Cross Roads, page 5
Dropping into the hot seat, he set his laptop, notebook, and pen on the table in front of him. “Did I miss anything?”
Zeke shook his head. “I was filling them in on your concern about the copyist.”
A thousand ants marched inside Rohan’s stomach, their tiny claws and pincers tearing at the lining. “I’ll give my rec to you and Mom after our meeting.”
“Whoa-ho,” Phin said, leaning back in his chair. “Since when do we silo discussions?”
Fair question.
At all times, they had three or four recoveries at various stages of the process—from initial contact to final payment. Every task played off another, so it was important to keep the team updated any time a recovery’s status changed.
Whether they would hire a forger for one of their most sensitive cases to date would be something the team should know about. Which led him back to Phin’s question. Rohan didn’t know why he hesitated to share his recommendation with everyone present, but his mind constricted against the notion.
“We don’t.” Zeke leveled Rohan with a hard, brown-eyed stare. “What’s your assessment of risk?”
Each question pushed him farther into a shadowed corner. “My visit with Miss Kamber produced more red flags.”
“What kind?” Lynette asked.
“For starters, someone burglarized the forger’s home this morning and made off with a million-dollar painting.” He would leave out the minor detail of his assistance. How could he have known the guy he opened the door for was a thief instead of a resident?
“Forger?” his mother repeated, her expression darkening.
The wall at his back softened into quicksand, sucking him deeper into the corner until only his head was visible. “She makes copies of masterpieces, then sells them. It’s the very definition of art forgery.”
“When she sells them, does she try to pass them off as an original?” Liv asked. While with the FBI, the former special agent had worked primarily on art and cultural crime.
“No,” Lynette inserted. “Many online fine art stores purchase her copies to sell to their customers—everyday people who want beautifully rendered art by the masters, like Monet, but could never afford an original.” She grasped the handle of her coffee cup and lifted it. “Those who can afford more expensive pieces commission her to make an exact reproduction they can display in their homes, while they lock the original away for safekeeping.”
“It’s a fine line,” Rohan said. The wall of quicksand now framed his face. The pressure around his chest made it difficult to breathe. “But I’ll concede the point.”
“The same fine line we straddle.” Zeke’s attention strayed to Phin, reminding Rohan of his little brother’s struggle with the company’s philosophy about theft and recovery.
The pen twirling between Cruz’s fingers came to an abrupt halt. One dark eyebrow climbed into his forehead, revealing blue-gray eyes that could stop women in their tracks.
If Cruz and Angelena ever found themselves in the same room together, their beautiful orbs would be showstoppers.
The thought didn’t set well with him.
Cruz said, “Let’s back up. A million-dollar painting was stolen?”
Rohan nodded.
Phin whistled.
“What did the thief steal?” Liv asked.
“A painting by Na-lih Catawnee.”
Grams sat forward. “Which one?”
“Woman Walking.”
His grandmother closed her eyes as if in pain.
“Woman Walking,” Maddy echoed, sharing a shocked look with Liv before turning back to him. “Who would be stupid enough to allow their seven-figure painting to stay in an artist’s unsecured studio?”
“The building has a fair amount of security,” Rohan heard himself say, as if the forger needed a champion in her absence. “Guests have to be buzzed in, which, yes, can be easily bypassed, but Miss Kamber has alarm sensors on her door.”
“How did the thief get in?” Phin asked.
Rohan frowned, hating his next words. “I don’t know.”
In the silence, Grams answered the second half of Maddy’s question. “The painting belongs to Blaise Palmer, a U.S. senator and amateur collector.”
“The forger”—Lynette sent him a sharp look, and Rohan reshuffled his words—“Miss Kamber was scheduled to deliver the copy by the end of the week.”
“How devastating,” Lynette said. She met Zeke’s gaze and a silent communication passed between them.
Zeke turned to Rohan. “What other red flags?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Break it down for us lesser beings,” Zeke said in a voice that let Rohan know his patience was coming to an end.
Grams placed a thin hand on Zeke’s forearm, and BARS’s CEO expelled a breath as he leaned back in his chair.
“Before you go on,” Grams said to Rohan, “Tell us how Miss Kamber is doing. Was she harmed during the robbery?”
And just like that, the tension in Rohan’s shoulders eased, and the quicksand retreated a few inches. A touch, a word, a look—that’s all it ever took for Grams to calm five rowdy boys at the dinner table or five grown men in a business meeting.
“Miss Kamber engaged the thief and suffered a few bruises, as a result, but she’s otherwise fine.”
“Engaged, how?” Liv asked.
Torn between smiling and frowning, Rohan replayed the scene in his mind. “When she finished showering, she heard an unfamiliar sound and opened the door to find the thief lifting the painting. She attacked him with her hiking stick, then chased him out of her building.”
Phin grinned. “I bet that was a sight.”
Rohan would like to say he was above noticing the expanse of wet, golden-brown skin above and below her towel. But he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. “You have no idea.”
“What else you got?” Zeke asked.
The wall closed in on him again. “I spent the better part of yesterday attempting to unearth her missing background. But everything before age fifteen is a black hole.” When Cruz and Phin opened their mouths to offer suggestions, Rohan held up a hand. “Yes, it’s possible she’s in WITSEC. If my recommendation was to move forward and hire her, I’d start looking into major events that happened around the time her file washed out.”
“But you’re not recommending I hire her?” Lynette asked.
“She’s too hot, Mama. Too many unknowns.”
“What about the Catawnee painting?” Maddy asked. “Will Miss Kamber be able to track it down by herself?”
“Hopefully, she took my advice and called the sheriff’s office.”
“A painting that valuable might not see the light of day for a long time,” Liv said. “The thieves will take it underground until things cool down.”
“Unless they already had a buyer lined up,” Maddy said. “If that’s the case, the piece is already in someone’s personal collection. Likely behind several inches of reinforced steel.”
“Nicola St. Martin, anyone?” Phin said, reminding everyone of the Asheville socialite Zeke and Liv had tangled with recently.
“Mom contacted the next two copyists on her list,” Zeke said. “Both are booked until January, which won’t work for our recovery timeline. We got lucky with Miss Kamber because her next client backed out after his wife unexpectedly filed for a divorce.”
Heat traveled up the back of Rohan’s neck. “You’re going to hire her.”
“We all agreed that switching the Caravaggio with a reproduction was the best way to approach the FBI-Payne recovery,” Zeke said. “You yourself said we needed the best. Angelena Kamber’s work is unmatched and she’s available.”
“And the rest?”
Zeke shrugged. “As long as she can do the job in the time frame we need, I don’t care who she was when she was twelve years old.”
“Your call, brother,” Rohan said, “but I’m on record saying this is going to end only one way. Badly.”
Zeke smiled. “Which makes you the perfect person to take lead on locating the Catawnee.”
Dread coated Rohan’s throat as he braced his forearms on the table. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Angelena Kamber hired BARS last night.”
9
“Are you still on schedule to deliver the reproduction next week?” Senator Palmer asked.
Lena’s fingers tightened around her phone. “Shit, shit, shiiit,” she mouthed to the empty stairwell as her Veronica Beard boots cleared the last step leading to her loft.
Lena hefted the bulky grocery bag higher onto her shoulder and speared her hand into her teal and brown MDBM Cholet bag. Her fingers danced around the bottom of her purse, bending and swaying around her wallet, Fenty refillable lipstick, tissues, ink pen, stray paper clip, and wadded-up receipt.
“That’s the plan.” Where the hell were they? She remembered dropping her keys into their usual pocket. “Unless the paint hasn’t dried yet.”
“My engagement party is on Saturday.”
“Um, yes.” Her short nails clicked against metal. “I remember.”
“My friends expect to see Woman Walking.”
A copy of Woman Walking.
His so-called friends expected to view the painting only because they had shelled out a thousand dollars for the privilege.
“Displaying the original is out of the question.”
Not too trusting of your friends, huh, Blaisey-boy.
She reeled her keys from the bag’s depths.
“If I don’t have a reproduction, they’ll have nothing to admire but an empty wall.” His voice lowered to a dangerous octave. “I don’t like to look the fool, Miss Kamber.”
She found the key for the deadbolt, inserted it, and turned.
Nothing happened.
Lena frowned. “Yeah, that would suck.”
“I get the feeling you’re not taking this situation seriously.”
“What? No, of course, I am.”
Turning the key in the opposite direction, the bolt slid home.
Locked.
Heat washed over her body, dampening her palms and the area between her shoulder blades. She set the groceries down, never taking her eyes off the thick slab of metal that acted as a buffer between her and whoever was inside her loft.
Another burglar? Who would be bold enough to attempt another robbery so close to the last one? How did they get a key?
A representative from her alarm monitoring company would be here any minute to present a detailed proposal for ways they could amp up her security. She should back away and call nine-one-one. Law enforcement would be here in three minutes, tops.
But what if she’d simply forgotten to lock her door? Wouldn’t be the first time.
How mortifying would it be to call for a safety check, only to realize there was no intruder? Only an idiot tenant.
“I’ll do everything in my power to get the copy of Woman Walking to you in time for her unveiling.”
A mountain of silence slammed up between them. Then Lena heard a muffled female voice in the background, but she couldn’t make out the woman’s words.
Palmer said, “I’m sending someone to pick up the original.”
Lena’s heart catapulted into her stomach. “The original? I still need it.”
“You said the painting was finished, so there’s no need for you to keep it any longer.”
“I never said the painting was done.”
She had locked the door. She was sure of it. But she couldn’t remember the actual act of engaging the deadbolt.
This must be what it felt like when people drove away from their houses and couldn’t recall hitting the garage door button, forcing them to drive around the block, or worse—call a neighbor once they got to work.
Better to be mortified than dead.
Even as her logical mind prevailed, Lena reached for the key and turned it in the opposite direction again.
The deadbolt flicked open.
“Waiting for the paint to dry indicates completion to me.”
“Almost complete. I’m still working on the eyes.”
“The eyes.” Palmer echoed in a flat voice.
“Senator, I’ve never missed a deadline. You’ll have the painting Saturday.”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
Lena gritted her teeth. “I won’t.”
The line went dead.
Lena stared at the door handle. Her heartbeat seemed to echo off the walls.
This is such a bad idea.
She keyed in nine-one-one on her phone and her thumb hovered over the Send button.
With an expert twist of her fingers, she selected another key, inserted it into the handle’s keyhole, and eased open the door. Why she bothered attempting stealth, she didn’t know. The burglar had surely heard her speaking to the senator and playing tick-tock with the locks.
A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her as she slipped inside.
“Why am I not surprised you entered instead of calling the police?” a familiar masculine voice asked.
A rush of irritation kicked aside her fear. “I still could.” Straightening, she marched farther into her loft. “What are you doing here?”
Her jaw dropped open.
Just . . . dropped.
Dressed in faded jeans, scuffed boots, and a black T-shirt that looked like someone had painted it on his body, Rohan Blackwell stood on a ladder in the corner of her studio and appeared to be installing something.
Shoving her phone in her back pocket and dumping her shoulder bag on the couch, she moved to stand below him. “Is that a camera?”
“Yes, ma’am.’’
Staring at his broad back, she tried to understand what was going on, even while she followed the play of muscles beneath the thin cotton fabric of his shirt.
She forced her gaze up to where he was putting the finishing touches on his installation. “Explain what’s going on, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Rohan.”
She waited for the explanation.
It never came.
“How did you get past the building’s security?”
“Same way as your burglar.”
One-two-three. “Are you going to force me to pull every detail out of that gorgeous mouth?”
His hands stilled, and his head slowly turned in her direction. “You think my mouth is gorgeous?”
She reared back. “N-no! Why would you ask me that?”
“You just said—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
Had she called his mouth gorgeous?
She replayed her words. Although she couldn’t recall saying it, she couldn’t fully deny it either. His mouth was . . . enticing. Full, yet firm, and surrounded by sexy whiskers. Something about this guy shaved off bits of her hard-earned control every time he was near.
“The café next door is nice.” He climbed down from his ladder. “Especially the outdoor eating area.”
Lena’s last nerve snapped in two. “How about I order you a Reuben to go?”
“Would love one, but they’re closed on Mondays.” He locked eyes with her while he wiped his hands on a blue cloth he pulled from his back pocket. “Sundays, too.”
He was trying to tell her something. Lord, she hated backdoor guessing games. But she played along, sweeping through her memory for images of the breakfast-lunch café next door. Metal tables and chairs, live plants in brightly hued pots, sturdy pergola breaking up the sun.
A pergola situated only a few feet away from—
Her gaze shot to the cabinet where she stored her canvases, to the half-opened window just a few feet away.
“You climbed up the pergola?” Not waiting for the obvious answer, she continued, “But the window was locked.”
He held up a flat tool she’d never seen before. “Child’s play.”
Giving herself a moment to think, she retrieved her groceries from the hallway, set the heavy bag on the island counter, and pulled the ingredients for pad thai from its depths.
After a lively discussion with Randi and the other ladies, they had all decided the best way to change Rohan’s mind about working with her was to go through official channels.
Which meant sharing her story with Zeke Blackwell.
If he’d decided against taking her case too, she would’ve been forced to do the unthinkable. But after consulting with some of his team, Zeke had accepted the case, saving her from an awkward conversation with the senator and too many probing questions from the authorities.
When BARS’s CEO had told her that someone would be in touch, she had expected a phone call, followed by a meeting. Not a breaking and entering.
Though she would never admit it, coming upon two intruders in as many days had an effect. She’d taken precautions to safeguard her home and had never felt unsafe here.
Until now.
Folding the reusable shopping bag, she met her unwanted guest’s gaze. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Blackwell. I’ll pass on your findings to my alarm service. They should be here any moment.”
“Rohan.” He moved his ladder to another corner of the studio. “The rep arrived ten minutes ago.”
She glanced around as if her representative would suddenly materialize. “Where is she?”
“I told her AMT’s services were no longer needed.”
“You did what?”
“Part of your contract with BARS is to improve your building’s security.” He gave her a smile that didn’t reach the lower part of his face. “Did Zeke forget to mention that during your meeting?”
Lena ignored the jab and focused on the first part of his statement.
“You mean my apartment.”
“I have to give you credit,” he said. “You did a great job of hiding your ownership of this building and manufacturing creditable, nonexistent renters.”
“Not good enough, evidently.”
This time, the corner of his mouth curled. “See previous discussions about me being good at tech.”
The saliva in her mouth seemed suddenly thick and sticky, making it impossible to form words.
“The shell company you used to purchase the building would fool most people, especially an eager seller wanting to offload an old building that’s been nothing but a financial sieve for years.” He climbed the ladder. “But I like to peel back the layers and poke around in the shadows.”
