Authors: Fiona Quinn
W
ith a fresh cup of coffee by his side, Deep settled back behind my computer. “I wanted you to see this.”
I scooted my roller chair over to him, and put my hair back into a ponytail, for clear thought’s sake.
“The signatories for the art loan contract are Iniquus — signed presumably by Colonel Grant and Bartholomew Winslow himself, not a proxy. I found some court documents in our data bank, and the authentication software came back with 98.2% confidence. That’s the best result I’ve ever seen come through. So we can say with a high level of certainty that Winslow is a key player. Have you talked to Colonel Grant yet?”
“Leanne said he’s coming back to the office tonight. She’ll let me know as soon as he arrives, so I can grab a quick yes or no from him on his signature.”
“Okay, good. Next puzzle piece.”
“Wait, let me start making lists. I don’t want to miss anything.” I moved to the white board and scribbled, CONTRACT BW = yes Col. G = ?
“Next point?” I asked.
“O’Keefe called. He had to wait until twenty-hundred to call the museum because Japan’s ahead by thirteen hours. He said he made up a story about an upcoming trip to Tokyo and had heard there was going to be a Tsukamoto retrospective, honoring his passing. Are you ready for this?”
“Do you think I should sit down?”
“Probably.”
My heart picked up its pace. Rarely did Deep make such a big deal of things he found in his research. I plunked into the chair beside him.
“There is no retrospective planned at this time. The Dyozo Tsukamoto who died last year was the artist’s father; he was ninety-nine. Dyozo Tsukamoto the younger – the one who was the monk turned artist – has retired to Fukuoka, where he is enjoying robust health.”
“O’Keefe was circumspect about it? We don’t want anyone to start chatting. We need to keep things flowing as they are. If the players feel safe, they’ll make mistakes. If their antenna is up, behavior tightens.”
“Sounded like he did a good job. Stereotypical stupid American, struggling with language barriers, is usually pretty good at putting people off their guard.”
“Did you verify O’Keefe’s data?”
“Yup. Tsukamoto the elder was a professor of engineering. Tsukamoto the younger is an artist.” He tapped the keys. “Here’s the father’s death certificate.” He tapped again. “Here’s a recent article that was written about Tsukamoto the younger, written in a London paper.”
“April tenth. A few weeks after they signed the contract.”
“Yup.”
“When did the dad die?”
“December of last year.”
I walked to the white board and drew thought bubbles with the information. “December. Didn’t Lacey say she had to ship the artwork in a couple of weeks? She didn’t have any body language tells that she was lying. Why would she be shipping Iniquus art to Japan with no retrospective being developed?”
“You didn’t spend much time with her, Lynx. We didn’t watch video before we went in to monitor her baseline behaviors.”
“Yeah, but she pretty much wears her heart on her sleeve. And micro-tells are universal.”
“So what did her body language tell you?”
“I’ll tell you that when you tell me where you got your call sign.”
He cleared his throat and reached around his neck, loosening his shirt collar, then turned his focus back to the computer screen. “I have no ideas about the shipments. The whole thing is nuts. If they simply wanted to steal the art, why would it be sitting in a warehouse?”
“We need eyes on it to make sure the art is actually there. She may just be under the delusion that it’s warehoused, and it could be sitting in some private collection now. The deadline could simply be to keep her focused and pushing. Or she could be a mastermind, and I got duped.”
“Or we don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“A distinct possibility,” I said.
“Okay, we can put a team on it. I can get with Striker on a plan.”
“Let’s hold off for the moment. We have quite a few balls in the air, and I don’t want to make them all crash down by focusing on the wrong ball at the wrong time.”
“Gotcha.” Deep swiveled back to the keyboard and tapped the keys. “After I understood this was probably a sham, I only had one known player.”
“Winslow. What about Lacey Stuart? What are you finding on her?”
“There’s a whole stream of emails between Lacey and some woman named Aiko Hiko. They developed rapport. They planned. Lacey sent in her progress reports. Hiko pushed her to get the Babcock painting.”
“Only the Babcock painting?” I frowned.
“So far. Why?”
“It seems to me that the other collector would be a bigger get. Babcock has one and someone else has four.”
“True. I didn’t read many of the emails yet. I was more interested in finding out —”
“Who Hika is.” I clunked my heels up on the table. “Surface information says that Lacey’s either in the dark, or she’s awesome at leaving an evidence trail that will keep her out of lockup. Can you trace the IP address and see where these response emails originated?”
“Yeah, I already tried that. They aren’t coming from the museum’s IP address, and the server doesn’t want to be identified. The person on the other end of these emails is using Tor network.”
I scratched my forehead. “Well, damn. I don’t like smart criminals. They make life so much harder. But that’s information in and of itself, isn’t it? I handed the contract to legal to see what they had to say.”
“I already got their response. They said it reads as ‘completely legitimate and normal procedure.’”
I grinned. “Why am I even here? You’ve got this handled.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, hoping it was Striker. Nope. Someone here at Iniquus.
“Lynx here.”
“It’s Leanne. If you want to see Colonel Grant, his car pulled past the security gates. He should be in his office in the next five minutes.”
“Thanks, Leanne. I’m on my way.” I disconnected. “Colonel Grant is driving up. I should have an answer for us about his signature in a minute, Deep. I’ll be right back.”
I hightailed my way to the Command wing, and stopped outside the door to get control of my breath.
Leanne looked up as I walked through the door. “He’s not come in yet. You must have jogged over.” She smiled. “By the way, I couldn’t find you earlier. I have a message for you from Mr. Spencer. They made an arrest at Montrim Industries based on the findings you uncovered. He says kudos. He’d like to congratulate you in person when he’s back in town.”
“Oh, is he travelling?”
“He’s doing some networking up in New York, there was some big event. Oh! And he also said to tell you not to read the New York Times today.’”
“Why not?” I asked.
“No idea. He said I should tell you he wants you to skip over the New York Times today. I looked through to see why he might not want you to read it,” she said, lifting the folded paper from her desk drawer and opening it. “I didn’t see any articles that stood out as upsetting – you know, no kidnappings or serial killers or fires or planes going down. I did find a picture of Commander Rheas and Vine though, on the society page.” She flipped through the pages until she found the one she was looking for. “Commander Rheas is some kind of gorgeous. I mean, Dawson is a total doll, turns heads wherever we go, but Commander Rheas? Shoot, your team in general. Blaze. Gater? I’m not sure how you get any work done.”
I stared at the newspaper photograph. Vine looked made-for-Hollywood perfect in a glamorous sheath that clung to her curves. The man standing in the corner of the picture stared at her chest like there was nothing he’d like more than to dive head first into her very pronounced cleavage. Striker was heart-stoppingly handsome in his tux. The power of his body, his wonderful smile . . . I hoped three days meant three days, and then he could come home. I could use some alone time with him.
“I used to think Vine was beautiful.” Leanne picked up the paper and tipped her head to look at the picture with me. “Then I got to know her a little, and now she just looks like a bitch.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I wish that hadn’t popped out of my mouth. Do you know Scarlet Vine?” Leanne grimaced.
“Never met her. Probably never will. Don’t worry about it.”
“It always surprised me that Commander Rheas put up with her. They don’t make a very good couple personality-wise, if you know what I mean. They sure do look good together, though.”
“Oh?” I smiled at Leanne and tipped my head to the side, hoping she’d share a little more.
“I thought they broke it off a long time ago,” she said. “Looks like they’re back together. They seem completely into each other. I wonder if they knew someone was taking their picture. Well, I’m headed home for the night.” She tucked the paper back in her desk and pulled out her purse, then stood and adjusted the strap over her shoulder. “Sorry I had to bail on lunch today. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Yup. Thai?”
“Good with me.” She headed to the door.
Great. They look like they’re back together.
Leanne was right, though. Striker and Vine did look totally into each other. Vine’s body language couldn’t be misread. I didn’t focus on Striker’s long enough to get an impression. For a split second, I considered taking the paper from Leanne’s drawer to show Striker when he got home. But then, what would that serve? I trusted Striker.
I did.
It was Vine I had a problem with.
She sure did remind me of Felicia, Striker’s high school sweetheart. Same long chocolaty hair, same long legs, same ample bosom, same catty-bitch demeanor. I could practically hear her purring. It made me wonder how Striker and I ended up together. I mean, I was pretty enough, but blond and blue-eyed. I came from an Irish heritage – not a speck of the Latina blood that seemed to attract him. Maybe I was a catty bitch? Nah. That I could say for sure was not my style.
My mind went back to the night we sat in his living room trying to figure “us” out–the night of our “boxes” discussion. I had asked him what he looked for in his dating life. He had said he had dated for pleasure; he was looking for beauty, grace, good sex and basic conversation. Well, I guess he could get those needs met with Vine easily enough.
But he also used the past tense. He was done with dating, and what he wanted from a forever relationship was very different. So maybe it was okay that I didn’t look like a Latina love goddess.
“Lynx? You must be running on vapors.” Colonel Grant strode into the room. “What’s keeping you here so late?”
“Can I have two minutes of your time, sir?”
“Of course.” He swept his arm toward his office door, and I let myself in. “Are you alright? Leanne said you had a medical issue come up.”
“I’m fine, I was fine, I just. . .” I stopped an cleared my throat. “Colonel Grant, I fell asleep, that’s all. I was lying under the mobile in General Elliot’s office, thinking through some of the finer points of the case I’m working on, and I very embarrassingly fell asleep. And I don’t mean to take up your time with this story, but it’s actually the reason I needed to speak with you.”
He quirked a brow and indicated a chair. Instead of walking around to the other side of his desk, he pulled the other seat closer to mine and sat down.
“In General Elliot’s office, there’s a piece of art work by Dyozo Tsukamoto. There used to be pieces of Tsukamoto’s art all over Iniquus. I’m wondering who approached you about loaning them to the Hisako Museum of Modern Art, and who signed the contract with you for the loan period.”
“I’m not following you, Lynx.”
“Are you aware that the art in Iniquus has changed?”
“I remarked on the change, yes. But I assumed when I saw the staff at work doing the changeover, that it was time for the interior designer to update our look. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Was this supposition, or is that what someone told you?”
He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “The changes happened last spring. General Elliot was on vacation, then fell ill. Spencer and I took on his workload. . . I can’t recall if I had a direct conversation with anyone or if. . .I’m not very good with things like that. I leave the decorating at my house in Mrs. Grant’s capable hands. Decoration is out of my purview. But you asked if I was approached about loaning our art, I know that didn’t happen. Those pieces don’t belong to Iniquus. They were commissioned and are owned by General Elliot. So I have no say over them. I signed no contracts. What’s this about, Lynx?”
I opened my file and handed him the contract.
He glanced over it. “That’s not my signature. I can’t make heads or tails of this. Is someone trying to make us look like fools, coming in and stealing our art right out from under our noses?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, sir. But as for art theft. . . I’d think there are easier places to steal a Tsukamoto if someone were that gung-ho about having one. I mean, from what Deep and I have discovered, this is complicated and ongoing.”
“Ongoing, how?”
“Sir, I will be glad to share the information with you when I have it. I need a little more time, so I have something concrete to offer. I don’t want to burden you with speculation.”