Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  “Glad to have solved that problem,” she replied dryly. “Now, let’s get back to this business.

  “There are potentially four couples we can look at—that’s assuming a connection between the folks with matching last names. And it’s also assuming there’s no connection between those without.”

  Blake suppressed a grin. This was quintessential Ella. She made the average, run-of-the-mill assumption any investigator would make, then compounded the issue by overthinking it.

  He cast his eyes over the names on the sheet of paper between them. Linda and Glen Cottman. Jane and Dennis Elks. Beverly and Peter Standish. Bonnie and Dale Benson.

  Four couples. Potentially married. Hopefully—for the health of this case—going through a divorce. The women with silver Mercedes Benzes that matched the one Sofia had been driving; the men all clients of the victim.

  “We know whoever gave Reynolds the etching was a client,” he said, raising his eyes. “Doesn’t have to be a client, but it’s the most likely assumption.”

  Ella nodded earnestly. “So if one of those four couples don’t work out, we concentrate on the male clients on Reynolds’ list.”

  “Yup. His killer was a man. Someone who knew him.”

  “That makes sense.”

  She glanced down, scrutinizing the paper as though it might yield some secret wisdom.

  “By the way, forgot to mention Mailand called.”

  “Yeah? What did he say?”

  “Reynolds’ story checks out. A Paso mailman, who was in the habit of stopping at a certain neighborhood to get with his married chick, was bribed into letting some guy borrow his vehicle on the day Reynolds arrived in town.”

  “He get a name, description?”

  “Nope,” Ella said. “No name and the description’s too generic to be of much use. But he has persuaded the guy to come back and meet with their sketch artist.”

  “Fine.” Blake wasn’t much interested in this aspect of the investigation. It was probably some Boston guy—one of the many enforcers the General employed for this kind of thing.

  Bugger probably couldn’t, Blake figured, do much further damage. Celine’s concerns notwithstanding.

  He tapped the sheet of paper between them. “You good with this plan?”

  “Yes, but”—sunlight hit her round glasses making them gleam when Ella lifted her head—“it would be easier if you could get Sofia to tell us which one of these people it is that we’re looking at.”

  “I know. I’ve tried talking to her.” He had—just before he’d returned to the office. “She won’t budge. I don’t blame her. Her friend’s life is in danger.”

  “All the more reason to come forward.” Ella’s lips tightened into an obdurate line. Emotion seemed to play no part in her calculations. She was all logic.

  At least that was how she came across to Blake. Did she really not get how much was at stake for someone in Sofia’s position? How impossible it might be to make a careless decision that could betray her friend and cost the woman her life?

  Ella was staring at him, waiting for a decision. He resisted her silent goading.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s Sofia’s call to make. Not mine.”

  But there was another reason for his reluctance. He’d never been able to forget what had happened to Grayson Pike. The man had been a washed-up loser of a guy, but he hadn’t deserved to be brutally murdered in broad daylight—a few yards away from an FBI agent.

  Blake’s gut tightened. He already had blood on his hands. He didn’t want anymore.

  He met Ella’s gaze squarely, daring her to keep goading. To his surprise, she let the matter drop.

  Instead, she lobbed a grenade at him.

  “What does Celine think?”

  Damn. Celine wanted him to get Sofia to cooperate. Had specifically asked him to persuade her.

  Blake glared at Ella. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “I guess I’ll find out. But she better be willing to put her money where her mouth is.”

  The tinny sound of Vivaldi’s Summer was quickly curtailed. “Hello?”

  “Blake here. You still think Sofia and her friend need to come forward?”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Sofia was closing up Rose Antiques when Celine and Julia returned to Newbury Street. Her head jerked, twisting around at the sound of her name when Celine called out to her.

  It was clear Sofia hadn’t expected them back. Her dark eyes fell on them, wide with alarm and despair.

  “I’ve made my decision,” she said. “I’m not going to ask her to do this. I can’t do it.”

  She returned to the business of locking the store entrance, shoulders hunched, head bent. As though ignoring them would will them away.

  Julia followed her up the steps.

  “Isn’t that her decision to make?” she asked. The former fed glanced around at Celine, tilting her head to indicate Celine should come up as well.

  But Celine found herself unable to move.

  Sofia’s misery was palpable—a little more prodding and she’d cave. There was no doubt about that. The insight gave Celine pause.

  Was she right to insist Sofia’s friend come forward? If anything happened to the woman, the responsibility would lie squarely with Celine. Not with Blake—who hadn’t had the stomach to force Sofia to go against her will—but with her. Not that Celine could blame Blake.

  It had been her idea, after all. Not his. And he’d been only too eager to wash his hands off it.

  “Celine,” Julia muttered fiercely, tilting her head in the direction of Sofia’s back again.

  She had to do something. But what? Her hand remained glued to the wrought-iron parapet, her feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.

  Sister Mary Catherine, help me, she begged.

  There’s danger, Celine. It swirls around her friend.

  “Your friend is in danger,” Celine repeated the nun’s warning to Sofia.

  “I know.” Sofia clutched the door handle, leaned against it, and closed her eyes. “I can’t risk her life.”

  There’s no saving her, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said.

  Like Grayson? Celine’s heart tightened. But how can I tell Sofia that?

  You must play your part, Celine. What is meant to be will be no matter what you do.

  Jesus Christ! Celine forced herself up the steps. When she was nearly at the top, she reached out a tentative hand and touched Sofia.

  “Your friend is in grave danger, Sofia. From the same man who killed Tony.”

  “What do you mean?” Sofia turned, her face streaked with mascara-stained tears. A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “What do you see?”

  “Only that the man who killed Tony—the same man who gave him the etching to hide—will kill your friend.”

  Sofia gasped—an audible explosion of stunned disbelief. Her knuckles turned deathly white.

  Celine could envision what was going on in her mind. Pieces Sofia had never put together were falling into place—being reshuffled like a deck of cards into order.

  “It’s her husband, isn’t it?” Celine pressed. “Her husband who killed Tony.”

  Sofia closed her eyes, wordless. But the tightening of her lips was all the response Celine needed.

  “He’s a dangerous man,” she continued softly. “He’ll stop at nothing to protect himself from the wrath of those above him.”

  Sofia opened her eyes.

  “If we can stop him,” Celine went on, “we can bring the men above him, the men he fears, to justice.”

  “Those men have killed before,” Julia added.

  Sofia turned mutely toward her.

  “They killed Celine’s employer in Paso Robles as well as a painter and a potential eyewitness we’d located. It was because of them that your friend’s husband felt he had no choice but to kill Tony. And because of them that he’ll strike out at his wife.”

  Sofia straightened up.

  “Fine,” she choked out
the word, the acquiescence wrung out of her. Turning, she fumbled with the key in the lock. “Fine, I’ll call her. But it’s her choice, okay?” She looked over her shoulder. “Her decision to speak with you or not.”

  She managed to get the door open.

  “I’ll give you a call when I’m done.”

  She was about to close the door when Celine wedged her hand between it and the doorjamb.

  “Sofia, you knew Tony well. Where would he have hidden the etching? If he’d realized he couldn’t let B—” The name on the tip of Celine’s tongue evaporated. “Your friend’s husband,” she amended, “have it back?”

  Sofia’s mouth stretched into a wan smile. “If he had time to think about it, it would’ve been somewhere of significance to him.”

  “A sculpture?”

  “Sure. Either a piece with a hidden compartment or a piece he wouldn’t mind breaking open.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “I hear you had a visit from the feds.”

  Sofia closed her eyes. She wished she hadn’t answered the call. She’d been about to dial the number of the shelter in Quincy when Dom called. And not having caller ID, she’d made the mistake of picking up the receiver. God, what a drastic error that had been!

  She wasn’t ready to deal with Dom.

  His voice, tight with anger, sapped her body of energy, made her back hurt as though she had the flu. No, she definitely wasn’t ready to deal with him.

  “Yes, Dad,” she whispered into the receiver, bracing herself for the onslaught that would surely follow.

  “I can’t hear you, Sofia.”

  “Yes,” she said a little more firmly. She opened her eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  “What about?” Dom demanded harshly. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No, Dad.”

  Dom didn’t seem to believe her.

  “No?” His voice barely rose, but had she been lying, the strong note of skepticism she heard would’ve made her quail. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Sofia’s patience was wearing thin, her temper rising. “They asked about breaking into Tony’s apartment. I admitted to it. They aren’t pressing charges.”

  “So, they’re okay with you breaking into a crime scene?”

  She didn’t bother to respond. She’d copped to it, explained her side of the story, and they’d seemed to understand. At least the young girl—the psychic—seemed to get it.

  “What about Tony’s warehouse? They okay with you breaking in there as well, Sofia?”

  God, how did he know about that? She noticed the slip in his syntax as well—a sure sign of wrath so uncontrollable, he couldn’t be bothered to speak correctly.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach, forcing herself to calm down.

  “It wasn’t my presence there that bothered them, Dad. It was what they found there.”

  She felt him relax—even over the phone, she was aware of that, she had no idea how. He emitted a chuckle—a throaty chortle of amusement.

  “So they’ve discovered your lover was a forger. The whole world will know his shame now.”

  “No, Dad.” She straightened up, incensed now. “What they’ve deduced is that someone planted those works there—most likely whoever killed him.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “I’m surprised your contacts didn’t break that news to you. It would be obvious even if they didn’t have other evidence to hang their theory on.”

  “What evidence?”

  It was a simple question—she had no reason to believe he was mocking her—but it irritated her, nonetheless.

  “How should I know? They didn’t give me specifics. But I’ve been wondering—and they are, too—why Hugh Norton didn’t destroy those works. All those years ago when he discovered them and thought Tony had betrayed his trust, why didn’t he destroy them?”

  “Sofia—”

  “You told me Norton took them away from Tony, didn’t you? That’s what you said. You still trust the guy?”

  “I have no reason not to, Sofia. And this cockamamie theory of yours—”

  “It’s not my theory, Dad, it’s what they believe.” That wasn’t entirely true, she knew. But the feds did have their suspicions. At least the young girl did. “They have a psychic—”

  “Who came to you fishing for information? My child, that’s how these charlatans work. You’re thirty-eight, Sofia. You can’t be that naïve.”

  She resented that comment. He’d always treated her like a child—a stupid, brain-dead infant.

  “You know what else they believe? They think Hugh Norton’s accountant—that stand-up guy you call the Rock?—they think he murdered Tony. Are you going to support our mutual friend if it turns out he’s a murderer?”

  She’d managed to silence Dom. Apart from his labored breathing, there was no sound.

  “Does this have anything to do with your friend?”

  “You’re damn right, it does. Her life’s in danger. Because of what she knows, what she’s seen. If you weren’t such a misogynist, Dad, if you didn’t believe that all women are over-emotional, overwrought toddlers given to mindless temper tantrums, you’d have taken her plight more seriously.

  “And if you weren’t blinded by your hatred of Tony, you’d realize there was good in him. He wasn’t a bad man, he wasn’t a criminal. He died trying to return the Gardner’s art.”

  Hot tears spilled out of her eyes. Why had she judged Tony so harshly? Why hadn’t she listened to him? Now he was dead.

  She felt a hand stroking her head. She could’ve sworn it was Tony’s. It was just her imagination, she knew, recreating his presence. Tony was gone.

  Fresh tears welled up.

  “What have you decided to do?” Dom’s voice was quiet, resigned. “What do you want to do for your friend?”

  “She’s coming forward, Dad. She’s going to talk to the feds. It’s the only way to keep her safe.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Celine plucked her phone out of her shoulder bag. The screen sprang to life, portraying an image of the Delft, the moment she touched the home button.

  “No calls, no messages,” Julia commented, looking down at Celine’s phone.

  They’d returned to the Boston Plaza Hotel and were riding up the elevator to their room. But there was still no word from Sofia.

  Yet, Celine reminded herself. No word yet.

  “She’ll get in touch,” she said more firmly than she felt as the elevator doors slid open, revealing the carpeted hallway that led to their suite.

  It’s not safe. The message beeped urgently in her mind as she dropped into the living room couch. It’s not safe.

  She was about to repeat the message to Julia when the phone trilled, interrupting the din in her brain.

  Celine grabbed it, putting it on speaker. “Sofia?”

  “She’ll meet you.” Sofia’s voice sounded tense, strained. “But only you and your friend.”

  “Julia?” Celine softly asked.

  “Yes. Please—I beg of you—please don’t involve the police. Not just yet.”

  Julia bent forward. “We understand, Sofia. And you have my word, it’ll just be the two of us—Celine and me.”

  It’s not safe. The message played itself over and over in Celine’s head. It’s not safe.

  “Where are we meeting?” she asked out loud. “Is it safe?”

  Safe for whom? Herself? Sofia and her friend?

  It’s not safe.

  But Sister Mary Catherine had told her there was nothing she could do. She had a role to play, and she must play it, come what may. She ignored the warning beeping incessantly in her mind.

  “Sorry, what?” She’d missed Sofia’s words.

  “Don’t worry, I know the place,” Julia mouthed, nodding at her.

  “The Prudential Mall,” Sofia said a little louder, obviously repeating herself. “It’s a four-minute walk from my store. You take Newbury, heading toward Exeter, go up to Gloucester. Turn left an
d then take another left onto Boylston.”

  “Okay,” Julia leaned into the mouthpiece. “Then what?”

  “Take the elevator up to Dunkin Donuts. That’s where we meet.”

  “Is it safe?” Celine asked again. “Is this safe for your friend?”

  Her gut was twisting, wrenching inside of her in pain. There was something wrong with this plan. But she couldn’t figure out what.

  “It’s the safest place I can think of,” Sofia replied. “Why? What do you see?”

  Celine shook her head helplessly. “Nothing. I don’t see a thing. I was just confirming that it is safe.”

  “There’s a church in the building—St. Francis Chapel.”

  “They’re sheltering your friend,” Celine read Sofia’s mind. “She feels safe meeting close by, but she doesn’t want to involve them.”

  “Yes.” Sofia hesitated. “There’s one other thing. If what she tells you gives you cause to investigate her husband, could you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Keep it discreet?” Julia guessed.

  “Yes. Yes, just in case—” Sofia broke off again.

  “Just in case you’ve misjudged her husband?” Celine asked. She sensed the thoughts running through Sofia’s mind. And she understood why.

  “Just in case there’s an innocent explanation for all this,” Sofia said, more firmly this time. “They were deeply in love at one time—like Tony and me. Maybe she’s—”

  “She’s not mistaken about this, Sofia,” Celine said. “He’ll sacrifice her to protect himself if he has to. Tony would never do that to you. You know that now, don’t you?”

  “Y-yes.” Her voice was thick with tears. Celine could barely understand her.

  Tell her about Tony, Sister Mary Catherine directed her.

  “Tony thanks you for believing in him, Sofia.”

  “What?”

  “In the store,” Celine explained, “when you felt his presence, it wasn’t your imagination. He was stroking your hair, just like he used to.”

  “Oh, God!” Sofia sobbed.

  Celine let her quietly weep for a few seconds.