by Lisa Shearin
I took a bite of muffin and glanced at the coffeemaker. Still brewing. Grandad had found it on his last trip to Florence. I’d had to watch a video to learn how to use it. I liked my Keurig just fine, but Grandad considered them barbaric and coffee a ritual to be savored. What was barbaric was having to wait more than a minute for a cup of coffee, though I had to agree with Grandad on this one. That machine didn’t make coffee; it brewed elixir.
“Coffee’s almost done,” I said. “While I was waiting for the rent-a-commandos to arrive, I got close enough to the house to sense that he wanted me to walk in on him.”
Rees put his fork down. “For what purpose?”
“He didn’t elaborate. But when I tried to pull him off the wall, I got a big wave of frustration and anger. He was thinking that time is running out. He’s used to being in control, and now he’s being forced to react. He doesn’t like it one bit. This is a game to them—whoever they are—and it’s turned deadly, which I feel safe in assuming refers to Julian and Alan.”
“Julian Pierce was the chairman of the Senate’s intelligence committee,” Rees said. “This man recognizes who and what you are in the Russell Building, then breaks into your house three hours later. There’s a connection. We merely need to find out what it is.”
“There’s more than a connection,” I told him. “There’s a problem. He didn’t kick me. That’s just what I told the police. He picked me up and threw me—without using his hands.”
Berta went still. “Like Miss Eleanor?”
“Exactly like Miss Eleanor. Two of Simmons’s guys got the same treatment. The one that wasn’t knocked out said his attacker didn’t use a weapon, and he didn’t remember being hit. He just thought the guy was that fast.” I snorted. “At least the intruder’s secret is still safe.”
Berta and Rees knew about my encounter with Eleanor Franklin, and that she was the only psychokinetic my parents had ever treated or heard of with enough power to toss a human being like a sack of potatoes.
I waited for Rees’s reaction. I already knew how I felt about it. I was creeped the hell out. Especially with this guy working for or in some way connected to the intelligence community. I’d always heeded Grandad’s warning and had taken extra precautions to fly under the radar.
Tonight, I’d been detected by a man in the top one percent of PK talents. Then the bastard had broken into our family home, searched our office, drugged our cat (if only recreationally), and set off the alarm before vanishing into the night.
None of that was good.
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Grandad. I snatched it up. “There you are! I was—”
“I just heard that Julian—”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I paused. “I need you to call me back on Berta’s phone.”
Silence.
“Berta? Do I need to call from a landline?” His voice was calm and measured. He knew something was wrong.
“I think that would be best. Is that a problem?”
“No. I’ll call her phone in no more than ten minutes.”
While I waited, I fixed the coffee, pouring mine into a travel mug. I’d be taking this call outside. The sun was up. Yes, it was cold, but I needed to move.
Grandad called less than five minutes later. Rees was taking a call from Roger Hudson. Berta stayed inside to listen, but kept an eye on me through the kitchen window as I talked and paced. I was outside and on a phone that wasn’t mine, but I still kept my voice down.
“Berta picked me up at the airport and we went straight to the Russell Building,” I was saying.
“CNN claims it was a heart attack,” Grandad said. “So do the Post and the Times. That’s impossible. Julian’s heart was—”
“Agreed. Especially since Alan Coe was at the office with him and died the same way at the same time.”
Silence. “That wasn’t mentioned.”
“Good, though I’m not counting on it lasting much longer. Alan’s family has agreed to keep his death under wraps for now. They just looked like heart attacks. It was something else.”
That was as much as I could say about what I’d sensed from Julian and Alan. Grandad knew this. We never discussed our work over the phone. It was always face-to-face in a secure location. Until now, the town house had been a secure location. We’d been broken into at least twice—tonight and whenever those bugs had originally been planted.
“I’ll get an earlier flight,” Grandad said.
I heard a woman speaking flawless Parisian French in the background.
“One moment, darling,” he told me. He put his hand over the phone, but I could just hear his reply to the woman, also in French.
I smiled. When he came back on the line, I said, “Tell Madame Montfort I said hello.”
Collette Montfort was one of Grandad’s former colleagues and a close friend. What had begun in the ’60s hunting stolen art from World War II had ended after a long career with INTERPOL’s Works of Art Unit. She’d been at the Zurich conference, and she and Grandad had spent much of it together catching up on old times.
“I’ll do that. As soon as I have my flight information, I’ll text you. Ti voglio bene.”
“I love you, too.”
I ended the call. I didn’t tell him about the break-in. He’d worry, and I chose not to put that on his mind in addition to the death of his best friend. It was bad enough that he’d be stuck for nearly ten hours on a plane with that running through his head, I wasn’t about to add another source of stress he couldn’t do anything about.
I looked at the back wall where the intruder had gone over.
I was going to put that ten hours to good use.
CHAPTER 11
Berta and Rees had to leave. They had work to do.
So did I.
I assured them I was fine and that I’d be at their disposal when any new details surfaced. After they left, I armed the alarm, told Simmons’s two guards I was going for a run, and went to my apartment to gear up.
I didn’t lie. I was going for a run.
In the intruder’s footsteps.
They weren’t easy to find, but I did find them.
On the other side of the brick wall was the alley that ran behind the row of town houses. The entrance to the carriage house was less than twenty feet from where he’d landed. We’d had a light dusting of snow at some point last night. The sky was clear and the sun bright. Another hour and those tracks would’ve been gone. They’d have been easy to miss last night, especially since Simmons’s guys had been looking for a man, not his prints in the dark. I knew the man was long gone; I was searching for emotional traces.
I estimated that after he’d thrown me, I’d been flat on my back for a good thirty seconds. He’d taken down the two guards who’d intercepted him in the house, crossed the yard and gone up and over the wall in two seconds after he laid me out, and he would’ve been halfway down the block by the time anyone else had made it outside. The breath had been knocked out of me, but I’d pointed to where he’d gone over the wall to the first guard who’d run out of the house.
They hadn’t found him.
Now it was my turn.
He’d hit the ground running. Literally.
The estimate of his height at six two sounded about right from the spacing of the bootprints. The man could move, I’d give him that. The prints had turned right at the wall and gone down the alley to the end where he’d taken a left. The next block was commercial, with restaurants and boutiques.
And traffic cameras.
It’d be worth having Berta or Rees get hold of the footage from an hour before and after my unwanted guest had made his appearance and escape.
The prints were less clear the closer I got to the corner of the next block. There’d been more foot traffic this morning since he’d been here. That was fine. I no longer needed to use my eyes to see where his feet had been, I could sense him now. That few seconds of physical contact at th
e wall had let me pick up his psychic spoor. Certain personality traits revealed themselves to my psychic senses better than others. One of the most clarion-clear was arrogance. This guy had it in spades, though he probably thought of it as confidence. Yes, he was frustrated and angry, but he was good at his job, and his job had most recently been to break into and escape a home with the best security money could buy. The unexpected arrival of our own rented commando squad had shot a dose of adrenaline into his system. Arrogance and adrenaline. A potent combination that was leading me to his getaway vehicle. Yes, he could’ve had someone waiting for him, but this guy didn’t like giving up control. Men like that wouldn’t want to depend on a partner being there to pick them up. He’d have his own transportation.
A narrow alley ran behind the businesses from the corner to halfway down the block where it intersected with a short side street. That was where I started my search.
It didn’t take long.
He’d tucked it on the back side of a dumpster.
A motorcycle.
There was more than a dusting of snow here. The sun didn’t get back here, or if it did, it wasn’t for long. I took photos of where it’d been parked, taking note of the tread width and distance from front to back. Judging from the tread, the bike wasn’t a crotch-rocket, but it was close. I should be able to get the make, if not the model, from the tread photos. The footage from those traffic cameras could seal the deal. I was betting there wouldn’t be many six-foot-two men wearing all black on any of the surrounding streets in the hours before dawn. I could also call Laurence once I knew the make and model. He knew the local owners of American bikes, but he was linked in to the fast and foreign crowd. I had a feeling this bike would be in that category. I loved my Harley, but it and the soon-to-be-mine Indian weren’t built for crime-scene-getaway speeds.
I stood in in his tracks and let them and the surrounding air speak to me. He’d been relieved to find his bike safe and sound. He hadn’t wanted to leave it here, but he’d had no choice.
I found and followed the tread and footprints beside them to the end of the alley. He’d pushed the bike to the side street before starting it. Once there, he’d taken a left onto M Street.
I texted Rees and Berta to get the ball rolling on that traffic footage.
When the intruder was in our office, he’d wanted me to find him. I smiled and tucked my phone back into my jacket pocket. I was going to do everything I could to make his wish come true.
CHAPTER 12
Grandad was always easy to spot.
Ambrose Donati was from the generation that dressed up to travel, and that included a full suit and a hat. He was tall and distinguished, and when I wasn’t traveling with him, he usually had a flight attendant help him up the jet bridge. Being on a plane for nearly ten hours didn’t do good things for his circulation, and while he could disembark on his own, he nearly always found a pretty flight attendant to assist him, usually one he’d chatted with during the flight. She didn’t mind helping a charming, old-world gentleman, and Grandad certainly didn’t mind having a beautiful woman on his arm. Everyone was happy. And he wasn’t too proud to accept the electric cart waiting for him at the gate. At least not anymore. Airports were huge, and a drain on the endurance of much younger men. A couple of years ago, I’d started insisting that we request a cart to be waiting at the gate. When he’d originally balked at the idea, I told him to think of it as saving his strength for something worthwhile. That’d done the trick.
Grandad arrived in style at the Dulles baggage claim. The cart driver was female, young, and pixie cute. I should’ve known. I wondered if that’d been happenstance, or if Grandad had reserved her along with the cart. He was movie-star handsome and attracted plenty of attention wherever he went. I’d always thought he resembled Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., in his silver fox days. Grandad’s suit, topped by a long cashmere coat and a hat tipped at a rakish angle, only emphasized his aged swashbuckler look.
I suddenly regretted this afternoon’s wardrobe choices. I’d dressed for warmth and comfort, not New York Fashion Week.
It was too late now.
Grandad spotted me and his face lit up. “Ciao, bella!”
Instantly, everyone looked for the gorgeous creature that had to be the object of such a greeting. What they found was me. A few people glanced back and forth between the two of us in confusion.
I’ll have you know I clean up very well. Just not this afternoon.
I was wearing jeans and a sweater, topped by a fun and funky car coat I’d found in a vintage clothing store. I was wearing my favorite combat boots in deference to the slushy patches left from the last snow—and present circumstances. Grandad was Hollywood’s Golden Age. I was shabby chic—and proud of it.
Grandad used his cane to disembark. He didn’t really need it; he just liked the look of it. Like me, Grandad was fond of his accessories. He’d had his sword cane with him in Zurich, but he would’ve had to check it with his baggage.
I gave him a longer than usual hug, then slipped my arm through his.
“Ms. Harper, this is my granddaughter, Aurora. Aurora, this is Claire Harper.”
“Nice to meet you.” I reached in the back to get Grandad’s carry-on satchel. “Did he behave himself?” I asked with a smile.
“The perfect gentleman,” she assured me. “And so interesting to talk to.”
“Oh, he’s a talker all right.” Grandad found stolen and lost art for a living. For fun, he could meet someone and know their entire life history in less than ten minutes. Everybody in the art crime world knew him, and he knew them—everything about them. He was a networking master.
He gave her a dazzling smile and tipped his hat. “Never have I had such an entertaining and enjoyable journey from the gate. My thanks, Ms. Harper.”
Grandad waved and his smile faded as she drove away. “What an abysmal flight.”
I slid an arm around his waist in a hug. “I’m sorry. That’s a tough flight under the best of circumstances.”
“That you couldn’t tell me anything made it worse.”
“I know. And again, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you now. Turn off your phone.”
We walked close, our heads together, and our voices down. I told him everything I knew and had sensed, including at the crime scene, the town house, and the block beyond. To say he was angry that his home had been broken into was an understatement, but he didn’t blow up. Grandad wasn’t a blow-up kind of guy. He merely added it to the rage he had simmering at the murder of his best friend. Someone, or multiple someones, would pay in due time.
The ground crew was slow in unloading the luggage on Grandad’s flight, and for once I was grateful for the delay. We found seats away from any potentially prying eyes and ears where we could see any luggage arrive while I finished my report.
Grandad was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his hat between his hands, hands that worried at the brim. “Julian called me less than an hour before we left the house to fly to Zurich. He said he needed to see me.”
“Did he give any indication what it was about?”
“None. When I told him we were on our way out the door, he said it would keep until I got back. I didn’t believe him. I tried to get him to tell me over the phone, but he insisted it would keep. I accepted him at his word. If our conversations were being monitored, perhaps that was why this man was in our office last night.”
“So you don’t know anyone named David in relation to Julian?”
“No. But Julian kept his personal life strictly separate from his government work.” He sighed and sat back. “I should have pushed. I could have asked him to meet me here or gone to meet him and taken a later flight.”
“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”
“Julian’s dead, and Alan, too. I can’t believe it. Did you bring Julian’s watch with you?”
“In my bag. I wasn’t about to leave it at home.”
“
I can take a look at it during the drive.”
“No way. After ten hours on a plane, you’re exhausted. That watch packs a punch. I’m not about to have you pass out while I’m behind the wheel in rush-hour traffic. It can wait.”
“That’s what Julian said.”
The conveyor belt started and seconds later, luggage began moving into the claim area.
Grandad stood, leaning more than usual on his cane. “When did you last sleep?”
I got up and gathered my coat and Grandad’s carry-on. “Other than a two-hour nap just before sunup, I’ve been trying to remember, and I’m not really sure.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Once you’re home and rested, I’ll give you Julian’s watch. Then I might take another try with it.” I put my arm through his. “We can pass out together. Then it’ll be Gerald’s problem.”
CHAPTER 13
I’d driven Grandad’s vintage Mercedes to pick him up.
Like Grandad, it had all its original parts, no restoration, just classic elegance and grace. A real head-turner. He’d owned it since it was almost new. He’d only driven it around town and on the occasional trip up to New York, so the mileage was low for its age, which Grandad preferred to think of as life experience.
I knew that with his flight getting in around 4:00, we’d be right in the middle of Washington’s notorious rush-hour traffic going home, so I’d packed us a snack. Grandad thought airline food was intrinsically wrong. We Donatis lived life with our hearts and stomachs. I’d made prosciutto paninis with melted burrata cheese and cut them into bite sizes because Grandad was picky about eating in his car. I’d also included plenty of napkins to stave off any potential protests. I figured that the sandwiches and two bottles of Pellegrino would be enough to keep either one of us from getting peckish. Whether or not I experienced flashes of homicidal road rage was up to the other drivers. Too bad they didn’t make signs to put in your back window warning others of a sleep-deprived and irritated driver. But if there were such a thing, every car inside the Beltway would be sporting one.