“Yeah, well, I guess he works for Cipher.” I studied the fabric swatches on her bed, then started rearranging them so I didn’t have to meet her eyes.
“The job is done, Anna. Why were you on a boat with the Cipher guy?”
I paired a rich wine silk with a green the color of stuffed grape leaves, then added the deep silver brown of gnarled vines. “He asked me to.”
“And what else did he ask you?” Colette’s voice held the barely contained impatience she sometimes had when I went down rabbit holes of imagination.
“He asked me about Sterling.”
She exhaled. “So he saw the footage.”
I winced. I’d seen the footage too, and the idea of Darius Masoud thinking that I’d been with Sterling Gray made me crampy.
“It’s what we expected.” Colette sounded cautiously optimistic.
“It’s not what I expected,” I said dismally.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t expect to have sex with the security guy.” The words fell out of my mouth like toads, slippery and loud. They tasted sour because I didn’t want them to be toads. The words should have been cinnamon-flavored, like Mexican chocolate, but I didn’t get to savor them like they deserved to be – like I wanted to. So, toads.
Colette stared at me. “You had—”
“Yes!” I cut her off because the toads were making me nauseous. “I know it was a bad idea, okay, but, well, it also wasn’t.”
“A bad idea?” she asked tentatively.
“A bad anything,” I sighed.
“Oh.”
I looked up from the swatch vineyard I’d arranged on the bed to see my sister studying me.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally.
I nodded, dejected. “Yeah.”
“What are you going to do? That’s pretty by the way. It reminds me of Italy or France.” Colette indicated my grapevines.
“This would be Italy.” I added a burnt orange swatch. “And this makes it France.” A pale blue went onto the pile. She studied it thoughtfully.
“Maybe you got Mom and Alexandra’s artistic genes,” she said with an edge of something in her voice. I didn’t dig into it because I didn’t have the tolerance for much more pain at the moment, and things with edges were usually sharp. I just shrugged.
“Speaking of Mom and Alex, I have something to show you.” Colette hopped off the bed and pulled the portfolio out from under it. “While I was sizing The Sisters for their frame, the backing separated from behind the canvas. Except it wasn’t backing.” She pulled a painting out of the portfolio. “It was this.”
I stared at the older woman in a black satin dress, seated against a black background, looking back at me. Her expression was pinched and unhappy, as though she blamed me for uncovering her secrets, and I felt judged by her for it. She also looked familiar.
“Who is she?” I asked, looking away from the judgy gaze and back to Colette.
“Madame Auguste Manet,” she said flatly.
“Manet, as in Manet the French Impressionist?”
Colette nodded unhappily. “His mother.”
“What was she doing hiding behind The Sisters? Shouldn’t she be in a museum somewhere?” I couldn’t help looking back at Madame Auguste. I could just picture her creeping across the wall and slithering behind young Alex and Sophia, hoping they wouldn’t notice the shadow she cast.
“Apparently, the original is in Boston at the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum.” Colette’s voice was weirdly flat.
“Didn’t Mom and Aunt Alex intern there when they were in art school?”
“Yes.” The word came out choked.
“Why do you sound so strange?”
Colette met my eyes. Hers looked slightly panicked. “Because I’m not sure this is a copy.”
I stared at her as the nauseating little toads in my stomach grew to the size of Komodo dragons. “Why would you say that?”
“In design school they teach you to spot the fakes. This isn’t obviously fake.” She sounded supremely unhappy.
“But it was behind our mom’s painting,” I said, already cringing because I knew what came next.
“Wired with an alarm to the panic room wall in a multi-million-dollar mansion.”
Shit. “Did Alex know it was there, or did Gray just use our family’s painting to hide this one?” I asked, as the Komodo dragon started swinging its tale and knocking dread into my lungs
“That’s the ten-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” she said.
I exhaled sharply, my mind spinning with the attempt to see this from every angle. The obvious first step was that Colette’s twin had to disappear for a while, so there could be no connection between my sister and the missing painting. “I have a contract in Boston that I’ve been putting off. I’ll go see what I can find out about Madame Auguste while I’m there.”
She nodded. “Yeah, okay. It’s probably good for you to get out of town long enough for Mr. Cipher Security to forget about you anyway.”
Even though it’s what I intended to do, I didn’t like that she made it about Darius and me. I wanted her to say something like you’re unforgettable, or you should totally keep him. Not yeah, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
The buzzer for the front door to the building sounded down the hall, and Colette got up off the bed. “That’s my client. Do you mind if I show her your color scheme for her living room?”
I started for the window, but turned to look back at the color swatches on the bed. “Don’t let her add any purple to that room. Bacchans would wreck the vines with their drunken orgies.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically, but her mouth was a thin line as she left the room.
15
Darius
“It’s only obvious in retrospect, and then it’s the only thing you can see.”
Darius Masoud
The friendly smile on Colette’s face fell off the moment she opened the door and saw me.
“Who are you?” she asked with confusion.
I almost laughed out loud, and if it had been the least bit funny, I would have. Instead, I studied the woman in front of me.
“It’s only when people don’t expect twins that you look alike,” I said, noting the slighter build, the salon cut on the mane of blonde curls, and the expertly applied make-up.
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, while her expression remained politely curious. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
I smiled then, though I felt bitterness at the edges. “You should, or rather, you would if you weren’t a twin.” I held out my hand to shake. “I’m Darius Masoud, of Cipher Security.”
Her gaze seemed to sharpen, and I thought she might have heard of me. From her sister, or from Sterling Gray?
I heard a sound on the steps behind me, and Colette, or whatever her name was, looked relieved as a woman in her mid-forties approached. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Colette,” the woman said in a tone of voice that wasn’t at all sorry. “The traffic downtown is just awful.”
Colette answered with the solicitous bustle of someone grateful for the interruption. “It’s no trouble at all, Michelle, but let’s get right to business so you don’t get stuck in the theater traffic too.”
Michelle shot me an assessing glance as she stepped past me on the landing, but Colette didn’t even meet my gaze until the woman was inside the apartment.
“It was interesting to meet you, Mr. Masoud,” she finally said as she closed the door. I heard the lock turn, and I smiled grimly.
“Interesting to meet you, too, Colette.” This was Colette Collins. Colette owned this apartment, and it was an elegant, expensive address. The woman who had answered the door had the make-up, the hair, and the lithe sleekness of someone who put effort and means into looking the part of the successful designer. She was exactly the type of woman I’d expect to attract Sterling Gray. The woman with whom I’d spent such a memorable day on the lake was strong rather than sleek, hadn’t been we
aring make-up, and styled her hair as though she didn’t own a comb. Not at all Gray’s type, which should have been a relief.
Unfortunately, she was, apparently, a thief.
16
Anna
“Dear Life, when I said ‘Can my day get any worse’ it was a rhetorical question not a challenge.”
From the T-shirt collection of Anna Collins
He knew I was a thief.
He knew I had a twin, and that I’d used her as my alibi.
Crap, crap, crap!
I had just opened the window to slip out of Colette’s room when I heard the voice of my Disney prince. No, he’s not mine, I mentally corrected with a surprisingly painful pinch. Not if I wanted to remain at liberty.
He knew Colette’s address, and he knew her name. How long until he found me? Actually, with Cipher Security at his back, he could already have my name and address and have people at my studio waiting for me.
Crap!
I sat on the bed and forced myself to calm down and think. Okay, I’d just decided to go to Boston, so that was what I needed to do, immediately. Cipher wasn’t the cops, so they wouldn’t necessarily have the airports watched – that took too many resources. I had my messenger bag with me, which had my wallet, keys, a cell phone charger, and a clean T-shirt – because a person never knew when spaghetti bolognese was going to jump off their plate. I was wearing my favorite jeans, engineer boots, and the leather, fleece-lined bike jacket I’d splurged on, so I just needed socks, underwear, a couple more shirts, and something to wear while I did laundry.
My heart was hammering in my chest as I raided Colette’s dresser drawers. Socks – I took three pair. Underwear – no, I’d buy new ones. I grabbed an extra bra for when the one I was wearing got stinky, plus two T-shirts I’d given her for Christmas that didn’t look like they’d ever been worn. To be fair, they were my style, not hers, but I remained hopeful that I could convert her to my subversive ways. She had more yoga pants than I had statement shirts, which probably said something less “down with the patriarchy” and more “up with all parts prone to sagging.” I took a pair of those, plus a hand-knit sweater our mother had made when we were sixteen. Mine had been worn to rags years before, while Colette’s was still pristine. I tied the sweater around my waist, rolled the rest of the clothes into tight little sausage rolls that fit in my bag, and then looked around Colette’s room for anything else I might need.
I couldn’t hear Darius’s voice anymore, though Colette was still talking to someone. If he decided to push his way in …
I slid Madame Auguste back inside the portfolio, zipped it closed, and threaded the handles through the strap of my messenger bag. I didn’t know where The Sisters painting was, but I wouldn’t leave Madame where she could point her finger at my sister and yell, “She did it!”
I was down the fire escape ladder and three alleys away when the panic finally loosened its grip on my rational brain. I’d had the vague plan of getting to the airport and buying a ticket to Boston, but the logistics of it had been elusive during my mad dash and dodge through the alleys away from Colette’s building. I’d just slowed down to an unremarkable, head-down, eyes-zipping-everywhere-for-signs-of-Darius’s-truck stroll when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
I almost panicked again for one brief second until I remembered that he didn’t have my number. Then I looked at the screen and the panic sat back down.
“What’s up, Spark?” I said, relieved to see the number of the Dungeon Master on my screen.
“You’re late,” he said without preamble.
“I’m not coming today.”
“Yes you are. I wrote a campaign specifically for Honor. She has to be here. It’s a moral imperative.” I had met Sparky online through a Dungeons and Dragons game finder site and had joined his weekly game as soon as I moved to Chicago.
“Honor doesn’t do moral imperatives,” I said as I considered my best options for getting to the airport.
“Honor is all about moral imperatives, and you know it,” he said impatiently. “Okay, here’s the real reason you need to come.”
I smirked. Sparky was like that kid who couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. He was just too excited about everything not to share it with his friends, and I considered myself pretty lucky to be a peripheral one, even if it was just because of Honor.
“I’m trying to lure a friend of mine into the game, and she and Honor have that whole kick-ass heroine thing going on, so I wanted them to meet,” he said.
I scowled. “You want your friend to meet my imaginary character because they have a lot in common? Thanks, Spark. You really know how to make a girl feel seen.” I didn’t know why I let his words hurt even a little bit. I mean, it’s why I created Honor in the first place – to be the girl I wished I could be.
“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. Honor is your avatar, which means she’s kind of an extension of you. I just think Shane would be more likely to join our game if she knew you played too.”
“I’m on my way to Boston to do a job,” I said, despite being slightly intrigued at the idea of meeting someone like Honor in real life.
“When do you leave?”
I checked my watch. “I don’t know. Depends on when I can get to the airport.”
“You don’t have a ticket?” I could hear his computer keyboard clacking in the background. “Southwest leaves Midway at 6:45 and 9:10. You won’t make the 6:45, but I’ll take you in time for the 9:10 if you come here now.”
I looked around, trying not to imagine Darius driving around the neighborhood searching the streets for me, or parked outside my studio with a warrant for my arrest.
Sparky almost whined. “Come on, Anna. Taylor and Ashley are on their way over with bacon-wrapped little smokies, and if you don’t leave now, you won’t make it in time to get any.”
“Ok, that’s just mean,” I growled. Actually, my stomach growled. In another life, I might have had dinner with a Disney prince tonight, but instead I was running away from home.
I sighed. “Fine,” I said, realizing I meant it. If I couldn’t have dinner with a prince, I’d have D&D and bacon-wrapped smokies. Ashley drizzled them with brown sugar, making them pretty much just bacon candy. She also had a cupcake-baking habit, and I was always happy to help her dispose of the evidence. So, besides bacon and D&D, going to Sparky’s gave me a place to lay low where Cipher wouldn’t find me.
I hung up my phone and shoved it in my back pocket, then caught a bus to Sparky’s neighborhood. Fifteen minutes later I could smell the bacon in the freight elevator.
“Get your hands off my smokies, William!” I called out as I hoisted the freight door of the elevator and stepped into his loft. Ashley had just lifted the foil off the platter she’d brought, and I could tell Sparky already had three or four stuffed into his mouth.
“Back away slowly, Spark,” I said in my most menacing voice, as I tried not to laugh at the expression of busted on his face.
Bill “Sparky” Spracher was about my age, 6’2”, and looked a little bit like Chris Pratt on a really good day (his, not Chris Pratt’s). He was a crazy-smart bio-mechanical engineer, and his loft always looked to me like a cross between Caractacus Potts’ workshop in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and the warehouse for the company that did special effects for Tron.
Sparky grinned and put his hands up theatrically as he swallowed the bacon smokies in his mouth. “I was just testing them to make sure they lived up to your standards, Anna-banana.”
“I haven’t had dinner, and you’re in danger of losing fingers,” I growled at him before turning to Ashley with an admiring visual sweep of her outfit. “I wish I could do girly like you do, Ash. That’s a fantastic dress.”
Ashley was gorgeous, and the fairy lights in her eyes sparkled with every smile. The skirt of her knee-length, 1950s-style dress flared in a perfect bell as she gave a twirl. “I made strawberry cupcakes for dessert and frosted them to match it,�
�� she said, flashing a fairy-lit smile at me.
“Ashley?” I said as I popped a bacon-wrapped smokie in my mouth. “Martha Stewart called and said she wants her talent back.”
“Well, she can’t have it. I’ll need it when I take over her empire.”
I hi-fived her, grabbed another bacon smokie, and dropped my bag and the portfolio in a corner next to a mannequin dressed like Wonder Woman, whose weird fashion hands had been replaced with robotic ones. I was proud that I only jumped a little bit when the hand at her hip moved.
“Um, Sparky? Why is the hand opening and closing like it wants to punch me?”
He looked up from the plate of Ashley’s cupcakes he was holding and licked pink frosting off his finger. “Diana’s testing five-finger joint durability. Be glad it’s not the day for middle digit isolation.” He shuddered theatrically. “It’s pretty tough to come back from being flipped off by Wonder Woman.”
I got myself a sparkling water from the mini fridge. “Taylor? Ashley? There’s lemonade, bubbly water, and fruity iced tea in here if you want any.”
Ashley’s husband, Taylor, was a sports reporter for a Chicago suburb’s local newspaper, and he looked and talked the part of an athlete. He was 6’4” and a sports superfan, but I had witnessed him hit his head on the corners of walls, and stumble over the dust bunnies on the floor enough times that I could see the signs of the kid who grew too fast to learn proper coordination. He was also the biggest gentleman I knew, and he adored his wife, so he came to get her lemonade himself.
“Have any good cases lately, Anna?” Taylor’s tone was always cheerful, even when our D&D games got intense and his character took damage from Arkhan the Cruel or a White Dragon Wyrmling.
“I ran a bail-jumper down the main street of a town outside Lansing a few weeks ago. He was crazy fast, and I ended up having to grab some kid’s bicycle off his lawn to catch him. The kid’s mother yelled at me for ten minutes until I gave the kid five bucks for the bike rental.”
Code of Honor Page 9