive chair.

  Several of the field operatives in DSF were ex-Delta Force and it showed. Super competent in intel and security, intelligent and quick thinking under stress. Most didn’t flinch at issuing orders or sounding like they were, but not Max. None of them liked being yanked out of their comfy aquarium. Max would flop around for a day or two until he learned to breathe the new, rarefied air. But then he’d be good to go. Better than good. He would excel. Her Cort was like that, but he’d honed his cool-under-pressure right-stuff in prison rather than in combat.

  A soft bell dinged and the elevator door opened to the top floor and the carpeted outer office. This case was so different from the usual. Yes, a valuable artifact had been stolen. Nothing new there. But cherchez la femme—a mysterious woman whose disappearance had the boss himself jetting off to Europe.

  After Mr. Devlin had discovered the unconscious woman in the Venice hospital wasn’t Cleo Chandler, he’d learned from Cleo’s father about an estranged brother who might have a daughter. Fascinated by the convoluted puzzle, she’d dived into locating the other Chandler somewhere in Canada. Finding him was a little harder than usual, given the fifty years since his disappearance, but a cool challenge.

  She wanted to know more about this woman and why she was so important to Devlin. No one in the office had heard of him ever having a serious relationship. He hooked up with no one for more than a couple months. The women he usually escorted around D.C. were sleek society ladies-who-lunched or polished executives, not artsy rebels like the Cleo Chandler she found on Facebook.