Shot in the Dark
Page 27
“Whoever took that shot must have been a Red Sox fan,” the medical examiner joked from behind him. With his gloved hand, he reached around Griffin and lifted off the baseball cap, gesturing to bullet hole before dropping it into an evidence bag. Having grown up in Boston, Griffin came from a long line of Sox fans, but the sight of the desecrated Yankee cap didn’t alleviate any of his disgust over the current situation.
“He had this in the front seat with him,” the medical examiner continued. “Must not have wanted it rolling around in the back.” He pulled out a three-foot-long cardboard tube; the kind used to carry blueprints.
Griffin’s interest was immediately piqued. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves out of the evidence kit and pulled them over his fingers. Gingerly, he took the tube from the medical examiner and pried the plastic cap off one end.
“They look like paintings.” Griffin gently drew the rolled-up canvases out of the tube. Leslie made her way over, and Griffin handed her the tube while he spread the paintings out on a table at the back of the bay.
“So, our artist actually is an artist,” she said.
“Not unless our artist is the reincarnation of Jean Paul Monet.” Griffin shuffled the canvases. “Or Paul Cezanne.”
“A forger, then?” Director Kass asked.
Griffin looked up to see both field directors had joined Leslie and him at the table.
“Most likely. That’s probably how he got drafted into designing ‘forged’ money,” Griffin said. But something wasn’t sitting right. Something about these paintings seemed familiar.
Leslie fingered the corner of one of the cut canvases. “I never figured you for an art enthusiast. How do you know who painted them?”
“My mom’s an art teacher. She’d bribe me with hockey tickets if I’d go to a museum with her.” He smiled at the memory. “The best Mother’s Day gift I ever gave her was a private tour of the White House with the curator…” His voice trailed off, and a chill ran down his spine. Griffin suddenly remembered why these paintings looked so familiar. He’d seen them all hanging in the White House.
He sorted through the canvases again, checking their backs. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what, Agent Keller?” Director Kass demanded.
“I don’t think these are forged,” Griffin said. “I think they’re the originals. And I’m pretty sure they were stolen from the White House.”
Everyone around him started talking at once.
“Are you sure about this?”
“How could someone get inside the White House and steal a painting without anyone noticing?”
“Aren’t these things rigged with some sort of alarm?”
All their questions were valid, but there was a bigger question that consumed Griffin. “How many others are missing?”
“Agent Keller, we still don’t know definitively that these aren’t forgeries,” Director Kass said. “Before we jump to any conclusions, why don’t you take these down to the forensics lab at DC headquarters and have an expert check them out. With any luck, they might be able to grab a fingerprint from these. Agent Morgan and the FBI can keep working the case from here.”
Griffin hesitated. He didn’t want Leslie and her team grabbing his collar. But this gang of counterfeiters had been methodical and thorough so far. His gut was telling him Leslie wouldn’t find anything of use in the truck. The paintings, on the other hand, just might lead to something. The Secret Service forensics lab was the best in the country at finding trace evidence on an item—fake money, in particular. The director was right; it was worth a shot. If nothing else, while he was back in DC, he could grab a beer with Adam and check out the sniper angle.
“I’ll drive down tonight.” He rolled up the paintings and carefully slid them back into the tube, except he couldn’t quite make them fit the way they had before. Griffin pulled the paintings back out and laid them on the table before turning the tube upside down and shaking it. A white cloth fell to the floor.
“What’s that?” Leslie asked.
Griffin reached down and carefully picked it up, shaking it out as he did so.
“It’s a dish towel.” His gut clenched when he caught sight of the monogram on the towel. “From the White House kitchen.”
The group was somber as Griffin shoved the towel into an evidence bag. “I’ll head out now if you don’t mind, Director,” he said.
“Be sure and brief the agency director first thing,” Director Kass said.
Nodding to the field office director, Griffin headed for the SUV he and Silva had arrived in forty-five minutes earlier.
“Agent Kellar,” Leslie called after him.
He stopped in his tracks and turned to face the FBI agent who was his sometimes lover. The stark contrast of the bright lights of the warehouse bay against the dark night left her in silhouette so that he couldn’t make out her expression.
“Don’t forget to brief me as well,” she commanded, hands on her hips.
He was pretty sure that was code for “call me.” Griffin wasn’t in the habit of calling any woman except his mother. And despite a few exerting nights in bed, Leslie didn’t warrant being added to his phone log. It seemed a trip to DC couldn’t have come at a more strategic time.
Find out what happens next…
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About the Author
Tracy Solheim is the international bestselling author of the Out of Bound Series for Penguin. Her books feature members of the fictitious Baltimore Blaze football team and the women who love them. In a previous life, Tracy wrote best sellers for Congress and was a freelance journalist for regional and national magazines. She’s a military brat who now makes her home in Johns Creek, Georgia, with her husband, their two children, a pesky Labrador retriever puppy and a horse named after her first novel. Her fifth book for Berkley, Back To Before, will be released in January. She also has a digital holiday novella for Tule Publishing’s Southern Born Books coming October 20. See what she’s up to at www.tracysolheim.com. Or on facebook at Tracy Solheim Books and Twitter at @TracyKSolheim
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