Imperfect Forgery: (A Dark Romantic Suspense)

by G. D. Madsen

  Imperfect Forgery

  G.D. Madsen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  End Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  A lonely snowflake waltzes its way from the sky into my tiny palm. I bring it up to my nose and examine its delicate lace carvings, wondering if there is another equal to the one rapidly melting in my warm hand.

  Will its friends miss it enough to come looking for it, only to melt in the end and turn to ice under my oversized rain boots?

  It was raining cats and dogs in the morning, as Mama likes to say, but now everything is freezing, including my feet. I wiggle my icy toes and pull down my cardigan sleeves from under my blue autumn coat. I tuck my hands inside the pockets filled with stones and seashells.

  My fingers run over the edges of the treasure I collected at Coney Island with my mom and dad. He came back home with us and helped me blow out the seven candles on the cake Mama baked. I hope my dad would stay with us this weekend again!

  With my eyes closed, I tilt my head up, mimicking the way children pray in those old paintings from the museum my dad and I visit every Friday. He has a story about each picture. He makes them up, but I do not care. The sound of his voice is enough for me to believe his every word when he speaks.

  "Dad, where are you?" I whisper, my teeth chattering.

  The art class ended a while ago, and all the other children left with their parents, while I am left here standing alone under a street lamp illuminating the school stairs. Dad is late, but he will come. He always does.

  A cluster of snowflakes touches down on the tip of my nose. I chuckle, sticking my tongue out to catch more, and an idea of what to paint during my next art class pops up in my head.

  I will paint a girl, standing outside, her wild curls trying to escape from under her hat with a fluffy ball on top. She’ll be wearing a blue coat just like mine, and huge boots. Snowflakes will land on her tongue and smiling face because her dad is coming to pick her up and take her to another museum, where the paintings will come to life again in front of her eyes.

  "Privet, Pupsik!" My dad catches me in his arms and lifts me up like I am a weightless feather. I snort from how hard I laugh when his beard tickles my face. I only stop laughing when he puts me down.

  "Dad," I narrow my eyes, just like Mama does every time she tries to appear angry. "You should say hello – wait – how do you say 'pupsik' in English?"

  He kisses my cheeks and smiles. "You don't. You are my Pupsik, and I am not going to change it to any English word. And guess what?"

  "What?"

  My dad takes my hand when we start to walk. "You will always be my Pupsik."

  "Papa, ya tebia ochen liubliu," I tell him in Russian because it means a lot for him to hear me say I love him very much in the language he wants me never to forget.

  "I love you too," he answers in English.

  "More than all the stars combined?" I ask, looking up at him when we enter the usual dark alley – our shortcut to the museum.

  His hand tightens around mine. "Much more!"

  Even in the dim light, I still notice his eyes shining. Is my dad crying?

  For a while, there is only the sound of our footsteps. The warmth of his hand slowly defrosts my fingers. Snowflakes land on his paint-stained, rough skin and melt away. "More than all the snowflakes in the clouds?"

  "Much, much more!" Dad laughs, wiping his cheek. "And when you give your heart to somebody special, I will still love you."

  "No! I would die without a heart!"

  "Pupsik..." Dad squats in front of me, trying to suppress his smile. Why does he find this funny? Nobody can live without a heart. "One day you will meet a wonderful man, and you will love him more than there are snowflakes in the clouds, and he will love you back more than all the stars combined. You will give him your heart, and he will give you his."

  That makes no sense! Why would I want somebody else's heart when I have my own?

  "No, no, no!" I shake my head. My hat lands on the snow, my curls jumping all directions like crazy springs.

  Dad picks my hat up and shakes the snow off. I giggle mischievously, refusing to help him get my springs under control and put my hat back on.

  "Ew!" I squint and cover my eyes to shield them from the annoying car lights in front, but my dad grabs my wrists.

  "Judy, I need you to be brave now!" He pulls my hands off my face.

  The first thing I notice is my hat on the ground, and when I look at my dad, his face resembles the snow around us.

  "Begi, i ne smotri nazad! Begi!" He pushes me behind him, and I run. I run, and I don't look back, just like he told me to.

  Only when somebody pops a balloon behind me do I stop. The sound makes my ears ring and scares all the sleepy alley pigeons into leaving their shelter. They fly frantically above my head.

  I turn around but see no balloon. Instead, I see my dad stumbling to the ground.

  "Begi!" he yells for me to run again, but my feet are frozen to the pavement.

  My eyes follow the arm of a shadow-figure holding something, and pointing it at my dad.

  Another pop shakes all the blind windows above.

  “Papa!” I do not care what he told me, I rush to him, but one boot slips off my foot, and I fall. Seashells fly out of my pockets and disappear in the snow.

  Tears and melting snowflakes stream down my cheeks as I crawl and dig through the thickening white blanket covering the street, desperate to recover my lost treasure.

  In no time, a large shadow blocks the dim light. It looms over me, and I wish more than ever I could turn into a snowflake and melt away.

  The scary figure grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet. "Don't cry. I am going to be your father now."

  Seventeen years later

  Chapter 1

  Lavinia

  My phone screen turns dark for the third time, and so does my hope of reaching Mauro in time. Desperation is taking over my reason for I am ready to beg if I must and face any humiliating punishment Mauro comes up with, just to avoid facing him.

  If Mauro tells him I ruined the painting again, I am as good as dead.

  I wish.

  Death never comes when I am at Father's mercy. Death is a luxury I am deprived of.

  My trembling fingers refuse to press the correct keys again, and I nearly toss the phone across the room.

  Father forbade me from saving any numbers on my phone and forced me to memorize them by heart.

  Every. Single. Number.

  Nevertheless, tonight my memory is like a canvas resembling a contemporary art piece with random digits and names scattered across it. I am incapable of placing a number and a name together.

  I slowly breathe in, ho
ld my breath for a few seconds, and empty my lungs of air before trying one last time. The long beeps sound like the beacon of hope in my head. Then they stop. Mauro finally decides to answer.

  "Hello?"

  What?!

  "Who is this? Where is Mauro? Please, I really need to talk to him." All my attempts to remain calm are failing me. My voice shakes, and so do my hands.

  "Mauro? Who the hell is Mauro?" The stranger's voice sounds groggy as if I had woken him up from sleep. "Listen, lady, I think you got the wrong number."

  No! Who is this?

  I repeat the number in my head, and my entire body shudders with the memory of how I learned it. I was never supposed to, though.

  "I am sorry," I mumble, petrified I might have called some of Father's puppets. "I am so sorry for disturbing you... I... it won't happen again..."

  "Whoa, lady!" The voice sounds a bit more awake now. "Relax, shit like this happens from time to time. No need to apologize." A pause that lasts forever. "Sure, you woke me up from my drunken slumber... Not the end of the world, however. Not the kind I would've hoped for, at least."

  My breath catches. This is none of my business, and I should not pry. "Are you okay?" I ask quicker than I can stop myself from asking.

  "Peachy," he replies. I imagine a sneer on his lips by the way he articulates the word. "Exactly like the guy who emptied half a bottle of whiskey would..."

  "Wish I had one myself..." Another irresponsible comment flies out of my mouth.

  The stranger chuckles. "Bad day, huh?"

  "You have no idea..." What is wrong with my lose tongue tonight?

  "Want to talk about it?" His voice becomes softer.

  I do…

  I want to scream about it! About every single day of my life, every fake smile I present, every cry I suppress... About the vague and blurry memories of my childhood. My soul still begs me to find my voice, but I fear I never will.

  "Do you?" I ask instead. "I mean, do you want to talk about that empty bottle of whiskey?"

  He laughs, and without even knowing the man, I can tell there is sadness behind that desperate laughter. "Do you like sob stories?"

  "As long as they are real," I answer without hesitation. I am so sick and tired of forgeries, both on canvas and in life.

  "Doesn't get more real than losing a friend." His revelation shocks me. "Well, not exactly a friend, but she was the woman I once... valued."

  Valued? Does he mean loved? I wonder if I have ever loved anyone. I am not sure I even understand what the word means. I know what sex is – I have known since I was fifteen – but love… Can you possibly love someone who owns you?

  If Mauro talks to Father... I should end this call, and try to reach Mauro, but I don't... This man, whoever he may be, appears distressed and lonely. I may not understand love, but pain and loneliness are feelings I can relate to.

  "I am sorry for your loss," I say quietly.

  He doesn't answer for a while, and I begin to wonder if the man fell asleep again. "Don't be," he speaks at last. "It's not like it was your fault..." Another pause. "By the way, what is your name?"

  No, you cannot tell him your name!

  "Lavinia." My heart pounds like crazy. Any second now he might realize who I am.

  "Lavinia? That is unusual."

  Wait, what? He doesn't know me. Why did Father have this number then? Maybe this man is somebody he considered hiring at the time but never did.

  "The name is Latin. My father is Italian," I add, my voice shaking. "He thought this would be a fitting name for me when he saw me."

  "What did your mother say?" His simple question sends chills running down my spine.

  "I don't know," I whisper my reply, fighting the inexplicable dread of discussing family. Silence from the other end of the line lasts for eternity, and for some strange reason, I want to ease it. "He is not my real father. He took me in from the street. I don't know my parents." I confess my secret to a complete stranger who might know Father, although it does not seem so.

  "I am sorry, Lavinia..." Something changes in his tone; it turns softer.

  "Call me Lava." I squeeze out a smile. "And no need to feel sorry. It's not like it was your fault."

  He laughs, and although knowing my father would punish me if he ever were to learn about this conversation, tonight for the first time, I am ready to ignore the loud warning bells ringing in my head just to hear this laughter again. I never believed it possible, but finally, I have something that belongs solemnly to me – a private memory my father cannot control.

  "What is your name?" I ask.

  "David," he replies. "You could add a French accent to that if you like."

  "Are you French?"

  "I was born and raised here, but my father was French. My mother was Tuareg."

  "What is Tuareg?"

  He chuckles. "Tuareg people are nomads living all over the Saharan desert. My mother, for example, grew up in Mali. Perhaps you have heard of the blue people of the desert?"

  "Are you blue?"

  My question provokes his lush laughter, awakening the butterflies inside my stomach. "No," he is still laughing. "The traditional blue dye people use to color the clothing sometimes can taint the skin, but no, we are not blue."

  My cheeks flare up. I am an expert in arts, I speak three languages, and seducing any man is a child's play for me, but my knowledge of this world is still limited. I only know what Father decides I should.

  "So, tell me, who are you, Lava?" The man speaks as if he tastes my name on his tongue and the number of the butterflies doubles. "Are you burning hot?"

  The butterflies tickle like crazy, and my laughter rebounds off the plain beige walls of the nearly empty apartment.

  I sink deeper into the black leather couch, unable to recall ever laughing like this. "Do you seriously believe you are the first to make that joke?"

  "That was cheesy, I admit." I suspect a smile on his lips. "Forgive me?"

  "I'll chalk it up to that bottle of whiskey."

  "Please, do. I am not usually hitting on women over the phone. I mean, I am not hitting on you, just... Oh, what the hell! I was hitting on you a little... It's just, your voice sounds like a soft melody. Shit, please, blame the whiskey for that comment too."

  Heat spreads through my body in response. Maybe David was correct – my cheeks certainly are burning lava hot this moment. How is that even possible? Sure, my classmates at the Academy tried flirting with me, but their attempts only mortified me. Tonight, however, I am blushing.

  "Are you still with me?" he asks when I fail to respond. "Did I offend you?"

  "No," I rush with an answer. "I am not used to men flirting over the phone either, I guess. But I am quite enjoying it." I giggle.

  "Your laughter is so captivating," he states immediately and chuckles. "I seem to be unable to stop now, but don't blame the whiskey for that one. I meant what I said. Your laughter makes me believe there is still beauty in this life. And... No, I should say no more. Trust me, not even the full bottle of whiskey would be a decent enough excuse. I am honestly glad, though, you got the wrong number."

  "Me too," I whisper when a choking lump in my throat appears out of nowhere. "I needed this..."

  "Anything I can do to help?"

  Tears begin to roll down my face. "You did. You helped me forget for a while."

  "Talk to me," David says softly.

  I wish I could.

  "Just girly problems," I lie because fear, panic, and horror anchor the truth deep inside my soul. Father made sure of that.

  The sound of the elevator doors makes me shrink on the spot, reminding me of my ugly reality more than ever. Mauro is back. "David... I must go." It hurts to say those words for some strange reason.

  "Wait... Say that again," he whispers.

  "What?"

  Mauro turns his key inside the lock. I should end the call this very second, but I run into the bedroom and shut the door instead.

  "Say my name a
gain, please."

  "David..." I lean against the wall with my eyes closed and a smile on my lips. The butterflies are still present.

  A sigh. "Can I call you soon?"

  The entrance door slams shut. Mauro will be inside the bedroom any moment now. "No, I will call you. I promise." I end the call and hide the phone in the back pocket of my jeans moments before Mauro walks in.

  He scans the room, eyes slowly shifting from the naked walls and concrete floor toward the thick double mattress. The sheets are still messy, and I press myself against the wall barely breathing – I forgot to make the bed after sex... His eyes zoom in on me standing by the dresser, and I wish the wall could swallow me.

  "He wants to see you," Mauro states in a robot-like voice. "Tonight."

  Which means now.

  My trembling legs carry me past him and out. I need to grab the entrance door to steady myself before exiting the building. The limo will already be waiting for me downstairs, I am sure. Just like I am equally certain that tonight I will be hoping to die.

  But the death will never come.

  Chapter 2

  David

  That accidental chat on the phone felt like a wakeup call from more than a drunken slumber. I was not exaggerating when I confessed to a complete stranger that her laughter was captivating. What I failed to mention, unwilling to sound like a total loser, was the part where the soft timbre of her voice resurrected my determination to find out who killed "the woman I once valued", as I described Evelyn, so I could move on with my life at last.

  However, that said determination goes to hell when the captain pairs me up with the new guy who was recently promoted from minor investigations to major crime. Apparently, I have a lot to teach him as a former FBI agent turned private consultant for the Chicago Police Department, as my captain put it.

  What's worse? We've got a case to work today.

  Some idiots broke into an art gallery downtown and stole the whole installation of stones from the current exhibit. For whatever reason. Now it's my job to chase the stone snatchers with the newbie.

  My irritation grows when I drift back to my last FBI case – the impeccable museum heist I believed to be my big career-changing break. It sure was… That damn case turned out to be my greatest failure.