Deceptive

by Sara Rosett

  Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Zoe cut him off. “I’m doing it.” Jack was already squinting in the bright sun, but his eyes slitted even more.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Think what it will mean. This mess will be over. You’ve been cleared of fraud charges, the money’s been traced to the painting, and now they know I didn’t take the money. If Gray is arrested, we’re in the clear. There’s nothing else to come back and bite us. It’s over. We can go on. We can look forward instead of always looking back over our shoulders.”

  “Right. That’s the main thing. To go forward and forget all this mess,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Jack, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “We’re here.”

  Zoe had been so involved in the conversation she hadn’t realized they were alongside the cruise ship. She huffed a sigh of frustration and followed Jack’s stiff back up the stairs. They swiped in and silently went to the customer service area where the security deposit boxes were located. Mort had boarded ahead of them, and they trailed him down the passageways. Once they were in the vault area, Mort nodded to them both, then introduced a man with close cropped dark brown hair who wore a tight polo shirt straining across a muscular chest and arms, plaid shorts, and espadrilles. “This is Major Cornelio Avera of the Italian Art Squad. He’s here to assess the painting and escort us back to Capri.”

  Zoe recognized him. He’d been on the tender with them, but she would have never thought he was a cop. He removed his aviator sunglasses and nodded briefly, but his attention was on the safety deposit box that had just been placed on a table in the middle of the room. The cruise ship attendant left, closing the door behind her.

  The room was small to begin with, and with four people, one of them as burly as Avera, the fit was extremely tight. Zoe bumped her elbows with Jack and Avera as she pulled the key off the chain around her neck. Avera perched his sunglasses on his head and pulled on a pair of white gloves. He waited, his hands held up like a surgeon ready for the operating room.

  Zoe opened the box and removed the plastic bag, then took out the first painting, the Monet. This was it, she thought, twisting the necklace chain through her fingers. If she’d taken the wrong painting... If it wasn’t really a Monet...

  Zoe wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a tiny, involuntary smile as Avera bent over the painting with a small magnifying glass. “Bella,” he murmured. Zoe relaxed and dropped the chain. She saw she’d been squeezing it so tightly that the ring had left an imprint in her palm.

  Avera carefully detached the clips and turned the painting over to examine the back, and then he stood. “It is a beautiful painting and appears to be the missing Monet.”

  “Appears?” Zoe asked.

  “I cannot verify it here, under these circumstances. That will require testing and more comparison, but I am satisfied.”

  Mort said, “If Avera is satisfied, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “What is this?” Avera removed the second painting from the plastic bag.

  “A fake. One from the villa we told you about,” Zoe said.

  “Ah, yes,” Avera said, “The villa of bad art, we are calling it.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, yes. I came from there. The fire brigade contacted us. They had to enter the villa to ensure that all the people were out. They saw the room of identical paintings.” He shrugged. “Suspicious, no?”

  “Yes, very,” Zoe agreed. “Were Anna and the man...what was his name?” She looked to Jack.

  “Georgio. Were they still there?”

  “Yes. The fire brigade kept them from reentering the property until we arrived. Once we secured the area, we took them into custody.”

  Mort said, “Avera confirmed what you told the police about the villa. That went a long way toward establishing your credibility last night.”

  “Do you know about Anna’s travel? Her trip to Paris and the one to Dubai? We wondered if she’d tried to sell a copy of the painting in Dubai.”

  “Her sales trips, yes. We are gathering details. She delivered a painting to a gallery in Dubai and then shortly after bought the villa. It appears the switch went so well they decided to try it again, thinking that going to a different geographic region would protect them from detection.”

  “Have you contacted the dealer she approached in Paris, Masard?”

  “Interpol has spoken with him,” Avera said. “He’s identified a photo of Anna Whitmore as the woman who attempted to sell the fake, not you. Another plus in your column.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Masard?” Mort asked. “Nothing, I imagine.”

  Avera nodded. “He’s done nothing wrong. He did not pay for the painting, and he contacted authorities. I realize he helped you out, by delaying contact with the police, but he is a good source for us to have.” He checked his watch. “We must get you and the painting back to Capri for the meeting.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ––––––––

  ZOE stood in front of Dock Five, wishing she’d brought her hat. The hot rays of the sun beat down on her and she could almost feel her skin tightening, shrinking away from the brilliant glare. She and Jack hadn’t spoken since their argument on the tender. Before she’d left for the dock, he’d wished her good luck, but his tone had been so reserved that she almost wished he hadn’t said anything. His quiet formality crushed her. She wanted his light banter and reassuring smile, but she only had herself to blame. She was the one who pushed him away.

  She recognized Oscar’s stiff-legged penguin-like stride as he moved between the open-top cabs ferrying tourists to their hotels. She switched the plastic bag from one hand to the other. There had been a loud debate about whether she should bring the imitation painting instead of the Monet, but Avera had finally prevailed, declaring it wasn’t a good enough fake to fool an expert. If Gray had someone to authenticate the painting they couldn’t take the risk of tipping him off too soon. The wire had also been declared too risky and removed.

  “Afternoon. Hot day, isn’t it?” His face was flushed, sweat beaded his hairline, and his loose golf shirt was ringed with patches of sweat under his arms.

  “You picked the time.”

  “May I?” he indicated the plastic bag.

  “I’ll hold onto it,” Zoe said, but opened the bag so that he could see the painting inside.

  “Excellent. This way.”

  She followed him to a marina at one end of the harbor where he escorted her onto a small motorboat. She took a seat, and Oscar sat down beside her. Another man, who didn’t speak to them, cast off and maneuvered the boat out of the harbor into the open water. As soon as they cleared the harbor walls, the boat turned left, westward, in a sweeping curve. Zoe breathed a small sigh of relief.

  They were staying near Capri, not cutting across the water to Naples. The police had several plans ready, each one set up for a different scenario, but Zoe didn’t like the idea of trekking across the open bay with only Oscar and the silent captain.

  She kept one hand on the painting and clasped the other over the clip in her hair at the back of her head, a perfectly natural reaction to the wind that teased long strands away from the clip and tossed them across her face as the captain increased their speed.

  She knew there were boats in the water, watching her movements, relaying their course via radio to the back room of the restaurant along the harbor, where they’d gone over the plans one last time. Her cell phone was turned on and the tracking app was still on it. She knew Jack, still in the restaurant back room, was watching her movement on it, but he’d insisted it wasn’t enough. Mort and Russo, the Carabinieri officer with the tinges of gray at his temples, had agreed.

  Several options had been hotly debated—it seemed the Italians were passionate about everything, including tracking devices—but in the end, they had all agreed that the smallest was the best. A thin black square about the length of a paperclip had
been taped to the inside of the hairclip she’d found in her bag.

  The boat hugged the island, cutting through the waves. Oscar’s short hair pulsed against his scalp as he pointed out the Blue Grotto as if they were on a sightseeing tour. Normally, Zoe would have leaned over the edge of the boat to get a better view, but she was so tense right now that she barely glanced at the crush of rowboats grouped around the crevice where the white limestone met the sea. A layer of green vegetation covered the rise above the limestone escarpment like icing on a cake, the deep green contrasting sharply with the band of grayish-white limestone.

  Their boat skimmed over the water and even though it was fairly calm, Zoe felt a surge of nausea. She’d never been seasick in her life, but she definitely felt queasy. The scenery whipped by, another village cascading down to the sea, then an imposing lighthouse perched on a headland, but Zoe barely glanced at them, concentrating instead on breathing steadily as she told herself the boat ride couldn’t last much longer.

  “The faraglioni,” Oscar said, drawing her attention back to the view. “The sea stacks,” he explained, pointing to the three massive rocks. One was still attached to the island, but the other two rose from the sea, weathered and rugged. The center of the middle stack had worn away, leaving an arch-like opening that dwarfed the boats angling through it. The sea suddenly felt crowded and the captain cut back on their speed. Tourist boats, small motorboats, sailboats, and yachts congregated around the sea stacks. Zoe thought they were heading to the needle-like opening, but then the boat angled and made for one of the yachts, a blue and white monstrosity with three decks, jet skis, and a helicopter.

  Their captain edged up to the yacht, and Oscar waved her ahead of him up a short set of stairs attached to the side of the yacht. She climbed up with one hand, keeping the painting gripped to her side. A sturdy man with a ruddy face and long greasy hair blocked her at the top. He reached for the plastic bag. Zoe shrunk away from him. There was nowhere else to go but back down the stairs, and Oscar was there below her, blocking her retreat.

  “Antonio will be careful with the painting,” Oscar said.

  “I’m not letting go of it until I personally give it to Mr. Gray.”

  Antonio stepped aside, and Zoe took a step forward, surprised her little speech worked.

  As she passed him, he grabbed her free arm and twisted it against her back at an angle that sent a spear of pain through her shoulder. She gasped and tried to rotate out of his grip, but he was too strong.

  Oscar plucked the painting from her as she struggled. “I will keep this. I suggest you let Antonio finish his search.”

  What else could she do? She wasn’t a match for the thuggish Antonio. She nodded, and Antonio slowly released his grip on her arm, making Zoe think of a cat lifting its paw from a mouse so it could torment the mouse. Antonio patted her clothing and even checked her shoes, but didn’t even look at the clip in her hair. He motioned for her to open her messenger bag. She pulled the flap back, and he pawed around inside, then pulled out her phone. After a glance at it, he casually flicked it over the side of the boat.

  “Hey! That was my phone.”

  Antonio grinned.

  “No electronics on the boat,” Oscar said as he held his arms out to be patted down.

  Thank goodness she’d left her laptop on the island. Antonio didn’t seem to enjoy checking Oscar for weapons or electronics, avoiding the sweaty patches on his shirt. Finally, he stepped back, and Oscar said, “This way.”

  He guided them to the back of the boat to a deck with a view of the sea stacks. As they walked, Zoe realized that she wasn’t feeling seasick and decided it must be because the enormous boat felt so solid and still in the water. They reached the deck at the rear of the boat, where a white leather sofa larger than a king size bed and an array of chaise lounges in teak with thick white cushions were angled toward the sea stacks.

  “Well done, Ms. Hunter. Well done.”

  Zoe turned toward the voice. She’d completely missed him. Gray had been seated under a canvas awning that stretched over an oblong table large enough to seat eight people. She recognized him from the photo she and Jack had found on-line. His baldhead shone with a gleam of perspiration. He wasn’t wearing a three-piece suit, but his casually expensive collared polo, khakis and leather loafers were probably almost as expensive as an off-the-rack suit.

  He’d risen, leaving a china plate smeared with tomatoes and cheese alongside discarded heavy silverware and a half-full glass of wine. Oscar had stripped the plastic bag off the painting and set it on an easel positioned below the awning in a corner near an entrance to what Zoe assumed was a cabin. Oscar dropped into a seat at the table and reached for the wine and a fresh glass from one of the unused place settings.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Hunter,” Gray said, motioning to the table. “Wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked in an absent-minded way, his attention focused on the painting. He adjusted his circular glasses and stroked his neatly trimmed gray beard. This was an international criminal? He looked like a college professor scanning an essay. “Claudia, it’s here,” he called, and a woman in a white linen pantsuit with light brown hair emerged from the doorway. Zoe wasn’t sure what her role was, but then she snapped on thick lensed, rectangular glasses with dark frames and pulled on white gloves as she leaned over the painting beside Gray. Ah, art expert, Zoe thought, scanning the deck and then gazing out at the water as nonchalantly as she could.

  Where were they? They’d told her they would move in as soon as Gray had the painting.

  Gray and the woman, Claudia, murmured in low voices. She lifted the painting and checked the back while Zoe watched Antonio circle along the edge of the deck. He moved his arm, and the hem of his shirt rose, revealing the butt of a gun tucked at his hip.

  Beyond his shoulder, she saw a mid-sized gray boat heading their direction. Antonio’s progress along the railing checked. It had caught his attention, too. Zoe said, “On second thought.” She reached for the wine and managed to knock over both a wine glass and the bottle of wine. The glass exploded against the deck. Antonio jerked toward the sound.

  The wine bottle trundled over the table, spewing ruby liquid across the china and linen. Several drops spattered onto Oscar. “Oh! Oh, my. I am so sorry,” Zoe said, and she didn’t have to fake her horror. How much had that wine glass cost, not to mention the wine? She lunged for the wine bottle, bumped the table, and the rest of the glasses rocked.

  “Please, Ms. Hunter, have a seat.” Gray left the painting and came to pull out a chair for her. He shushed Oscar, who was sputtering and daubing at his shirt.

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Do not worry,” Gray soothed. “You have brought me my Monet. What is a little wine, a broken glass? Nothing.”

  Already, there was a woman bending over the glass slivers, sweeping them into a dustpan.

  Zoe dropped into the seat he held for her, watching the gray boat as it neared. Antonio saw it, too, and called, “Guardia di Finanza.”

  Gray sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. It is too late to outrun them now. Show them the paperwork then get rid of them.” He waved Antonio away then turned to me. “The tax police. Such a tedious business.” He picked a fresh glass and opened a new bottle of wine. “They are making a nuisance of themselves, boarding luxury yachts and checking forms. They will run off all the yachts from Italy, if they are not careful,” he said with a wry smile and returned to the painting.

  Zoe scanned the deck, considering her options. Mort had said the Italian authorities anticipated Gray would go quietly and set his lawyers to work, looking for loopholes. It was the way he usually operated. But Antonio had a gun, and he seemed like the type to put up a fight.

  Zoe heard a muffled thump. Oscar, still occupied with his shirt, didn’t look up. Neither did Gray or Claudia. Zoe set her glass down carefully and calculated the distance from her chair to the sofa. She wanted to be as far aw
ay from Gray as possible when he figured out what was going on.

  It was almost anticlimactic when it happened. Four men in gray uniforms with gold-capped sleeves, two on the port side and two on the starboard side, filed onto the deck. They carried revolvers aimed at Oscar and Gray.

  “Do not move,” barked one of the men. Zoe saw the gray at his temples. It was Russo, but she didn’t have time to look at anyone else before Gray’s laughter drew her attention back to him.

  “The tax police? This is truly entertaining—it will make a fabulous dinner party story—but I assure you, my paperwork is in order. You have no issue with me. I am a law-abiding citizen.”

  “I think not, Signore Gray.” Russo placed one hand on his chest. “You see, we are the Carabinieri, and they,” he pointed to his companions, “are with Interpol.”

  A flicker passed over Gray’s face and while all attention was on him, Oscar jumped up from the table. Zoe stood, too, backing away from the table and out of Oscar’s range, but he barreled into the Carabinieri officer, who squared up to meet the blow. It looked like Oscar ricocheted off a wall. He rebounded, arms flailing, but another gray uniformed man restrained Oscar even before he regained his balance.

  While that commotion was going on, Gray spun, grabbed the Monet, and flung it as hard as he could toward Zoe, aiming high so that it would sail over her head, past the railing, and into the sea. The square of cardboard it was attached to spun through the air, pin wheeling over Zoe’s head, the canvas flickering in the wind.

  Zoe took two steps back, extended her arms and jumped. Her hands came together over her head, closing in a slap that fastened the cardboard and canvas between her palms, but an instant later her hip hit the railing, and she began to tip. A hand gripped her shoulder and yanked her back to the deck.

  It was Sato’s face above the gray uniform. “Good catch.”

  ***

  “BUT why did he try to throw it overboard?” Kathy asked.

  She and Mort had asked Sato, Zoe, and Jack to join them for dinner. They were gathered around a restaurant table at the very edge of a terrace wedged into the slope of the hillside above the harbor and had the most spectacular view of lights of Capri harbor twinkling on the black water and the slice of moon overhead. Mort said, “It was a good diversion, but most likely, it was his attempt to get rid of the evidence.”