Wild Ride: A Changing Gears Novel (23 page)

“Alex, I am here to write a book, exactly as I told you. But, as you no doubt discovered web surfing, I also help locate missing treasures, mostly art. I have a lot of sources and I heard a rumor that your grandfather had been the last person to see the former owner of a missing Van Gogh alive and with the painting.”

She glanced sharply his way and her brows drew together, so he knew she was listening.

“He was a Frenchman. His name was Louis Vendome. Ever heard of him?”

She shook her head, giving him the dung beetle look again.

“Your grandfather never mentioned the name?”

This time he got only the
you are the bottom of the insect totem pole
expression. No head shake.

“It was right before France fell in World War II.”

This time her nostrils flared. She knew her grandfather had been there when war broke out. He suspected Grandpa’s war stories filled at least one of those tapes she was transcribing.

“Louis was killed fighting with the Resistance and the painting disappeared. A lot of treasures disappeared during the war. Looted or destroyed by Nazis, or hidden by their owners, who never had a chance to go back and find them. Every once in a while another one turns up. Found in an attic, buried in a wine cellar, an old mine.” He shrugged.

“Or in St. Petersburg.”

“You did do your research on me.”

“You were one of the team who discovered that some of the art stolen by the Nazis was ‘liberated’ by the Russians and ended up behind the Iron Curtain, not seen again by the west until Glasnost.”

He nodded. “A lot of people have contacted me over the years hoping I can help them get their families’ treasures back. Sometimes I can help, most times not. The Vendome family was one. After hearing their story, I told them their quest was probably hopeless.

“Then a few months ago I heard a rumor that a man called Franklin Forrest had been studying art in Paris and knew Vendome and his family’s famous painting. The rumor suggested Mr. Forrest might know how to find the painting.
Olive Trees with Farmhouse
.”

She blinked. “The black-and-white photocopy that you were painting that day when I — brought you dinner.”

“Right. I came to Swiftcurrent specifically to interview your grandfather and see if he could tell me anything that might help. Frankly, I probably wouldn’t have done more than give him a phone call if I hadn’t also wanted a quiet place to write where I could do some climbing.”

“So you came here.”

“That’s right.”

“And when you found out Franklin Forrest was dead, you decided to seduce his granddaughter for information.” Her voice was calm enough but her eyes burned with fury.

“No!”

Her brows flew skyward. “We didn’t exactly hit it off, yet you pursued me until you got me into bed.”

The room seemed to grow uncomfortably warm. “I’m not saying I didn’t want to see if you knew anything about the painting, because I did. Maybe I would have taken a brush-off better if I wasn’t thinking you were the last hope for finding that Van Gogh. But I swear to God I didn’t sleep with you for information. I wouldn’t do that.”

She did not look convinced.

“Alex, haven’t you figured out by now that I am not the only person who heard that rumor. I’m not the only one who thinks you have that painting, or know where it is.”

She gasped as the truth hit her. “The dead man in my library?”

He nodded. “He’s been known to work for a dealer in L.A. who doesn’t do all his deals on the floor of his gallery. Why do you think Plotnik was killed in one location and then dumped in your library?”

She might still be angry with him but he had her full attention. “In the art section.”

“Exactly.”

“But, why did they try to kill me?”

“Not to take away from your ordeal, but if they’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

She was pale, but he could see she was reasoning through what he’d already concluded. “Yes. Of course. They wanted to scare me into giving up the painting, I suppose. Except that I don’t have it. My grandfather — how I wish he’d been alive when you arrived here and you could have met him. He was a wonderful man, honorable and decent. He would never steal. Never.”

“I’m sorry too that he passed away before I got here. I never knew him, so I can’t comment, but he may not have stolen the picture.” He rose and began to pace, as though movement might help him to a solution.

“Think about it. The Nazis had truckloads of stuff they took off the Jews and anybody else they saw as their enemies. They looted Poland, Italy, Holland, France and Belgium of its treasures. Desperate owners and gallery managers tried to smuggle or hide art works to keep them out of the hands of the Third Reich. Because they didn’t only confiscate what they wanted, they had a nasty habit of destroying art they thought was degenerate. That included some of the great modern masters. Maybe your grandfather smuggled the picture out for safekeeping.”

“And never gave it back?”

Duncan shrugged. “His friend was dead. Maybe he didn’t know about the family. He never sold the painting during his lifetime, so he didn’t profit himself.”

“But why would he hang on to it all those years and never say anything to anyone?” She stopped. Blinked. “Oh, my God.” She put her fingers over her lips as though trying to stifle her words, but then she dropped her hand and spoke clearly. “He kept saying he had a special bequest for Gillian and me. He talked about a letter that went along with his will. But after he passed on and we found his will, there was no letter.”

“I’m guessing somebody has it.”

She swallowed audibly. “Who?”

“Isn’t that the ten-million-dollar question.”

After he left Alex, Duncan rode his new bike to the library. He tried to work on his book, but it was hopeless. He couldn’t concentrate. The library didn’t inspire him to work when Alex wasn’t there. When he stared at his computer screen, or the page of a book, he kept seeing her, banged up and traumatized, waving that foolish pink pepper spray at him. And then seeing her today, pale and bruised. Somebody was going to pay for hurting her, damn it.

But who?

On impulse he strode next door to the police station. Tom Perkins was sipping a coffee and pecking on a computer in his office. A female officer asked Duncan his business but he walked right past her. She followed, but when Tom saw him he motioned her back. “It’s okay, Raeanne.”

The cop settled back in his chair and didn’t invite his intruder to sit down. “Well?”

“What do you know about that gun found in Alex’s drawer?”

He could hear Perkins’ thoughts as easily as if the man were saying them aloud. He wasn’t a cop, he had no right to the intel. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, then Perkins ended the standoff. “It was the gun used to kill Plotnik.”

He nodded.

Perkins saved him the trouble of asking the next questions. “No prints. Gun was reported stolen a year ago.”

“Where?”

“L.A.”

“Any idea who rented the car that tried to kill Alexander Forrest?”

“Yep.”

“You got a name?”

Perkins rose so they were facing each other. There was an odd expression on his face. “Yeah. I got a name. Duncan Forbes.”

He stared at the impassive face on the other side of the desk. “What the fuck?”

“Car rental clerk took the booking over the phone. They already had your license and rental application on file. You said you needed a second car for your wife who was visiting for a couple of days. You gave your credit card information over the phone. Picked the car up at the airport. Dropped it off after hours.”

He could feel a vein ticking in his temple like a time bomb. “And?”

“There was some damage to the front end. They’ll be charging your credit card.”

He swore long and fluently. Perkins heard him out in silence. When he was finally done, the cop said, “Somebody’s trying pretty hard to set you up. Anything you want to tell me?”

For a second Duncan was tempted. Perkins knew this town and he might be a stolid small town cop, but he wasn’t stupid. However, Duncan didn’t see that he had enough information that Perkins could help him. Not yet. So he merely said, “Yeah. Thanks for not arresting me. Oh, and I bought a motorcycle. I won’t be using an easily duplicated rental car any more.”

For a second Perkins looked more like his one day climbing buddy than a cop. “What kind of bike?”

“Indian Chief ’41.”

“Nice.” Then, immediately jumping back to bad cop, Perkins leaned right over his desk, his fists planted. “Ever since you arrived in Swiftcurrent there’s been trouble. You planning to leave soon?”

Duncan narrowed his gaze realizing that if Alex ever got over her mad and realized she was in love with him too, that Swiftcurrent was going to be a big part of his life. He didn’t believe in lying to cops. He also didn’t believe in blabbing secrets. He said, “No comment.”

As he roared back to his place, he could see the sun setting behind the mountains. He’d barely done any of the climbing he’d promised himself. After being shot at the last time he climbed, he somehow hadn’t got out there again.

But he would and soon. In the meantime, he needed to do something physical. He dragged on running gear and headed out knowing a good few miles might help him pound out some of the frustration.

Five miles later, he returned, still as frustrated. He showered and was thinking about dinner. Wondering if he should take a quick trip to L.A. to see some people when somebody knocked on his door.

He slipped his pistol out of his pack and checked the peep hole. He put the gun away before opening his door to Alex.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked as he caught her pale cheeks and the fatigue behind her eyes.

“I’m sick of resting.”

“Come in,” he said. “Let me take your coat.”

“No. I can’t stay.” She hugged herself into her blue raincoat as though it could protect her from the ugly truth. “I wasn’t sure you were here. The rental’s gone. There’s a motorcycle in your usual spot.”

He couldn’t help his slow grin. “It’s my new ride. Like it?”

“It’s hard to see in the dark.”

“I’ll take you for a ride sometime. I bought a second helmet.” Just the thought of her wrapped behind him as they sped down some country road had him glad once more he’d bought that bike.

She looked less than thrilled about his new purchase or about him.

“How are you doing?” It was a stupid question, since it was painfully obvious she wasn’t doing all that well, but at least she was here.

“How am I doing?” She stalked past him and stood facing the sliding doors, so he saw her wavy reflection in the darkened glass. “I’m thirty years old and I found out today that my beloved grandfather might be a thief. How do you think I feel?”

He guessed it sucked to find out at the ripe old age of thirty that your grandfather was a thief. “I couldn’t say. I’ve known my grandfather was a thief ever since I understood what a thief was.”

She turned from the window, shock and suspicion widening her eyes. “Your grandfather was a thief?”

He nodded and went to the fridge for a bottle of wine. While he uncorked it and poured two glasses, he said, “I come from a noble line of thieves. My great great grandfather was a highwayman. They hanged him.” He passed her a glass of wine and she accepted it, with a quiet thank you. “I’ve got family in Australia who arrived there on a convict ship,” he said cheerfully. “They ended up with their own cattle station.”

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“My Uncle Simon was another black sheep. It’s a veritable herd. He became the family fence. But I really let down the family tradition. I went straight.”

“Your entire family are thieves?”

“Not the women. We’re traditional like that.”

“That’s a cozy little system you’ve got going. They steal the goods and you conveniently recover those same treasures for a nice, fat fee? Is that how Forbes enterprises works?”

“No. That is not how it works. I stay out of the family business altogether except we have an understanding that they’ll pass on any rumors or information that might be useful in my work. In return, I keep my mouth shut about their affairs.” He shrugged. “We’re no more dysfunctional than most families.”

Only Duncan had let down the tradition. His relatives still shook their heads over him. “You’re an absolute abe-r-r-r-ation, laddie, that’s what ye are,” his Uncle Patrick was fond of saying. Paddy could have stolen jewels reset so not even their true owners would recognize them.

“Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

“Yes. But it also happens to be true.”

She chuckled, a bit creakily, but it was a start. Her coat was still on, but she’d sipped the wine and now she sat. On the couch where he’d sketched her naked, but he tried not to think about that.

“If my grandfather was involved in taking a Van Gogh, then I want to help you find it,” she said, “because it needs to go back to its rightful owners.”

He nodded and wondered why he hadn’t confided in her earlier. Had he really thought she was concealing stolen property? This woman who wouldn’t jay walk in a ghost town? “Okay,” he said. “From now on, we work together.”

She settled back, looking much more like a sexual fantasy come to life than a co-solver of crime. But, at the moment, she was the best co-solver he could imagine. “What do you know so far?”

He winced. “Not a lot.”

“Well, things should go quicker now that you’re no longer convinced I have the painting.” She gave him a snooty look. “I assume you are no longer convinced I have the painting?”

He glared. “Give it a rest, Alex.”

“Well, because your apologetic demeanor leaves me speechless, I will agree to help you. On one condition.”

He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like this. “What’s the condition?”

“Neither my grandfather nor anyone else in this town is to be named as being involved in any sort of criminal action. If it turns out there was any criminal action which I doubt.”

It went against his nature to leave crime unpunished, but, on the other hand, given his family background, he wasn’t a stranger to reshaping the truth like so much pizza dough into a more convenient shape. He’d presented pizza in every flavor and shape imaginable and his clients and the media ate it up, so long as the recovered artifact was on the table as well.

“Agreed. But you have to promise me in exchange to share any information you have, any detail you remember, no matter how insignificant.”

She thought about it for a second, then nodded. She shucked her coat, reached into her bag and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook—a new one with the cover still shiny—and a ballpoint that he would have guessed was also new from the way its blue plastic cap gleamed. Then he noticed the ink was half gone. She’d used half the ink and still had the cap? And it wasn’t dulled, scratched, or chewed?

“So,” she said, “what do we know?”

“We know your grandfather leaked information about the Van Gogh—an easy thing to do with his connections. I’m assuming he planned to sell the painting privately.”

She looked as though she might argue, then dropped her gaze to her notebook and began drumming her pen against the paper.

“We know that Jerzy Plotnik was killed in or near Swiftcurrent and the body dumped in your library. Plotnik worked for a guy in L.A., a shady art dealer named Hector Mendes.”

He caught her quick glance. “What?”

“You knew who the dead man was all along, didn’t you?’

Promising to be completely open with Alex had seemed like a good idea when he’d proposed they work together. Now he wasn’t so sure. “Yes.” He held up a hand. “Spare me the good citizenship speech.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

He didn’t think he deserved that. “No. If I did, I’d tell the police. ”

She sniffed. “And we know that the gun was put in my drawer.”

“Which Tom Perkins confirmed as the murder weapon. It was reported stolen a year ago.”

“From where?” It was the same question he’d asked. He liked the way his co-solver thought.

“L.A.”

“Where Mendes operates.”

“Exactly.” He could see the outline of the bandage on her arm. “And we know someone tried to run you down in a car that looked suspiciously like mine.”

She nodded.

He blew out a breath then revealed what Perkins had told him. That whoever rented the car had impersonated him.

“So it’s someone who knows you and knows that you’re here.”

“Who wanted you to think I was a killer.”

She winced. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Someone tried to kill me, too, by the way.”

Her head came up and she stopped scribbling. “What?”

“When Tom and I went climbing. Somebody shot at me. They missed, but hit my rope.”

“You never told me.”

“I wasn’t hurt. And believe me, that night when you came over with dinner, I had other things on my mind.”

A little more color highlighted her cheeks. “And all this, this murder, shooting, and running people over is for a painting?”

“Yep. Or for the money it will bring.”

She rose, then sat again. “None of us is safe until that painting is found.”

“Agreed.” He thought about what that strange guy had said in the bike shop, about a treasure hiding in plain sight.

“So, if Plotnik stole Grandpa’s letter, then whoever murdered him took the letter since it wasn’t found on his body.”

“Or Plotnik couldn’t find the letter.”

“Or there is no letter. Think about it. If someone stole the letter, they’d have the painting.” She went back to drumming her pen on the notebook, and he did a little pacing.

“Who is the executor of the will?”

“I am.”

“No safety deposit box?”

“Yes, but it was a small one. With the deed to the house, some stock certificates, that kind of thing.”

“No paintings.”

She shook her head.

She ran a thumb along her fingernails as though checking her manicure. Still, it wasn’t as irritating as turning her notebook into a bongo drum. “Where was the will kept?”

“At home. In his desk drawer in his office. So, the letter must have been kept somewhere else,” she said. “There haven’t been any break-ins.”

He took a deep slug of wine, knowing he had to tell her something she wasn’t going to like. “Actually, there have been break-ins.”

“What do you–” Her eyes opened wide as she put together his statement with what he’d told her about his family. “You broke into my grandparents’ home?”

“I could hardly ask permission to search for a missing painting when I suspected you of harboring it. If I could get in and out of your grandparents’ house without you noticing, so could a number of other people with similar skills.”

Alex wasn’t stupid and after staring at him for another long moment, she said, “Where else did you search?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, half wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “Forrest Art and Antiques. Your place.” He ought to apologize. He knew that, but sorry didn’t come easy. “Gillian’s house.”

She rose and once more stared at the dark glass sliding door. “You have betrayed my trust on every level,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Not every level,” he said, rising to his feet and joining her at the window, standing behind her so both reflections were visible. “I’ve been intimate with you in a way I never have with another woman.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, and now that he felt he was close to losing her, the need to share his feelings grew desperate. “Alex, I—”

She swung to face him and he saw her jaw set. “I can’t even think about that right now. I want to find that painting so I can help right a wrong. Once you’ve got what you came for, you leave town. Understood?”

It was exactly his plan in coming to town, so why should he suddenly feel so desolate at the idea?