Cross Roads, page 18
In the times he’d come across her painting, she had never worn a drop, a smudge, or a splatter of paint. A little on the pads of her fingers, but nowhere else.
It was as though she’d lost the joy of it.
Because she lost Byrne?
Would the two be reminiscing about old times? Would they be snuggling on the white leather couch? Or entangled on the king-sized bed?
Yeah, thanks to Cruz’s drone, he knew exactly what the inside of Byrne’s studio looked like. Knew the hours of concentration Lena had committed to Byrne’s project when she should have been back at the cabin working on Rohan’s—BARS’s—commission.
But he’d needed to know.
Needed to know she was all right.
Needed to see her.
“Copy, Ro?” Phin asked, drawing him back to his current crisis.
“Copy.” Good thing Cruz wasn’t still in the area, he might have sent the drone up again to keep an eye on them—Byrne. “Stay with him.”
“Copy that.”
Rohan could now see six distinct faces emerging from the shadows or peeking out from their protective barriers.
If he were to guess, they were all mid-teens. Their skin tones ran the gamut, from darkest black to palest white, and everything in between.
A smaller figure than the rest pulled away from his hiding place. A harsh voice hissed a warning, and an arm made a mad swipe to corral the little body.
The boy darted forward and latched onto his protector’s waist. A pained expression crossed the young woman’s face. It was the same look his mother would get when one of her boys had done the opposite of what they’d been told.
Although she didn’t look old enough to be the little guy’s mom, the warrior gave him the same comfort any mother would in this situation. She brushed a palm over his hair and whispered reassuring words Rohan couldn’t make out.
Placing a hand against his chest, he said, “My name is Rohan.” He pointed behind him. “And that’s Clay. We’re here to locate a painting that was stolen from a friend.”
The other captives emerged from their safety zones and slowly approached until they had gathered around their protector in a loose V.
“The sooner we find the painting,” Rohan said, “the sooner we can help you leave this prison.”
“Leave?” Someone to the right said, trepidation in their voice.
“Prison?” Another echoed.
Rohan nodded. “I know someone who can assist us with finding your parents. My brother Ash. He’s with the FBI.”
His words didn’t have the effect he’d intended. Rather than melt away that last of their caution and bring hopeful smiles to their faces, his mention of the FBI whipped them into a frenzy of tears and terror.
“There’s no need to be scared,” Rohan said. “My brother is a good man.”
The young woman raised her hand, and the cacophony around her quieted. She pinned Rohan with a centuries-old look, one that harbored wisdom beyond her years. “Mr. Rohan—”
“Sonofabitch,” came Phin’s alarmed voice.
Rohan held up a finger to the girl and turned his head to the side while he pressed a finger to his earpiece. “What’s happened, Phin? Is the target on the move?”
“Oh, he moved alright.”
“Dammit, Phin. What’s going on?”
“You need to get down here. Now.”
36
With leftovers in hand, Lena followed the sidewalk leading back to the studio with her eyes fixed on a distant spot. Her mind was already back at the easel, blending colors, thinking about her next brush strokes.
After Xander—Killian—whatever—left, she’d spent a few more hours at the canvas. First working on the fountain, then trying to perfect the drape of Jane deGlehn’s dress beneath her painter’s smock. The first throb of a hunger headache told her it was time to set down her paintbrush and map out her route to the Indian restaurant.
Past experience had warned her not to ignore her body’s need for sustenance. Unless she enjoyed being curled up in the fetal position, nursing the migraine of a lifetime.
The hour away from the studio had not only replenished her energy reserves but her enthusiasm. Despite the reason behind her current project, the copyist in her loved the challenge, loved figuring out the master’s technique. Loved every small victory on the canvas.
If only she had more time to do the forgery justice. Then again, did she want some unsuspecting buyer to purchase her John Singer Sargent knockoff?
Far too many forgeries were hanging in museums and private collections across the world as it was. Some of them hers.
With her mind winding through the rugged roads of her past, she didn’t immediately register the spangle of blue and red lights against the neighborhood buildings until she reached the studio’s street corner.
A crowd of onlookers craned their collective necks to see beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Lena joined the curious, rubbernecking with the rest of them. “What happened?”
“A dude jumped off the roof,” a twenty-something man with a shaved head said.
“He didn’t jump,” another said. “Someone pushed him.”
A third person chimed in. “Nah, it was a hit-and-run.”
The group grew louder with their guesses, but the one thing each story had in common was that a man had died. By gruesome means.
Lena pushed through the masses until she reached the police tape. She moved along the line until she found a gap between law enforcement bodies on the other side. Until she spotted a broken body draped over the curb, with the lower half on the sidewalk, the upper half on the street.
Blood pooled beneath a familiar dark head.
Xander.
Lena stumbled into the restless onlookers around her.
“Watch it, bitch.”
“Get off my damn foot.”
“Hey, you okay?”
Survival mode kicked in, and Lena steadied herself. She couldn’t afford for anyone to remember her.
Adjusting her bag across her body, she tunneled through the gawkers and strode away from yet another murder victim who’d loved her.
* * *
Lena hooked a left on the next intersection, glancing over her shoulder as she did. No one was in pursuit, and the only person looking at her oddly was the homeless woman who now held Lena’s leftovers in her lap.
The relief she’d hoped for didn’t come. In fact, the more distance she put between her and Xander’s shattered body, the more labored her breathing became.
Until she saw him. Heading straight for her.
Rohan.
Something inside her broke.
No, collapsed.
One moment she was strong. The next, she was running.
The armor she’d built around herself disintegrated, piece by piece.
By the time she flung herself into Rohan’s arms, there was only blood and bones and flesh left. Every inch diseased or damaged beyond repair.
“I got you,” he whispered against her hair.
“Xan—Killian’s d-dead,” she said in a breathless rush, still unable to believe he was gone. “I think someone threw him off the balcony. Or he fell. I don’t know. He was on the ground. The blood. His face—”
“Sshh-shh. Shh. I know, I know.”
In the distance, a siren’s woop woop sounded.
“Come on,” Rohan said, “let’s get you off the street.”
He motioned to a large black van idling not far away. When the vehicle came abreast of them, one of the back doors flew open, and Zeke extended a hand toward her.
She didn’t even have time to be shocked. Simply accepted his assistance. The moment they were all inside, the door slammed shut, and Phin eased the vehicle back into traffic.
Lena didn’t know what to do with herself. Electronics lined each side of the van. Monitors and keyboards and flashing buttons made her feel as if she’d stepped onto the set of a Jason Bourne movie.
Zeke patted the back of a swivel chair. “Have a seat.”
She sat, though she continued to take in her surroundings. “Is this a surveillance vehicle?”
Rohan glanced at Zeke behind her before nodding.
“Who were you tracking?” She recalled the unnerving feeling of eyes on her all day and several times in Steele Ridge. Now that she thought about each instance, Rohan was never far away. “Me?”
“We’ll circle back around to your lack of faith in me in a moment. Right now, I need to know what you left behind in Byrne’s studio.”
He knew what she’d been up to since their explosive parting outside the gallery. Shame scored a fiery path up the back of her neck. Not for her decision to protect him against Xander’s machinations, but for him seeing her for what she really was.
A forger.
“Lena, focus. What belongings of yours will the police find in the studio?”
The mention of police snapped her right-headed again.
Lifting the shoulder strap over her head, she sat her bag on the van’s rubberized floor. “Everything I brought with me is in this bag.”
“Everything? You sure you didn’t leave a toothbrush behind?”
She couldn’t tell him that keeping her life in a bag made moments like this so much easier. The confession would lead to more questions.
Dangerous questions.
“The police won’t find physical evidence of my presence, but I didn’t wipe down the place.”
He gave her a steady look. “Why would you?”
She stared back, silent.
“Are you in the system?” Zeke asked, cutting to the chase.
She rotated in her chair. “What do you mean?”
“Your prints. Will the police get a hit?”
The lie sprang to her lips, but she stopped it there. She could give them the answer that would make herself look good now, but they would learn the truth as soon as the police came knocking on her door.
First Neil, then Ruthie. Now Xander. Three suspicious deaths with her fingerprints on-site. The cops were sure to connect the dots.
“Yes.”
To Zeke’s credit, he didn’t flinch at the revelation. She did not check Rohan’s reaction.
Zeke turned to Rohan. “Can you zap them?”
Blood froze in Lena’s reins. “Zap my prints? Have you lost your mind?”
Rohan stared at his brother for a long moment, though she could tell he was already making calculations and assessing the risk.
“If I had more time, maybe,” he said at last. “But not before APD processes the scene and uploads the prints to NCIC.”
Lena’s lungs expanded with air again. Her past would catch up with her and she didn’t want Rohan anywhere near the blast zone.
“We need a plan,” Zeke said.
Rohan’ eyes bore into hers. “Did anyone see you coming and going from Byrne’s place?”
“I don’t think so. Other than my arrival, which was via the service elevator, this was the first time I’ve been outside the studio.”
“At least we have that on our side,” Zeke said. “If they get a hit, the police won’t be able to prove when you were there.”
“Maybe the waitstaff at the Indian restaurant, where I just had dinner, would remember me.”
“There might also be CCTV footage confirming you were either at the restaurant during the time of the murder or walking to and from it,” Rohan said.
“I’ll have Cruz look into it,” Zeke said.
“What about your painting-in-progress?” Rohan nodded at her bag. “Are your brushes in there?”
“What makes you think I was painting anything?”
“I sent a drone up to check on you.”
“I knew it.” She slapped a palm against the metal ledge holding their computer equipment. “All day, I had the feeling of being watched.” She glared at Rohan. “Ever heard of a phone?”
“First of all,” Rohan said, “I didn’t call because you made it clear you didn’t need any distractions. And second, I sent the drone up once.”
“Only once?”
“Once.”
Could her instincts be faulty? Had the burglary and Ruthie’s murder thrown her into full-on paranoia?
“Maybe Byrne was monitoring the studio,” Zeke offered. “Did you notice any cameras?”
She shook her head. “I searched.”
“Some surveillance cameras are the size of a house key,” Rohan said. “Easily concealed against the untrained eye.”
“But this wasn’t the first time I’ve felt watched.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Lena wanted to rope them back in. The last thing she needed right now was Rohan thinking she was unstable.
“When was the first time?”
“Back in Steele Ridge.”
“Before or after the theft?”
“Just before, then right after.”
Rohan shared a look with Zeke.
“I’m not losing my mind—”
“I believe you.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“We’ll sort out who’s stalking you later. Right now, we need to understand your exposure.” He nodded toward her bag. “Did you stash your paintbrushes in there, or are they still at the studio?”
“The studio.”
A heavy silence followed her statement.
“Don’t worry your gorgeous heads about this,” she said with forced confidence. “I’ve been in stickier situations and came out on the other side.”
“Stickier than murder?” Rohan asked.
“As you’ve pointed out before, there’s much about me you don’t know.”
He waited several taut seconds for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he asked, “Any ideas who killed Byrne?”
“Don’t you want to ask if I did it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not capable of murder.”
The absolute certainty in his voice wrapped a tingle of warmth around her heart.
“And Phin’s been trailing Byrne all night.”
The tingle evaporated. “Why? What are you even doing here? I fired you.”
“Blackwells never fail to finish a job.”
How could she be mad at him for ignoring her wishes? If he hadn’t shown up when he did, she’d be in freak-out mode right now.
“I don’t know who would want to hurt Killian. I haven’t spoken to him in two years.”
“The shrine in his bedroom would suggest otherwise.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“An enlarged photo of you and him, covered in paint and laughing, is hanging on the wall in his penthouse.” Rohan’s voice dropped. “You’re the first thing he sees every morning.”
Was that jealousy she detected in his tone?
Lena knew the picture he was referring to. Xander used to keep it on his bedside table as a reminder of how one could overcome the limitations of one’s upbringing.
Considering the upward trajectory of Xander’s business, both legit and not-so-legit, she could see why he’d supersized the photo.
“It was taken the day Killian and I passed our GED exams. A celebratory moment shared between two friends.” She pinned him with a look. “We were lovers for a short while.”
“What happened?”
“He found solace in another’s arms.” She lifted a brow. “What were you doing in Killian’s bedroom?”
“Searching for the Catawnee.”
Excitement bubbled. “Did you find it?”
“Among other things, yes.”
She stilled, glancing between him and Zeke. “What other things?”
“Seems your boyfriend-not-boyfriend was quite the entrepreneur.”
“Are you talking about his gallery expansion or his more illicit business?” She had a good idea of which one he meant, but it seemed like a good idea to clarify.
Rohan’s face darkened.
“Easy, brother,” Zeke said.
“Don’t tell me you’re squeamish about forged paintings,” she said. “You just confessed to breaking and entering, plus surveilling people.”
Rohan opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it, closed it. Opened, closed.
Zeke asked in a careful voice, “Were you aware he built his business on the backs of imprisoned teenagers?”
Every drop of blood leached from her face. “He wouldn’t.”
How many times had he complained about being enslaved to Simon? Not literally, but to leave Simon’s employ would have meant leaving safety and security behind.
And Simon wasn’t above exploiting the fact.
“He not only could,” Rohan said. “He did.”
Lena shook her head, unable to believe Xander could do something so inhumane. “I don’t believe you. He would never be so cruel.”
“The kids we found in a hidden room off his penthouse’s pantry would argue otherwise.”
The samosas stirred low in her stomach. Pressing a fist to her mouth, she glanced at Zeke, needing confirmation.
He nodded.
“Where are the kids now?’’
“One of our team members stayed back until DFCS arrives.” Rohan’s voice hardened. “Why were you painting in Byrne’s studio, Lena?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. All of her lies felt like sawdust in her mouth.
Kids.
Xander had held kids in a locked room to paint forgeries for him. The man she remembered would never have done something so disgusting.
Even Simon, for of his faults, had allowed them the freedom of coming and going as they wished. His bondage had manifested in subtler ways. But they could have left at any time.
Could money truly have been the motivating factor?
With Xander dead, she might never know for sure.
“Lena?” Rohan prodded.
She drew in a deep breath and unbarred the door leading to her past.
37
Sensing Lena was ready to talk, Rohan jerked his chin at his brother, and Zeke joined Phin in the front cab.
The two could still hear everything she said, but having one less Blackwell hulking over her would give the illusion of privacy.
“When I was fourteen,” she began, “I ran away and lived on the streets for close to a year before joining forces with Killian—I knew him then as Xander Douglas—and a girl named Izzy DeCarlo.”
