BRONZED BETRAYALS

by Ritter Ames

“We’ll see. She hasn’t let me sign a lease yet.”

  Not that it mattered. We didn’t find anything that made me want to sign on any lines. We lunched later at an Indian place down the block from Cassie’s flat, and I was surprised at how little energy I had just from walking around and asking questions. I was ready for a nap.

  “The nurse told me that’s the nature of a head injury,” Cassie replied, scooping her naan across the plate as she spoke and popping it into her mouth.

  “I’ll be glad when it stops. Flagging energy isn’t a favorite of mine.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  “Your landlord might have other ideas about that. I’ll bet your lease doesn’t tolerate extended house guests without official roommate status.”

  She waved a hand. “He’s a pussycat, and he’s not going to say anything.” She finished off the last bite and used a napkin to wipe her mouth. “Not to change the subject, but since you and Jack are presently off-duty, do you want me to use the airline credit balances you have to get you back to America for the Whyte Noyse concert? It’s just a few days away.”

  “Let me talk to Jack first. But thanks for mentioning it,” I said. I finished off my chai and set the cup by my plate. “Until we know what’s going on with the French authorities, I doubt he’ll want to be far away for any reason. And if Nico discovers anything new about the auction, we may need to cross the Mediterranean instead of the Atlantic.”

  “Okay. Just let me know and I’ll work anything out for you.”

  “Thanks, Cass.”

  When I spoke to Jack later about Cassie’s suggestion, I was surprised to hear, “I think that would be a very good idea. We should both be approved to travel in a couple of days, and with the backstage passes we shouldn’t be jostled too much by the crowds.”

  He’d already told me they were nearly positive of Colle’s identity, though he looked different from an obvious facelift, and was still adamantly professing to be Albert Bentley. I asked, “Don’t you want to be close by for the interrogations?”

  Jack shook his head. “I won’t be invited in. MI-5 and MI-6 are coordinating with all of it since they have a shot at connecting him through DNA evidence. You might be called in to tell how you found the file. So far, there hasn’t been a connection made between Colle and his original Beacham identity. I’ll make sure that comes out soon. Simply the fact that Colle didn’t even exist a dozen years ago makes that connection mandatory.”

  “I’m surprised Moran didn’t already do so if he’s trying to get a tie to his brother’s death.”

  “We know Moran is crafty—and patient. It wouldn’t surprise me if he already has his own evidence about the Beacham/Colle connection squirreled away somewhere, and he’s letting the law enforcement noose tighten first to see which way to use his material to the best advantage.”

  “All well and good,” I said. “But I still question your agreeing to cross the Atlantic for a rock concert.”

  “You don’t want to go?”

  “That’s not my point.”

  He took my face in his hands, and I stared into those teal eyes, thankful I didn’t see pain there for a change as he said, “Colle’s men have already attacked you twice to avenge a perceived grievance against their boss. And Colle tasked Melanie with the job of finding an assassin. We know this. For now, your name is completely out of the current investigation, but they can only hold the suspect another day or so without charging him. He already has a lawyer. And while Colle may be hanging on with white knuckles to the Bentley surname, by the time he or his lawyer gets out of the interrogation room today others will know about his apprehension.”

  “So, we hide in New Jersey?”

  “Can you think of a better place?”

  “St. Tropez comes to mind.” I grinned. “I get what you’re saying, though. Being backstage with rock star security will put me off-limits for that evening at least.”

  “And give Cass a break from having houseguests who overstay their welcome. Unless you want to invite her too. Do you think Clive would offer another pass?”

  “I’m sure he would,” I said. “Except Cass hates Whyte Noyse and all groups like them. She suffered in silence in college, but I doubt she’d jump at the chance to join us.”

  “It’s settled then. I’ll run it by my doctor and you notify yours.”

  “Just that I’m flying?” I asked. “No destination.”

  “Correct.”

  Cassie kept Max from bothering me during my “convalescence.” She and I went out one more day on our flat-looking quest. Colle was charged on the unrelated burglary to keep from having to set him free while more evidence was established for the prosecution’s case. Cecil kept Jack abreast of everything going on during the interrogations and even got the videos sent to Jack, so he could view the questioning phase and offer any additional insights.

  Yes, he let me watch too.

  While Cassie was spending the afternoon at the British Library, and we had the flat to ourselves, it seemed a good time to binge watch French interrogation videos.

  “I have to say, it’s really weird seeing a voice a lot like one I’ve known since birth—just slightly changed—coming out of the mouth of someone who looks completely different,” I said. The plastic surgeon had done a real number. All traces of Beacham and Colle were gone. He had dark hair this time and much fuller eyebrows. It was obvious he was going for a real desire to hide too, as instead of a fine jawline like before, his new look sported the beginning of saggy jowls. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t hated him so much.

  Despite listening to hours of interrogation, we had nothing to add that the French police couldn’t discern from the facts they’d gathered. Albert Bentley, as he now called himself, pretended he didn’t speak French, so most of the interrogation was carried out in English. Cecil had already told Jack about this, and since MI-6 knew Colle spoke French and Italian fluently, they’d already alerted French law enforcement, so anytime the officers needed to speak amongst themselves they left the interrogation room.

  “The only way they’re able to hold him at this point is due to three fingerprints that suddenly appeared in Interpol files,” Jack explained. “So far, the interrogations haven’t worn down Colle, but the fingerprints put him solidly at an art heist in a Paris museum five years ago. For some reason, the fingerprints were forgotten, and the case went cold.”

  “Or the heist was done by Moran’s men, and the fingerprints were added to the file by a mole he has placed in Interpol,” I said.

  Jack grinned. “At least he’s doing our work for us. Regardless of how unethical it is.”

  I paced Cassie’s lounge. “You know my ethics always lean toward doing the greater good. I’m Machiavellian that way and won’t apologize for it. But it concerns me the French may decide to focus on pinning the museum break-in on him and not prosecute him for any of the murders that can be laid at his feet.”

  “I felt the same way when Cecil first briefed me,” Jack explained, hitting the pause button on the video. “I wasn’t sure how to proceed yet in that regard, since the idea was to get him apprehended as quickly as possible, then let New York take the lead on the murder connection.”

  There was the conflict. Did I speak up right now? Tell who Colle was originally? Or did I wait? “When they brought him in, you said part of the reason the French police were holding him was in regard to a long-ago murder.”

  Jack nodded. “Again, fingerprint evidence that came from a document ordering the death of one Paul-Henrì Aubertine. But they can’t corroborate enough yet to charge him for the murder.”

  My legs gave way, and I sat on the coffee table. “When did you learn this?”

  “About an hour ago.” Jack scratched one eyebrow with his thumbnail. “To be honest, I’m not sure it will stand up as evidence, and even i
f it does, it’s dated before Colle existed. So, to use it to tie to—”

  “Do it.” I wasn’t sure I spoke out loud at first, so I said it again. “Do it. Tell who he really is.”

  “Once this gets released, you can’t stop it,” Jack said. “And frankly, for your safety, I’d prefer we let the international police close up the Colle syndicate ahead of letting everyone know about your personal connection to Colle.”

  “I just want…I want the murders known and prosecuted,” I said. At first, the words were difficult to form, but soon they rushed out faster than I thought I could speak, “I didn’t know Paul-Henrì, but nothing anyone has said would give a valid reason for his murder. And I know my mother and Dexter didn’t deserve death. I know it will give Colle great pain to see his crime empire fall and his new address be some prison cell. But I don’t want anyone to forget his crimes when he went by the Beacham name. Those crimes were personal, and he believes he’s gotten away with them.”

  Jack walked over and took my hand, pulling me to my feet and into his arms.

  “I promise, I’ll make sure the right people know all the evidence against him,” he said, stroking my hair. “But we need to do this in steps. To keep you safe. You didn’t take the risk of contacting Moran and getting this thing accelerated just to bugger it by bringing the earlier murders up too quickly.”

  Passion is a difficult emotion to contain, especially when it’s tainted by revenge. However, I knew when to step away from the edge. “You’re right. The idea was to not only get him prosecuted for his crimes, but to try to get my life back to some semblance of safety and sameness. I’ll be ready to step forward when anyone needs me, but I’ll keep quiet while the cases are being built.”

  “I can only imagine how hard it is for you.”

  “Don’t even try,” I said. I pulled free and headed for the bathroom, so Jack wouldn’t see my tears of both relief and fury.

  Cassie got us terrific seats on a trans-Atlantic flight a couple of days later, after we both had doctor’s approval that cleared us for flying. She also promised she would keep Max from learning I was in his time zone and just a bridge ride away. Actually, we were even closer than that, as we spent over twenty-four hours seeing a couple of Broadway shows, devouring the best New York prime I’d ever eaten, and even doing a late-night carriage ride around the Park. The trip was a far cry from the flight in and out we experienced just a week before, and though the pace wasn’t as frenetic, we still fell into bed exhausted.

  The night of the concert, Clive sent one of the group’s limos to pick us up, and a tall attractive brunette met us at the back door.

  “Hi, I’m Shannon Binegar-Foster,” she said, shaking each of our hands. “I help Gordon Silver with his art, and Clive thought it would be a good thing if we met so I could be a kind of point person for you tonight. These concerts get really crazy as everyone in the group and crew is doing their job, and Clive didn’t want you feeling like you were on your own.” She grinned then and added, “Plus, Gordon thought it was an excellent idea if you and I met, Laurel. Sorry, Jack, but my boss is a little focused.”

  “Yes, we know,” Jack and I said together. We all laughed and climbed into the rear door. The chauffeur soon had us motoring across the bridge and out of New York.

  “Have you worked for Gordon long?” I asked.

  “About five years,” she said. “I’m an artist and was also a small business owner. Both of those combined have kept me versatile and still help me on all ends of being Gordon’s art-girl-Friday.”

  “So, you assist him in acquiring art?”

  “I tend to intercede when it’s necessary,” she said, waving a hand as she talked. “Gordon doesn’t have time for detail work, of course, so I do that. And I look at all the upcoming catalogs to see what sales are coming at Christie’s and Sotheby’s, both in public and private sales. I also talk to art sale agents. Sometimes Gordon will go after a piece that sold with a collection, for instance, because he’s only interested in the one work. Other times he wants to know all the works an artist or seller has for sale.”

  “He told me that he tries to stick with British artists.”

  “Exactly.”

  But she wasn’t British. Her accent was definitely American. “Did you answer an ad when he was looking for an assistant? Or did someone introduce you?”

  She laughed. “Believe it or not, I was visiting London and wandering through the National Gallery and found myself in the same room as Gordon. In fact, he stumbled into me while he was too busy looking at the paintings to realize anyone else was around. We started talking—well, mostly he did. I honestly didn’t know who he was, and just thought he was an art lover like myself. He told me about his collection, why he liked what he did. I lost track of time and suddenly realized I had to leave. He asked how he could get ahold of me, as he wanted one of his representatives to call me. I was hoping I could get something going for my artwork, so I gave him my card and pointed out I lived over here, not the U.K. A week later, I had a job offer, and I’ve never looked back.”

  She then switched the conversation to us, and admitted she recognized us from the media coverage. Especially me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Security around the group is tight, and you’ll be close enough to be part of the invisible cordon. I’ll get you a couple of Whyte Noyse caps if you want. That can help hide your eyes from gawkers.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The ride in was smooth and excitement free. Our reception at the venue was hurried but warm. Shannon was exactly right, everyone moved with purpose and had something to do all the time. We talked a few minutes in the group’s dressing room. The guys were the complete opposite from their crew, relaxing and picking chords on guitars. A makeup artist was working on Gordon, brushing his dark hair back from his face, and when we drew near he motioned her aside and waved us closer.

  “I thought you and Shannon should meet,” he told me, pretty much ignoring Jack after a quick handshake.

  “I absolutely agree, Gordon,” I said, finally pulling my hand out of his grip. “The next time you’re buying something at Sotheby’s or Christie’s let me know. If I’m free, I’ll meet her there.”

  “Fab, fab, yes.” He nodded and clapped Shannon on the shoulder. “I don’t buy in person. Tend to drive the price up that way, so I use phone bids. But I like having Shannon at the auctions, so she can give me the read of the rooms.”

  She’d told us all of that in the car on the way over, so Jack and I just nodded and let Gordon talk. We’d found that was the best approach. Eventually, someone reminded Gordon he needed to finish getting ready, which was Shannon’s cue to usher us out again. We ran into Clive, who looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter. This was the first time I’d ever seen him in concert mode, and the only time he’d ever appeared harried about anything since I’d met him.

  Our seats were perfect, the hats Shannon gave us helped disguise me from any social media lurkers, and soon the houselights came down, the show lights came on, and the music swelled as the group hit the stage. I’d never been that close before at a concert, and while I knew it was a perk, I never wanted to sit that close again. But it really was a new experience. I wondered if the doctor would have been as accommodating with his medical release if I’d told him I’d be hit with that many decibels on the trip. Jack had thought ahead, of course, and pulled earplugs out of his pocket and slipped two into my hand.

  The music was still overwhelming, but manageable.

  Much like the party we’d used for cover about a week ago, the music kept a driving beat I could feel throughout my veins. Not having a theft to orchestrate, however, made the evening much more enjoyable. Plus, the company was better. Even the fifty thousand or so in the surrounding seats and standing in the aisles.

  It seemed too soon when the rock ball was over, and this Cinderella had to return to her mundane
life. Okay, I was hoping it would become more mundane.

  Shannon took us backstage again to say goodbye to everyone and then led us to where the limo waited.

  “I’m heading on home from here,” she said. “But the driver will take you back to your hotel. And if you need anything before you leave, please give me or Clive a call. Here’s my card.”

  She passed her business card and I traded it for one of mine.

  “Be sure and call me when you’re in London,” I said. “Well, anywhere you’re going to an auction. I’m on the run a lot, so even if you’re in a different country I might be nearby.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, grinning. “I’ll email you when I head out of town, just in case we can meet.”

  “Definitely.”

  On the ride back, all of the energy that pulsed through us from the music and the crowd suddenly vanished.

  “I feel zapped,” I said.

  Jack pulled out his phone. “You and me both. I’m going to check my messages, then knock on the window and tell the driver to wake us when we get there.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t even thought about messages,” I said. I’d turned off my phone at the concert. When I pulled up emails, I felt like I got socked in the stomach. Before I could speak, Jack said, “The DNA match came back on the hair we gave to Cecil. It matches the sample the French got from Bentley. They can prove now that Bentley is Colle.”

  I stayed silent, staring at the subject line of my email.

  “What is it?” Jack took my phone and turned it so he could read. One of the entries earlier that evening was from the private lab where Jack sent my DNA swab and the hairs we found in the plastic bag in the file.

  “You don’t have to open it,” he said, putting the phone back in my hands.

  “I know.” Then I touched the screen. Putting off the information made no sense. I may not have known which result I wanted—or which was the most tolerable—but putting off knowing wasn’t going to change anything. I touched the screen and opened the message.