To Catch a Thief

by Christina Skye

  Dakota nudged the Explorer off the access road and cut the motor. “Looks busy. Lots of forklifts working that pile of construction materials. We’re not going to be able to walk in without being noticed.”

  “Ryker’s contact violated his parole, got caught with a firearm. He was willing to trade information if it kept him from a ride back to Folsom. He told Oakland PD that his boss has a safe in the office and new security locks were added. He’s seen art being packaged up, going in and out. He ID’d a van Gogh that’s been off the books for almost eight years.”

  “Where was it headed?”

  “An unnamed buyer in Asia.”

  Dakota watched men in plastic ponchos push carts between half a dozen scattered buildings. “So they’re definitely dealing.”

  “I’d say so. One problem. When the Oakland police brought in the FBI, our guy closed up like a clam. Said he wouldn’t talk to anyone. We’re talking real panic.”

  Dakota tapped two fingers on the wheel. “Like he knew there was someone on the inside.”

  “Looks that way to Ryker. Whatever the boss wants to protect is locked inside the safe.” Izzy pointed across the road. “Right there in that gray building. Ryker figures the art could be held in there, along with details of other transactions.”

  “Let’s see what kind of security we’re dealing with.” Dakota pulled out a pair of Zeiss 10x42 FLT high-range binoculars and studied the layout of the buildings. “Power source to the right. Access via the rear door. No visibility from the street. What about night security?”

  “Four men, three shifts.”

  Dakota zoomed in on the back door of the building, scanning the wall with the newest exterior wiring. “When do they close down for the day?”

  “Six-thirty, but there could be day crew around until eight or so.”

  “Good halogen light and a decent alarm, but nothing I can’t manage. I say we pick our spot and come back at midnight. Until then, it would help to know the model of this safe I need to crack.”

  Izzy reached into the back seat, pulled out a clipboard and a hat that read National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund. “Give me ten minutes.”

  IZZY WAS SMILING when he came back, his clipboard under his arm and rain dotting his shoulders. “It’s solid, all right. Some nice Japanese digital technology, but nothing we can’t override.” He set a small camera on the dash and hooked it up via cable to his laptop. “Here’s what we’ve got. Steel wall-mounted model with a digital keypad. I’m thinking thermal imaging is the easiest way to see what keys have recently been pressed. I just finished a security white paper for Ryker on the subject, as it happens.”

  Dakota smiled faintly. “You want thermal, that can be arranged.”

  Midnight

  THE GUARD SHUFFLED past the shadow where Dakota was crouched, motionless. Satisfied that the yard was quiet, the guard crossed to a truck and slid behind the seat, reaching for a silver Thermos.

  Silently Dakota overrode the alarm, jimmied the rear door and studied the digital keypad, reading high-heat signatures on five keys. Now he had to determine the order.

  Not so difficult. Higher heat, most recent contact.

  Eighteen seconds later the safe hissed open. Dakota stared at a row of nine cell phones wrapped in plastic. No art. No cash. No stolen passports.

  Just unopened cell phones.

  He fingered his mouth mic. “Teague, no art. Only cell phones. They look brand-new.”

  “Slip one out. I’m going to need it. What’s the brand?”

  “Nokia.”

  Dakota heard Izzy tap at a keyboard. “Okay, get back pronto. We’re going to tap into the SIM card and find the smart key.”

  Dakota shook his head. So what if they had a cell phone? The clock was ticking. Where in the hell was the missing art?

  Out in the yard the guard stretched, then tossed an empty snack bag into a garbage can and headed toward the office. Dakota opened the door and worked his way silently along the back fence. The guard had vanished by the time he climbed the fence and dropped lightly to the ground near his parked SUV.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Izzy pulled out a smart-card reader and several cables, which he attached to his laptop. “This could take a while. I’ve got to challenge until I get the right response.”

  Dakota leaned back in his seat. “Wake me when you redesign the wheel, Einstein.”

  HE SHOULD HAVE SLEPT.

  His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and relaxed, but he couldn’t sleep. Nell’s face kept drifting through his mind, her body moving into the rain. Irritated, Dakota looked the other way.

  The image appeared again.

  He had to smile a little, remembering the crazy way she’d climbed the rain gutter and then walk-jumped onto the roof.

  “Teague, you ever hear of something called parkour?”

  Izzy was staring at his computer screen. “French sport. A discipline of dexterity to vault or bypass obstacles. Very cool to watch. Don’t tell me you’re taking it up, because it’s not your style.”

  Dakota stretched, watching rain streak the windows. “Nell’s style. I watched her do that in the alley. I didn’t believe it even when I was seeing it.”

  “Some woman.”

  Dakota’s mind drifted again, carrying memories of a snowy ridge and the heat of their entwined bodies while the Scottish gale raged outside the tent. But somehow the dream shifted to a white sand beach with soft wind and a woman who wore nothing but sunlight and a smile.

  Her face looked exactly like Nell’s.

  NELL SAT RESTLESSLY, covered by a blanket as the chartered jet droned east. Whenever her mind locked up, caught in frightening scenarios about her father, she forced her thoughts back to explanations for the numbers he had given her. So far the process had left her exhausted, with no useful answers.

  Finally she gave up. As her eyes closed, she saw a man with wary eyes and callused hands that could be surprisingly gentle.

  It didn’t matter. She’d never see him again anyway. Better to think about finding a way to save her father.

  Nell yawned. She wondered if Draycott Abbey was as lush and magical as her father had described to her. There had been a strange legend, which she had almost forgotten. Something about a clock…and a brooding ghost.

  Ridiculous.

  Nell drifted into dreams.

  And then, strangely, there were roses around her. Peach and cream and crimson, with perfume that spilled magic through a quiet spring night in a place that felt oddly like home….

  “WAKE UP, Dakota. We’re in.”

  Dakota sat up instantly. He’d been dreaming. Something about colors and night.

  A perfume that might have come from roses.

  Weird.

  But most dreams worked by rules you couldn’t define or understand.

  Dakota forced the ragged images away. “I wasn’t asleep,” he lied. “And exactly what are we in?”

  Outside in the darkness the warehouse enclosure was deserted.

  Izzy gave a cocky smile as he unplugged the thin cables and tossed them into his bag. “We’re inside the phone’s SIM card. I’ve got what I need. I’ll wipe off the unit and you can slip it back into the safe, to all appearances untouched. Trust me, we just hit pay dirt.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  NELL FOUGHT EXHAUSTION, listening to the low drone of the airplane motors. The words of the museum reports blurred and then refocused as she struggled to accept the details she had just read.

  The work appears to be a preliminary sketch of the Mona Lisa, of white chalk, ink and black charcoal executed on cream linen rag paper.

  Surface includes nine smaller sheets of paper adhered together. Considerable fragility and signs of acidification of all sheets. Slight water damage at the upper left corner and tearing of the paper at center bottom.

  On initial examination, details of paper conform to period composition. Restoration…

  The dry description went on for page af
ter page, inadequate to express the sheer power of such a discovery. A sketch by da Vinci, with what appeared to be an overdrawing by Michelangelo, if stylistic evidence was to be believed, bringing two of the world’s greatest artists—and keenest competitors—together in one work.

  Nell closed her eyes.

  When word of the discovery leaked out, the art world would be thrown into hysteria. And of course word would leak out. Nothing this immense could be covered up for long, even if the museum delayed their official release to the press.

  But was the fragile sketch, captured in a large-format photograph before her, authentic? So far the museum’s head curator, Lydia Reynolds, had performed only initial noninvasive tests, like infrared and ultraviolet X-ray scans and energy dispersive X-ray fluorescence. The test results were collated and tacked neatly inside the folder. All supported the historical dating and appropriate styles of the two artists.

  From the photo, Nell could see that the design showed the strength and detail that were Leonardo’s trademarks. The colors were faded, but Nell could see that the placement of the figure was different from the finished painting. In this sketch La Gioconda faced the viewer head-on, with none of the seductive over-the-shoulder posture that was part of her enduring charm. Only faint outlines suggested the pose of the final painting, but these outlines were made in a different style completely. These the curator had assessed as possibly in the style of Michelangelo’s work.

  The paper dating also appeared appropriate, as were the chalk and pigments, although no invasive sampling had yet been undertaken.

  Michelangelo and da Vinci together. The idea was staggering.

  But Nell’s biggest question still loomed: was it real? Or was it a product of the apprentices whom Leonardo used extensively during his far-flung projects? Worse yet, was it a careful copy, either by a near contemporary or by some later forger who had stockpiled authentic period materials?

  Impossible to say without more information, more tests, but sampling would be unlikely, given the nearly incalculable value of the piece.

  Nell’s head began to ache as she stared at the haunting photograph of the world’s most famous face. She could imagine the excitement of the curator. Nell had met Lydia Reynolds twice and knew her reputation for succeeding at any cost. But there were still too many questions. What was the history of the second set of markings, once bold lines now nearly ghostlike, executed in silver chalk along the figure’s face and shoulders? In the photograph, they were so light that Nell had almost missed them.

  Nicholas Draycott crossed the cabin. “Any luck?”

  Nell rubbed her neck as the viscount held out a cup of tea. “I’m only on page five of the curator’s report from the National Gallery. She seems thorough enough. All the tests made at the time are recorded, although she didn’t have time—or approval—to complete many. I would like to speak with the two museum conservators she called in, to check their impressions.”

  “I expect that can be arranged.” Nicholas nodded toward the photo. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Beyond amazing. Michelangelo and da Vinci.”

  The viscount’s eyes narrowed. “Is it real?”

  “That’s never a snap judgment. Even with materials and style consistent with the artists, tests are required every step of the way.” Nell ran her fingers restlessly through her hair. “We can’t plug in one or two numbers and wait for the final printout. Art doesn’t work that way. We deal in black and white, but in every shade of gray, too. You play with all those in-between shades, weighing possibilities, sorting and sifting until you find the style, habits and passions that make every piece of great art unique. Is it authentic? That’s always the final question. The curator, Lydia Reynolds, was inclined to believe so according to these files, but without a dozen more tests, she couldn’t begin to make a final assessment. It takes weeks, even months of exacting work, and even then three experts will walk away with three different conclusions. X never marks the spot,” she said wryly.

  “Ah. Indiana Jones. I’d have to agree with you there, since I’ve never found anything to be what or where I expected it at the abbey. Records have been misplaced, books are damaged, and art…. is stolen.” His eyes hardened. “You do not know the whole story.”

  “What story?”

  “My father told me that one of Leonardo’s greatest charcoal drawings had been won at cards during a night of reckless play at the abbey. With the drawing came a notebook from Leonardo’s own hand, detailing his final plans for the design.”

  “This art is yours?” Nell’s breath caught. “You took it to the National Gallery?”

  “No, the piece was never found in our collection. All I had was the word of my father, based on old family accounts. He insisted that the sketch was lost during the life of the eighth viscount, sometime in the late eighteenth century.”

  “Lost? You mean sold or stolen?”

  “Stolen. Adrian, my ancestor, left a list of all those he considered suspects. As far as I knew, the piece was never found. Naturally, when your father contacted me, I was dumbfounded.”

  “So…we’re talking about your family legacy, Nicholas.”

  “It would be impossible to prove without more documents.” The viscount shrugged. “I doubt I will bother to pursue it. I’m not a greedy man. I have art to savor for the rest of my life, and this piece might cost more than it’s worth.”

  “Cost in what way?”

  He stared out the window into the darkness, looking uncomfortable. “According to my father, the sketch was…cursed. Go ahead and laugh if you like. I know that I did when I first heard the tale.”

  “I won’t laugh. If a person believed that the art was cursed, then it might affect them exactly that way.”

  “Maledetto,” Nicholas said softly. “‘Cursed in hand and tongue.’ That was what the notebook of Leonardo said. He believed that his thieving young apprentice stole the piece and sold it to his chief enemy, Michelangelo. But Leonardo was never able to prove it.”

  “Have you looked for the notebook?”

  “Whenever we remodeled or had structural repairs, the notebook was the first thing on my mind, but we never found a trace. My ancestor, the eighth viscount, had a sad life. Married very late, he had a rakehell son who gambled away a good deal of the family fortune. Maybe there was a curse after all,” he mused. “One way or another, I’d like the issue settled. This will be my chance.” His expression hardened. “If you had to make a decision right now, with no more tests, only with your heart—would you say that piece is real?”

  Nell stared at the subtle curves of the woman’s shoulders and the elusively sensual curve of her smile. She wanted to believe it was by Leonardo’s hand, but wanting wasn’t enough. The tests would turn up details that no vision could provide.

  And yet the answer would not rest in charts and graphs.

  The artist was everything. In the end, the whole complicated array of canvas and pigments fell away and only the artist’s soul remained. The artist held the answer, but only if you looked into his heart.

  Distant or vain. Violent or generous.

  Nell had learned that at her father’s knee, then learned it again in high school as she moved, stony faced, through mockery, harassment and despair. As a conservator she knew that you went to the person first, back to the habits and biases and hundreds of small eccentricities that made an artist stand out from the pack. Those details grounded any decision about restorations, maintaining the artist’s original vision.

  Nell was searching for those tiny eccentricities now, thumbing through chemical analyses, pigment layers and X-ray reports, looking for something that caught her eye. And her instincts were sharp. She would know the clues when she saw them.

  “Is this piece of paper the work of Leonardo? An impossible question, Nicholas. But if I had to say now…” She smiled slowly. “Yes. That face with its cool eyes. Complex and emotional. Not simple, not even nice.” She felt a wave of awe. “Here we see the slighte
st shadow of eyebrows, and her posture is different, but only the master could create a mix of emotions like that in a face that is unforgettable.”

  For a long time Nicholas didn’t speak. “Then we’d better find a way to get it back,” he said. “And your father along with it.”

  “There’s something else. Did he tell you that he was sick, Nicholas?”

  “Sick?”

  The surprise in his voice told Nell the answer, and she felt a moment of guilt for revealing her father’s secrets. But Nicholas had to know the rest of the story. “He’s got cancer. He didn’t tell me, didn’t say a word. Izzy and Dakota knew, probably from the prison records. It’s…bad.”

  The Englishman made a low sound and gripped her hands tightly. “Lord, what a thing to happen now, just when he’s got his life back. But there are procedures that can be done, Nell. New techniques, new medicines.”

  “Not if he’s in prison, there aren’t. And unless we find out who is behind this theft, prison is where he’ll go.” Nell closed her eyes, feeling the grip of regret, feeling anger mixed with bitter hopelessness. “I want him back, Nicholas. I want a little time with my father….”

  Before he dies.

  She forced down the words. Hopelessness would get her nowhere. Straightening, she studied the sketch, slipping beneath that fragile surface to probe all its secrets. “I’ll do whatever I have to do, Nicholas. Understand that. Whatever happens, don’t cut me out the way my father did.”

  “Understood.” Nicholas drank the last of his tea, then nodded. “I’ll do all within my power to keep you informed. But I may not have the final say. I have a feeling that Dakota Smith and Izzy Teague will be taking over very soon. Whether we like it or not.”

  “SAY IT IN ENGLISH, Teague.” Ryker sounded more irritated than usual, which was saying something. “Cut the SIM card and algorithm talk. I know it’s about memory in a cell phone. Just tell me what it all means and how it’s going to help us find the da Vinci.”