Cross Roads, page 2
“How did you hear about her?” Rohan asked.
“During a chance meeting with Carlie Beth Steele. I mentioned that I was looking for a copyist, and she recommended Miss Kamber. Carlie Beth had an opportunity to view Miss Kamber’s collection and confirmed the young artist has an extraordinary natural talent. Evidently, her reproductions are quite stunning.”
Uncertainty picked at the edge of Rohan’s mind. Married to their cousin, Grif Steele, Carlie Beth was an accomplished blacksmith and artist. She wouldn’t have recommended someone she didn’t trust or respect. Especially not to family. No matter the strained relations between the two clans.
“Have you met Miss Kamber?” Rohan asked.
“Briefly. We bumped into each other at Triple B.”
“Bumped into you, how? Literally or figuratively?”
A muscle in Lynette’s jaw flickered before she answered. “We were both waiting for our orders at the bar. She complimented me on my bracelet, and I told her I’d purchased it at Triskelion, then she asked me if I knew Carlie Beth. We continued to chat until my order arrived, at which time, she handed me a business card.” Lynette cocked her head to the side. “Clear enough?”
Rohan worked to keep his features impassive, but his heart was clattering inside his chest like a five-alarm fire bell. Hackers used social engineering to get to know their targets, earn their trust until they could manipulate the person into giving them confidential information that would help them access their network.
Besides sending phishing emails to their target, hackers might also impersonate someone from the target’s contacts, pull passwords and logins out of a target’s curbside trash, or harvest information from “fun” polls conducted on social media. Bolder hackers, those who liked to observe their manipulation tactics in action, might make direct contact.
Like bumping into a target’s mom at a local restaurant and chatting her up.
The attack on their network and this forger’s sudden appearance when BARS needed a lookalike painting for an important recovery was beyond coincidental.
Rohan gritted his teeth. Was the Collective behind this morning’s attempted breach? Had they already found him?
What the hell did they want? Make him pay for leaving? Force him back?
“What’s bothering you, Rohan?” Zeke asked.
He couldn’t tell his family his fears. It would require him admitting to a series of bad decisions that he had no interest in sharing. Best to keep things simple. Focus on what he’d found. Not what he suspected. “I did a background check.”
“You did what?” Lynette snapped, turning her ire on Zeke. “Did you authorize this?”
Zeke set his jaw. “I did.”
“This isn’t on Zeke,” Rohan said. “I bullied him into letting me dig deeper.”
“No one bullies your brother into doing what he doesn’t want to do.” Her voice lowered, and she pinned Rohan with a hard look. “What makes you think I haven’t dug deep enough?”
“You don’t have the same capability to burrow beneath a person’s veneer as I do.”
When an ugly red splotch appeared on her neck, he clarified, “Mama, searching for vulnerabilities is my specialty. I use state-of-the-art technology to keep us safe, to protect everything that you, Dad, Ash, and Zeke have built. It’s my purpose, and I’m damn good at it.”
The tension in her shoulders and around her eyes loosened and the steel in her spine melted enough for her to ease back in her chair. Her chest lifted on a deep inhalation. “I take it you uncovered something disturbing in Miss Kamber’s past?”
The giant hand squeezing Rohan’s chest let go. He shook his head. “That’s just it. I didn’t find anything.”
Zeke closed his eyes, and Lynette raised WTF eyebrows.
“I mean, nothing prior to ten years ago,” Rohan elaborated. “No social media, no family, no school records, no birth certificate. It’s as if she didn’t exist before the age of fifteen.”
Lynette’s nails tapped against the metal arm of her chair. “WITSEC?”
Witness Security Program, also known as the witness protection program, a collaborative effort by the Department of Justice and Marshals Service, protected federal witnesses before, during, and after a high-profile trial. If eligible and they agreed to the program’s rules, witnesses, and their immediate family, were given new identities and relocated, with the condition that they must break off contact with their old life. Completely.
“WITSEC participants are given all new identities, complete with documentation. I would have found something on Angelena Kamber.”
Lynette said, “I scheduled an interview with her this morning at Blues, Brews, and Books.”
“What time?” Rohan asked.
“Nine.”
Rohan looked at Zeke, who nodded. “I’ll go in your place and probe deeper.”
Lynette rose. “I’ll call Miss Kamber and update her on the change.” She eyed both of them before her gaze settled on Rohan. “For the record, I had intended to have you or Cruz do a background check on her if I liked what she had to say today.”
Guilt lashed through Rohan. The last thing he wanted was for Lynette to think he didn’t trust her judgment. Sometimes his need for information caused unintended collateral damage. “Sorry, Mama. I acted on instinct—”
She bent to kiss Rohan’s forehead. “Never apologize for protecting our family.” She straightened and turned to Zeke. The two stared at each other for a long moment. Out of her five sons, Zeke was most like Lynette, with his brute force determination. Sometimes, like this morning, that wasn’t a good thing.
Lynette pressed a hand against Zeke’s cheek, and he smiled in return.
Harsh words forgiven.
She left without another comment.
“What was all of that about?” Rohan asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know.” Zeke stared after her for a moment before shaking himself and turning to Rohan. “You okay with this recon? If not, I can call in Phin.”
Rohan shook his head. “Phin’s down in Charlotte, terrorizing some politician for Kayla Krowne.”
This summer, Phin had accepted a part-time position in Kayla’s highly successful lobbying firm. Why his little brother wanted to navigate the cutthroat world of politics was beyond Rohan, but someone had to make sure politicians made decisions that served the people of North Carolina and not themselves.
Rohan removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the tail of his T-shirt. “I got it.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. I can put Cruz’s smoldering eyes to work.”
Rohan grinned and shoved his glasses back on his nose. “We need the copyist to answer our questions, not spend the hour trying to entice our brother into her bed.”
“Since you’ve evidently sworn off women forever, I guess you’re the best man to send.”
“Got that right. The last thing I need is a woman distracting me right now.”
3
A horn blasted, and Angelena Kamber’s eyes scraped open to discover the sun piercing the panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows. She blinked several times and tried to sit up. Cramped muscles screamed and her neck felt like she’d slept on a log.
Groaning, she pushed herself upright. She loved her studio chair, but it was a bitch to sleep in.
Lena stretched her arms above her head and twisted her torso left, then right, prompting a satisfying crackle to rip down her spine. Her gaze fell on her latest obsession—a painting titled Woman Walking by Cherokee artist Na-lih Catawnee—then her attention shifted to the copy in-progress propped against an easel next to it.
Or more specifically, on the blank space where the eyes should have been.
Why couldn’t she get them right?
Three times she’d attempted to get the piercing quality of the woman’s brown eyes correct and three times she’d failed.
Eyes could make or break a painting. Get them right and the artist is lauded as an exceptional talent. Get them wrong and the artist is labeled a hack.
The eyes connected one soul to another. It didn’t matter if the souls were real or imaginary. Would the Mona Lisa, Girl with the Pearl Earring, or Lady Agnew of Lochnaw have captured the hearts of millions of admirers if their masters had painted them with downcast eyes or looking off into the distance?
The subject’s eyes drew the viewer’s attention, held them in thrall, and triggered their imagination. She couldn’t screw up the eyes.
Lena felt the pressure of her looming deadline all the way to her toes. She glanced down at the sketches in her lap.
You got this. Knock it off.
The fear receded before it could take root. With each commission, the dark shadow of doubt always crept in. It might appear before she even put paint to canvas or show up toward the end, like it was attempting to do with Woman Walking.
Over the years, she had learned to expect the doubts—and how to fight them off. Lena had yet to miss a client’s deadline and she wasn’t about to start with a commission that had the potential of taking her career to the coveted next level.
Lena would breathe a sigh of relief when she delivered both the copy and original back to the owner at the end of the week. Although her apartment building was secure, she still felt uneasy about having a piece of art worth a million dollars sitting in her studio.
So, rather than find her bed in the wee hours of the morning, she’d exchanged her paintbrush for pencil and drawing paper and curled up in her favorite red velvet chair to sketch and stare and grumble to herself. Sometimes, when she got stuck like this, going back to the basics tapped into a part of her creativity that no amount of brush strokes could awaken.
Turning her thoughts toward the day ahead, she recalled her meeting with Lynette Blackwell.
Crap, what time was it?
Unable to find her phone, she spun around to check the giant clock on the living room wall.
8:15 a.m.
She blew out a relieved breath. The meeting wasn’t until nine, which gave her plenty of time to wash her hair and shower. Her hair wouldn’t be completely dry, but she could fix that with a hair band.
Her building’s proximity to downtown Steele Ridge was one of the many things she loved about it. She could walk pretty much anywhere in ten minutes, yet the location still offered her the privacy she craved. Especially since her loft apartment stretched across the entire second floor of the former manufacturing building.
Pushing out of her chair, she dropped her sketch pad and pencil in the seat. The loft’s open concept allowed her to move effortlessly from one area to the next. She strode from studio to living room to bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went and not caring about the disarray she left behind.
One of the many perks of living alone.
“Hey, Alexa.” She stepped out of her panties and tossed her bra. “Play The Very Best of Pat Benatar.” Lena had a thing for classic eighties tunes.
The first strains of “Love Is a Battlefield” sifted through her smart speaker. “Alexa, increase the volume thirty percent.” As the uptempo beat filled the loft, Lena’s body responded, and she danced her way into the shower.
Hot water cascaded over her body, taking with it her aches and pains and the last dregs of her artistic fears. She envisioned herself finishing the painting, feeling the joy and excitement of the moment.
She held that image in her mind as she sang along with Pat and finished showering.
Turning off the water, she opened the glass door to pull a thick towel from the rack and patted the water from her body. The blood-thrumming bass of “Heartbreaker” penetrated the bathroom door.
Lena considered her upcoming meeting. The interruption to her routine chafed, and her fingers itched to reach for a paintbrush. But she had a business to run, and the business fed off getting new commissions.
Although Fine Art Fakes by Lena was a successful enterprise by anyone’s standards, Lena knew how quickly it could all go up in smoke. She’d suck it up and continue doing one of her least favorite things—meeting with potential clients.
Having moved to Steele Ridge only six months ago, she didn’t know many of the locals. But she’d heard one name whispered around her more than once.
Blackwell.
People spoke of the family in fearful, yet reverent, tones. Though no one seemed to know much about the family tucked away in a place called the Friary. Sounded like a location right out of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
Despite all the whispers and secrecy, Carlie Beth Steele, with whom she’d developed a friendly acquaintance, had encouraged her to accept Lynette Blackwell’s invitation to breakfast.
Intrigued by the older woman’s request, the blacksmith-turned-artist had had no qualms about throwing Lena into the lioness’s den to satisfy her own curiosity. Lena might have to rethink the “friendly” part of their acquaintance.
Lena couldn’t help but be curious about the elusive Blackwells. Why did the townsfolk know so little about a family that had such deep roots here? What did Lynette want her to copy?
Wrapping the towel around her body, she stepped out of the shower and opened the bathroom door to clear the steam just as “Heartbreaker” ended.
In the brief silence, she heard what sounded like chair legs scraping across the floor.
Heart roaring in her chest, she inched the door open wider and searched for the intruder. When no one came barreling at her with a knife, she slipped out just as “You Better Run” kicked off.
Someone above had an inappropriate sense of humor.
Thankful for her penchant for blasting her music, Lena tiptoed to an old fisherman’s basket standing in a nook near the entryway. Several walking sticks of various shapes, sizes, and mediums stood haphazardly in the basket. She lifted a sturdy one from its depths.
A quick glance at the alarm panel confirmed it was still armed, yet no alarm had sounded.
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. The only way in and out of her apartment was through the door. The noise must have been walls settling or air running through the pipes or some equally creepy thing old buildings did.
Then she recalled that the café next door had an outdoor seating area. The noise had probably come from one of their customers pulling a metal chair across the concrete patio.
Lena took her first full breath since opening the bathroom door, but she kept a grip on her makeshift weapon. Even though her mind told her there was no need to skulk about, her instincts hadn’t quite bought into the notion.
She would just take a quick look around to set her mind at ease before getting ready for her meeting. Water dripped from her wet hair onto her bare shoulders and down her back. She tried not to think about her vulnerable state as she drifted through her loft.
A furtive movement to her right caught her eye. There, in her studio, she spotted a hooded figure. He’d already removed the original Woman Walking from its wooden easel and was now draping a black cloth over the painting.
All the air whooshed from her lungs, and she experienced a sudden lightheadedness.
He wasn’t there to kill her, but to steal the painting. Lena couldn’t let that happen. The loss would ruin her, professionally and financially. No way would she allow everything she’d built in the past ten years to be sucked away in ten minutes.
Raising the walking stick, she charged the intruder. Prepared to clobber him unconscious.
He must have heard her pounding feet above the music because he whirled away at the last moment, but not fast enough to avoid the totality of her downward strike. Her weapon connected with the right side of his head, raking down his ear.
He let out a grunt-scream and pressed a hand against the side of his head, as he stumbled away. A black mask covered everything but his eyes.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” she demanded, advancing on him.
Taking in her cavewoman appearance, he stared at her wide-eyed for several heartbeats until his self-preservation chip fired up.
He kicked out, slamming his foot into her solar plexus and sending her sprawling across her wooden floor. The thick towel wrapped around her body flipped open, revealing an embarrassing view of her lady parts.
The burglar lifted the gilt frame from where he’d propped it against her red chair and bolted out of her loft.
“Stop!”
She rolled to her hands and knees and fought to catch her breath. Grabbing her stick, she pushed to her feet and took off after him.
4
Angelena Kamber had been a no-show.
Rohan had waited thirty minutes for her to appear at Triple B. Twenty minutes longer than he would have for anyone else. Mostly because he feared his mama’s beetle eye, but also due to him not wanting to miss an opportunity to meet the mysterious forger.
Steering his Verge TS70 down Broad Street, he slowed until her apartment building came into view. He lowered his prescription Aviators to confirm the address. Maybe, just maybe, her car broke down, or she had a family emergency or she lost track of time.
Maybe she got spooked when she found out she’d be meeting with him instead of Lynette.
He’d soon find out.
After parking along the curb, he strode toward the newly renovated two-story brick residence. The former Bamff Furniture store now housed oversized loft apartments—two on the first floor and an enormous one on the second, occupied by the forger—copyist.
The only picture he could dig up on Angelena Kamber was her driver’s license. Most DL photos had the air of a prison mug shot. Not Miss Kamber’s. Even though she didn’t smile and a strange sort of tension pulled at the corners of her luminous gray eyes, she captivated the viewer’s imagination.
Thick, black hair framed a golden-brown, heart-shaped face. A dark mole perched on her left cheekbone, and Rohan had had the strangest urge to brush his thumb over the area.
To the left of the door, he spotted a call panel with three buttons—1a, 1b, 2. He stared at the silver button beneath number two, wondering if he was being an idiot by coming here. Would she find his appearance creepy? Surprising? Or dare he hope, appreciated?
