Authors: Fiona Quinn
I
stood in Celia’s closet, which was about the size of the entire top floor of my shotgun duplex on the blue-collar side of town, across the street from her cousin, Alice. When Alice introduced me to Celia, I moved to only one degree of separation in the Kevin Bacon proximity game. Celia and Graham had vacationed with him in the Mediterranean a few years ago. Small world.
The spa ladies had scrubbed, buffed, and polished me to within an inch of my life. I had brought a wash-away tint with me, and now my blond hair was “Golden Chestnut” and swirled into a sleek chignon. The makeup artist did a fun job making me look like a fifties starlet, with winged eyeliner and thick fake eyelashes. And now, brown contacts hid the color of my blue eyes.
Celia’s personal maid, Gretel, stood with gowns draped over her arm, as Celia delicately nibbled the side of her perfectly French manicured nail and considered choices for me to try on.
“This one,” she said, triumphantly pulling a plum chiffon from its zippered garment bag. As Celia held the gown up for me to see, my eye snagged on the Dior label. I wouldn’t dare eat or drink anything while wearing that dress. Gretel replaced the other gowns on the rod and helped me step into the cloud of sheer fabric. I stood on my tiptoes and turned slowly for inspection.
“Yes. Go look at yourself.” She gestured toward the tri-fold mirror. “I think just a glitzy bracelet and strappy sandals. Gretel, find the Jimmy Choo shoes with the Florry holograph – no, the snakeskin ones. . . Yes, those. Thank you.”
When Gretel left the room, Celia came up behind me to adjust the dress. “You’re still not back to your normal weight. Either you need to gain some pounds or I have to lose them, and I prefer that you do the gaining.”
“Deal,” I said, smoothing my hands over the bodice. I was slowly building back my muscle tone. The doctors said it was time, not capacity. It would take consistent effort to get back my strength and flexibility. But I could, eventually. They weren’t yet sure about my speed. Quick draws and hand-to-hand combat were marked on my “to
not
do” list. I still fatigued easily. I wouldn’t be running a marathon any time soon.
I’m a work in progress,
I reminded myself before any self-doubt could wriggle its way in and weaken me.
“I take it from your change of hair color that you’re on assignment tonight.”
“Nothing dangerous. My orders are to enjoy myself and look around. I’d never allow you to be near me if I thought for a millisecond there was any risk.”
Celia’s face peered over my shoulder, our eyes locked in the mirror’s reflection. “I never believed you were kidnapped because of Ruby and Mikey.”
I spun around.
“That’s why you’re not living at your house. You’re trying to protect the neighborhood. I’m right, aren’t I?”
How could I answer her without answering? I stood there, saying nothing at all.
“Got it,” Celia said with a nod. “Okay. Well Alice and the neighborhood gang are feeling pretty darned hurt. They love you and want you back home where you belong. I’m going to tell them your doctors want you stay with someone in case you fall or have issues with your head.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“And I’m going to say that Striker insists that it be his job to keep you safe and healthy, because I’m sure that’s equally true.” She grinned. “There’s a running bet on who wins the girl – Gater or Striker. From what I saw on Striker’s face during that whole kidnapping fiasco, I knew the decision had already been made, so I doubled down.”
Again with the bets? My life had prompted so many wagers that I was sure that new gambling regulations were being drawn up with my name on them.
She squeezed my shoulders and moved into her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, “You’re obviously not going as Gabriella Ricci this time. What name do I call you, Mata Hari?”
***
The ballroom decorations sparkled under the crystal chandeliers to match the theme “All That Glitters Is Not Gold.” Shakespeare was so wise, I thought, as I smiled up at the fairy lights twinkling overhead. I wondered if this admonishment from
The Merchant of Venice
didn’t fit perfectly with my situation at Iniquus. Whom could I trust? Who had another agenda? Who was the fool’s gold traitor?
I scanned the room for the Iniquus men Spyder told me would be here. Deep, very suave and yummy in his tux, stood above me on the stairs. When his gaze skimmed over the crowd, I bent my head so he couldn’t see my face and blushed at the thought of hiding in plain sight from my teammate.
“Ho ho ho,” Celia said. “Guess who’s here.”
I specifically didn’t look where she was staring wide-eyed and gleeful. “Santa Claus?” I asked.
She bent in conspiratorially, “Close. It’s your hobbit.”
“My what?”
“That hobbit that you went to Halston Ball with when you pretended to be that Gabriella Ricci chick. The hobbit who made you do the limbo to get under his arm when he twirled you on the dance floor.”
“Babcock?” I held her arm and turned with her so I could look over her shoulder.
Shit
was my first thought. And my second thought was Babcock might be the reason Spyder sent me here. My team planted a listening device on Babcock last year; Striker said we were fishing. When I was getting ready for that assignment, I had had a pretty clear “knowing” that said Babcock was a “Hydra Marionette.” Now that Spyder explained there was an actual player called the Puppet Master, this “knowing” was a great deal more informative. Indigo pulled Babcock’s strings.
To do what exactly?
I wondered.
I peeked up toward Deep. He was acting as eye and ears, but what assignment was he on?
“Let’s go talk to him,” Celia said, as she took off across the gallery.
I grabbed at her arm as I scurried after her. “Whom?”
“Babcock,” she said over her shoulder.
I stopped abruptly, my hands tight on her arm. My face grew warm with my blush.
“I’m kidding.” She laughed. “Oh my goodness, the look on your face. Actually, I meant let’s go talk to Striker.”
My head whipped around. Sure enough, there he was. Drop-my-panties gorgeous. And Vine was wrapped around him like bindweed. I loosened my grip on Celia’s arm and shook my head.
“Do you know who that woman is?” Celia squinted her eyes. “She’s acting entirely too familiar with him.”
Okay, maybe it was a mistake to bring Celia. “Celia, shh.”
“Ted just walked over to them, so if you want the scoop, now’s the time.”
I paused for a heartbeat, then said, “I think I need a breath of fresh air.” And walked away.
I couldn’t believe I just did that. I sent Celia in to chat with Striker. I didn’t warn her that he was undercover or anything. Would she use his real name? Surely she was much more circumspect than that. Celia had played the politics game way too long and way too successfully for her to make such an elementary mistake. I kneaded my thumb into my palm, remembering Striker’s and my conversation about Vine making bad choices if she thought with her heart and not her brain, and look what I just did. I allowed Celia to go over and snoop.
I could stand here and try to convince myself that having information about the mission that Striker was working on could feed me pertinent data. Or I could berate myself for possibly blowing their cover. Or. . .
Holy moly, Babcock’s joining their mix.
A waiter blocked my view, offering a crab puff from his tray. I popped one in my mouth, tasting nothing as I leaned forward at the hips to protect the dress from crumbs. By the time he moved on to the next patron, Babcock, Celia, and one of the women from Striker’s conversation cluster had moved away, leaving me with an eye full of Scarlet Vine’s ample cleavage.
She was dressed in a red dress that she could have borrowed from Jessica Rabbit—of the “I’m not bad; I’m just drawn that way” fame. And just like Jessica, Vine probably wasn’t
bad,
I told myself. I had no gripe with her personally; I had never met the woman. I could intellectually understand that she was going for what she wanted, which was oh so obviously to be back with Striker. Though, what she wanted and what Striker wanted were animals of different stripes.
I shifted my stance to find Celia. Nada. I moved farther into the room.
In the grand scheme of things, in Vine’s mind, I was probably the interloper. I mean, she did sink her nails into him first. But Striker let her know her hands didn’t belong on him anymore. I watched her slither closer to Striker. Seemed like she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer.
There you are,
Celia
. She, Babcock, and another woman were in line at the bar. I could see from Celia’s short sentences and encouraging nods that she was digging for information.
You go, girl.
I moved toward a group who was listening to the docent talk about a featured sculpture and waited to hear what grains of information Celia was able to cull.
“Their names are Martha and Maxx Schwartz. Two Xs in Maxx. It’s not short for anything. He works for customs at the Baltimore harbor, and she works in an art gallery.”
“What’s Martha’s connection to Babcock? Does he buy art from her?”
“She’s actually trying to borrow a piece from him. She said it would be a coup if she was able to get this particular work for a retrospective show in Tokyo. The artist just died and the Hisako Museum of Modern Art is honoring him.”
“What’s the artist’s name?”
“Dyozo Tsukamoto. T-S-U-K-A-M-O-T-O.” Celia turned her head to capture the cheek kiss of a woman dressed in a daffodil-colored gown. Celia squeezed my arm, then did a little small talking about tennis at the club with her friend.
I pulled my phone from my clutch and typed Tsukamoto’s name into a Google search.
I thought that name sounded familiar.
My finger flicked through the images. Some of them I recognized right away. They were pieces I had seen at Iniquus Headquarters. In fact, the interior designer had distributed Tsukamoto’s work, both his mobiles and his paintings, throughout the building. The ones in the executive wing had been particularly large and intricate.
I wondered if the Iniquus collection was part of the retrospective and now somewhere in Japan. That would be a pretty strange decision for Iniquus, given the number of pieces and their prominence in the design scheme. But it explained the Zen-like silk painting hanging outside of the Puzzle Room.
Tsukamoto’s sculptures and mobiles were different from any art I had ever seen before. General Elliot, on one of my first days at Iniquus, had personally showed me around Headquarters. He said he had started the collection, and even had a few pieces commissioned specifically for Iniquus while the building plans were still with the architect. The pieces were fascinating to watch, as they changed with the air current. Mesmerizing.
General Elliot told me that Tsukamoto had been a Buddhist monk and tried to replicate the path to Nirvana in his artwork. When I looked at one of his pieces, I felt myself pulled away from my chattering monkey mind into a place of tranquility where my thoughts could rest. Very Nirvana-like. General Elliot lead me to believe that the art was highly desirable, a financial investment. That they were so widely cast and numerous here at Iniquus Headquarters had confused me a little; I always thought that they were an odd choice for Iniquus with its hive-like workings. Everyone was hard at task; there was nothing meditative or introspective about our jobs.
As Celia’s friend moved away, I slipped my phone back in my purse.
“Sorry about that,” Celia said with a smile. “Okay, I was telling you about the hobbit and the artwork.”
“Do you know why this would be a coup for Martha?”
“Yup. She’s trying to crawl her way up the arts scene’s ladder. She’s the gopher on this project. Japan contracted with her gallery to collect Tsukamoto work from DC. Why DC?” Celia bumped me with her hip. “I know that was going to be your next question.”
I gave her a smile and let her speak.
“DC is the only place in the United States that has any of his work. The main body was housed at Iniquus and those have already been collected. One is with Babbitt, I mean Babcock. Ha. I mixed hobbit into his name. But you know whom I meant. Babcock has a single piece in his home office and will
not
let it go, no matter how hard Martha flirted. And there are four in a private collection, but Martha’s company hasn’t been able to trace down the owner.”
“Wow, Celia, you sure are good at this. You know, if you ever need a job. . .”
“Pshaw. Both of them are three sheets to the wind. She’d tell me her bank account and password if I asked. So on to more interesting things. Striker and the leech are posing as Bryce and Claire Mason, married for five years. Met in grad school at Penn State. They own an import export company.”
So they’re interested in Maxx, not Martha. “
This event seems to be outside of the normal social network circles for a customs agent and an aspiring art dealer,” I said.
“Her dress and jewelry seemed outside the normal attire for someone in their positions, too. I would assume they make, what, maybe a hundred-and-sixty to a hundred-and-seventy thousand between them? So she’s definitely overdressed for that kind of income bracket. I assume her gallery bought her tickets, and she’s here as their representative. Though she’s kind of low down the totem pole for her to be acting in that capacity. Maybe she and Maxx have family money. Anyway, I was calculating, and I’d say her outfit was a month’s wages before taxes.”