Yeah. That one’s off the market. It’s mine.
“A feast for the eyes, isn’t it?” The deep, quiet voice came from a doorway in the rear of the gallery.
Gabe touched his watch, muting his mic and his connection to Tyre. Hardwood floors creaked under his weight as he turned to the speaker. “Breathtaking.”
The man, with sleek dark hair, and darker eyes, crossed the gallery and extended his hand. “Jacques Stapleton.”
“Gabe Hernandez.” His name meant nothing to the gallery owner. Gabe had bought the painting using an alias, taking advantage of one of his alternate identifications, a perk that came with being a Black Raven agent with elite status.
Stapleton, about five eleven and fit, gave Gabe a firm, no nonsense handshake, and an easy, ‘glad to have you’ smile. He was good looking enough that Gabe bet the man had no problem selling things.
“The painting you’re admiring is sold. As are eight of the other Hutchensons.” He did a sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing the wall of paintings, while Gabe noted the ones that had ‘sold’ stickers next to them. “An impressive pace, considering this is the artist’s first show. I didn’t acquire the paintings until yesterday. The artist is reluctant to be in the spotlight.” Dark eyes held his, his pause underscoring his last statement. “Putting this show together took months of persuasion. She should be here tomorrow evening.”
Should be?
“You’re more than welcome to attend the opening,” Stapleton continued. “If you have any interest at all, I recommend a quick decision. I didn’t correctly assess the demand for her work. These are a bargain compared to what her future work will be.”
Gabe reached into his wallet, fished out a card for Stapleton, and handed it to him. “I’m part of Ms. Hutchenson’s security detail. We’ll do a walk-through prior to the event. Is five-thirty okay with you?”
Stapleton nodded, studied the card, then glanced at Gabe. “That will be fine.”
A few moments later, Gabe stepped out again onto the noisy sidewalk. He glanced at his watch, then reactivated his mic. “Tyre. Your five minutes are up. What else?”
“Sir, I’m just not sure what else you’re looking for. I’ve told you everything.”
“What is she painting?”
“Um, I haven’t really noticed.”
“Then you’re not doing your job correctly. You’re being paid to protect her, watch her, keep any threat from touching her, and make sure she feels safe. On this job, the threat is atypical. It comes from things she sees, and if you don’t know what she’s painting, then you certainly don’t know where she’s looking.”
“Probably more accurate to say the threats come from things she thinks she sees.” Tyre’s whisper, low and sarcastic, was said in exactly the wrong tone. His sarcasm matched the patronizing, smart-ass tone used by Officers Thompson and Spagnoli. It was the same tone that the fired agents had used in the exit interview when Gabe had talked to them.
No wonder she fired them. I’m already tired of this attitude.
“Your tone is disrespectful. Agents who disrespect clients don’t deserve to be with Black Raven. With me, it’s grounds for firing. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The crowd got thinner as Gabe crossed Saint Phillip Street and entered a stretch of Royal Street that was open to traffic. Cars snaked along at a snail’s pace, slowed by horse-drawn carriages. Pedestrians with go-cups weaved through vehicles.
“To assess potential threats, have your eyes on everything and everyone near her. You need to look where she’s looking and see what she’s seeing. Try again. What is she looking at, and what is she painting?”
“The footbridge leading into the park, sir.”
“What color is it?”
“It’s rusty. Sort of orange-ish. It’s arched. Steps are steep. Indents on the sides look like piano keys. She’s about halfway through painting the bridge. Hasn’t started on background.”
“How focused is she on the painting?”
“Actually,” Tyre paused. “Not very.”
“Then what is she looking at?”
“Two people. Invisibles.”
“Invisibles?”
“Slang for homeless people. These look like teenagers. They’re sitting near the bridge, with a dog on a leash. She’s picking up a sketchpad. No. Wait. Her phone’s ringing. She’s reaching into her bag.” Tyre chuckled. “She dropped the phone into her bag. Ignoring the call. She did that earlier, too. Twice. Odd, because, come to think of it, she usually doesn’t bother with her phone when she’s out. Now she’s refocusing on her tablet, and starting to sketch the teenagers.”
“Okay. Better, now you know what’s in her line of sight. I’ll monitor your audio as I work from her house. Do a quarterly status report that includes details. Give me minutia. Stay alert.”
Gabe slowed as he reached Hutchenson’s townhome, eyeing the gray stucco façade of the corner property. The residence sat close to the property line. Two sides of the house were bordered by sidewalks, while the other two had narrow alleys separating it from the neighboring properties. Tall brick walls, the top lined with shards of multicolored glass that glistened in the afternoon sunlight, provided boundaries.
There were four large windows on the front of the home on the Royal Street sidewalk. Eight windows ran the length of the property. Solid navy blue shutters were closed and locked over the first-floor windows.
A wrought iron gate blocked access to the courtyard. The client didn’t own a car. The property didn’t have off-street parking. Where there could have been parking in the courtyard, there was a large water garden. Black Raven had one vehicle assigned to the security detail. It was parked in a garage, down the street. Given congestion and lack of parking, the French Quarter and surrounding neighborhoods that Hutchenson frequented were more easily accessible on foot than vehicle.
As Gabe paused at the gate, a walking tour filtered around him. The guide let his group peer through the bars of the iron gate, ‘oo-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’ over the lushness of the courtyard and the gurgling fountain.
“This property is an excellent representation of a French Quarter townhome, built in 1825 by the architect Francois Bienville,” Gabe heard the tour guide tell his group. “This property has been in the same family since it was built, which is a rarity. You’ll note the large home in the front and the slave quarter in the back. Now, we no longer refer to the small buildings behind the mansions as slave quarters, but when these homes were built, that’s exactly what they were…”
The tour guide’s information was accurate. Gabe’s file review had included the original floor plan of the three-story townhome, with its interior courtyard and freestanding two-story, one-bedroom building to the rear of the courtyard. The plan referred to the smaller building as ‘slave quarters.’ The client had renovated the free-standing building, which she called a guesthouse. As of two weeks earlier, the guesthouse was ready for occupancy. Whether anyone was moving into it was an open question to which Hutchenson hadn’t provided an answer.
As the tour group crossed the street, Gabe’s mind clicked through logistics of the simple security detail. The client was either in her house, or in the near vicinity of her house. She rarely went anywhere she didn’t walk, and liked to have her route mapped before she left the house. She didn’t deviate, unless the chosen route was too crowded, and then she went to a back-up plan that she and the agents formulated prior to departure.
Her brothers, Philip and Stone Hutchenson, visited. Her friend, Taylor Bartholomew, Taylor’s husband, Brandon Morrissey, and their two children, also visited regularly. Other than that, the client didn’t socialize, date, or have guests. Evelyn Parker, a housekeeper whose days she shared with her brothers, came in on Tuesdays and Fridays. Esthetician Juliette Bandeau came in on Saturday mornings, providing spa services. Bandeau had been there earlier that day, for two hours. The client shopped online. A lot.
Four agents worked the detail. Tw
o accompanied the client whenever she was mobile. One guarded her house when she was outside. At night, two agents remained on duty, alternating between moving throughout the property and staying in the security room, where cameras provided visuals of the property. Off time was on a rotation basis at a nearby apartment, rented by the client.
The contract specified that the agents could use one of the second-floor guest bedrooms. The file indicated that the agents preferred not to do that. From what Gabe could tell, in general, the agents had treated the client as though she had a deadly contagious disease.
Rounding the corner and returning to the Royal Street entrance, Gabe lifted his hand to knock on a door of raw, unpainted wood, burnished with a glow from age and care. Agent Nathan Marks opened the door before Gabe’s knuckles rapped on wood. “Saw you on the screen.”
Marks, barrel-chested and bald-headed, with dark brown eyes, was a former SEAL. He had five years in Black Raven and a family in Alabama. When called in on the job the day before, Marks had been thrilled for the relatively low-risk stint in New Orleans. “I’ve made minor adjustments to the cameras. Let me show you the setup.”
At the inception of the job, Black Raven had installed a new security system, including the cameras that Marks was monitoring. The security room was immediately inside the front door, on the right. There were two large desks, with computers and comfortable-looking office chairs. Eight monitors showed property views in real time: four potential access doors from the sidewalks, two doors to the main house, the wrought iron gate that opened onto the courtyard, a door to the guesthouse, and skylights on the roof.
“Keys?”
At all times two Black Raven agents had keys to the property. Marks handed him a ring with six keys. In Gabe’s wallet, he had a pick and a tension wrench that would have made the keys unnecessary, but this wasn’t the sort of job where he’d be picking locks.
Leaving Marks in the security room, Gabe started a visual security check. The room was one of two vestibules that flanked the entrance foyer. Floor plans had indicated that the vestibule on the left of the main entrance was once a cloakroom. Now it doubled as a walk-in closet for guest coats, a place for wrapping gifts, and a repository for a daily stream of incoming UPS, Fed-Ex, and U.S. Mail packages.
Further into the house, Gabe’s eyes feasted on the client’s paintings. They hung everywhere. On the largest unbroken wall in the center hallway, a series of five paintings of a cathedral, each canvas slightly different, hung together. Each was riveting, and together they were spellbinding. The first few rooms that he walked into—a library, a formal living room, and a dining room—looked like antique furniture showrooms.
Breathing in the essence of fresh lavender and roses, strategically placed in heavy crystal vases, he opened doors and checked the locks on windows. Taking in fourteen-foot tall ceilings that gently curved where they met plaster walls, sparkling crystal chandeliers that hung from intricate ceiling medallions, and wide-planked, golden pine floors that gave slightly under his weight, he expected no security lapses and found none.
Despite the constant stream of traffic on congested streets and pedestrians on sidewalks, thick walls and shuttered windows made the place so quiet, his footsteps seemed loud. Afternoon light filtered in through slatted shutters, and discreet, recessed lighting in each room was turned on.
The client didn’t like darkness.
I don’t blame her.
His mind clicked through manpower management. Marks, who was sitting in the security room, hadn’t yet met the client. Stevens and Tyre were in the park with her. “Marks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to Crescent Park. Meet the client, acquaint yourself with the outdoor detail. Stevens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once Marks arrives, go to the apartment. Rest. You’ll be on duty tonight until three a.m. with me. Marks and Tyre will be off, once the client is in for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pausing at the desk in the library, Gabe inhaled the scent of a fire that had recently burned in the large fireplace. The room was well-decorated. Tasteful. Furnishings and fabrics bordered on extravagant. Yet it seemed cozy, with its deep brown leather-upholstered couch, cream-colored chairs, and matching ottomans. He glanced at the day’s newspaper, folded on a silver tray, and neat stacks of AH-embossed stationary. Thick-papered invitations were under an amber-colored fleur-de-lis paperweight. He lifted the heavy glass paperweight and leafed through baby shower invitations, wedding announcements, party invites, and fundraiser details. On each, the client had made a note of the date she’d sent in her regretted absence and the gift she’d sent.
Before her kidnapping, the file indicated Andi Hutchenson had been a socialite, living high on the New Orleans elite party circuit and beyond. From what he could tell, the meticulous attention to invitations, and what gift she’d sent, were an indication of how badly she missed that other life.
Pretty damn badly.
A laptop on her desk was closed. The file indicated the client’s internet usage was limited to shopping, email, and Facebook. She had plenty of Facebook friends in her newsfeed, but she didn’t do her own posts. Before her kidnapping, she’d done Instagram, Tinder, and Twitter. The file indicated she no longer used those accounts.
Tyre’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “Sir, quarterly update.”
“Go.”
“Client’s still working on that sketch of the teenagers. She just picked up her phone again. She didn’t say anything. Call lasted twenty seconds. She’s applying sunblock to her face and hands. SPF 30.”
“Perfect.” Gabe stifled a chuckle. He’d wanted details, and Tyre was obliging.
“Now she’s returning to the sketch. She’s left-handed, by the way. The guy she’s sketching is leaning back in the grass, on his elbows. They don’t seem to notice that she’s drawing them. He’s looking at the river, listening to the girl and Ms. Hutchenson is drawing him…”
Listening, Gabe walked through a small room off the dining room that housed china, crystal, silver, vases, and other things that would be useful if the client entertained.
Which she didn’t.
An oversized kitchen was sparkling clean. Appliances included a wood-burning hearth for breads and pizza. Immediately thinking about the house he was building, Gabe eyed the pizza hearth and wondered if his kitchen could accommodate one like it.
Back to work.
The kitchen flowed into a casual living room. Above the fireplace, hanging above the mantle and managing to look like it belonged, was a seventy-inch television.
Awesome. I like this woman.
In a corner, children’s toys were stacked neatly in a toy box. Gabe guessed the area was for Brandon and Taylor’s kids, or her brother Phillip’s kids, because the file didn’t suggest anyone else who visited had children. A small table with kid-sized chairs had coloring books and crayons. Child-art was framed on the wall. Behind the living room, a large, bright mudroom led to a back door that opened onto the sidewalk and another that opened into the courtyard.
From the floorplan, Gabe knew that the second floor had four living suites, each with a large bedroom, a smaller sitting room, a bathroom, and closets. He climbed the stairs, walked into two suites, mentally claiming the one that didn’t have a pedicure chair and massage table in the sitting room as his own.
The master bedroom was locked. None of the keys fit.
“Tyre. We don’t have a key to her bedroom?”
“No, sir.”
“We’re supposed to have access to all rooms.”
“Yes, sir. But I think somewhere along the way, that changed. We haven’t had a key since I’ve been on the job.”
Dropping to one knee, Gabe studied the brass fitting and the pin and tumbler mechanism. The lock was of high quality, but that didn’t mean it would be a challenge to pick. He could also hear his older brother’s reminder that meddling in other people’s business was an unfavorable character trait.
Over the years, Zeus’s admonishment of ‘you’re such a nosy brat’ had turned into a ‘mind your own fucking business’ warning. Lately, Zeus’s buzzword was boundaries. As in, ‘I thought you’d grow out of it, but now that you’re in your mid-thirties, I’ve given up hope. You might be a great agent. Clients love you. But you’ve got a character flaw. No respect for boundaries. You’ve gotten away with it so far. Sometimes, it even works to your advantage. But one day, it’s going to get you in trouble.’
“Quarterly update, sir.” Tyre’s voice crackled through his earpiece again.
Standing, stretching, Gabe decided against breaking into her bedroom. For now. He’d ask the client for the keys that would get him into the entire property, as the contract specified, and he’d give her a chance to comply. Hutchenson didn’t cut the agents any slack, and he doubted she respected agents who let her break the rules. Maybe that was part of the problem.
Gabe turned, studied some of her paintings that hung on the landing, and said, “Go.”
“She’s finished her sketch of those two kids. She’s staring at the painting of the footbridge. She’s almost done with that part of the painting. Wait. She’s looking at her phone. Hold it a second.” After a pause, Tyre said, “Yes ma’am.” Then, he added, “Sir?”
“Yes.”
“She’s done for the day. We’re heading to the townhouse. Should be there in twenty minutes.”
“Has Marks reached you?”
“Arrived before my update. I made the intro. Client glanced at him and nodded. An accomplishment, considering she typically ignores us.”
“Alert me if anything happens.” Gabe walked into the second-floor exercise room.
“Sir. The Marigny isn’t your average American neighborhood, but still, it’s a Saturday afternoon. Nothing’s going to happen.”
As Tyre spoke, Gabe checked the windows and inventoried exercise equipment. Treadmill. Spin bike. A shelf held dumbells, kettle bells, tombstone pads, boxing gloves, and yoga mats. A television sat on another shelf. Baskets were filled with DVDs. Flipping through the discs, he saw DVDs on cardio workouts, spinning, strength-building, and Krav Maga training.
Concierge (Black Raven Book 3) Page 5