Counterfeit Conspiracies (12 page)

I slowed the bike and pulled out the phone, using my thumb to flip to the text message Nico had sent earlier matching an address to the GPS coordinates on Simon's calendar. There it was, ahead and to the left. A cargo yard filled with shipping containers stacked two and three stories high.

"Is this it?" Jack's voice was muffled by the helmet. He climbed from the Kawasaki as the motor hushed.

I could only shrug. "Our best bet for now. Help me hide the bike."

He grabbed the handlebars and pushed to get the tires moving toward a sliver of dark between two containers. I scurried ahead to shift any debris. When the motorcycle was safely stowed and adequately hidden, we took a moment to absorb the ambience and reinforce our bearings. The letters of precise cursive I'd seen written in Simon's hand earlier that afternoon to denote this evening appointment were branded in my brain.

"You think we'll find Babbage here?" Jack whispered, placing a hand almost proprietarily at the small of my back as I threaded my way through a narrow corridor between the numbered container towers. Something about the move made it feel more than simple courtesy, but playing one-up-man right then was counterproductive.

Instead, I whispered back, "Guess we'll see soon."

With Nico at the Mayfair address on the hunt for intel tagged to Moran, this opportunity was all mine—well, mine and Jack's. And quite possibly the last chance to find and rescue Simon Babbage. Yes, I was banking on the hunch that the cryptic note about tonight's docklands meet was a second rendezvous with the same contact Simon alluded to in our morning phone conversation. We had no real clue to the agenda, so the meet could be true or a wild goose chase, regardless of what Jack said. All magnified because I still had no idea whether Simon disappeared before or after the earlier appointment, and with or without the sword. But hopefully I would find out something soon. The lack of defined facts automatically made me nervous. I checked my watch.

"Fifteen minutes."

"Yep, and we're synchronized." Jack tapped his watch face with one finger. "Let's grab some dark."

I pointed to another metal alley that gave good visual coverage to the point, while also radiating its lack of light like a black hole. "Over there."

The back exit was blocked by another container, and the other oversized containers balanced above us not only helped cut off lamp light, but reduced further emergency exits to zero. Jack stood behind me. "It really is black in here."

"Yeah, but gives us the best possible view."

"Do you think there's a connection between Babbage's contact and Moran?"

"Finding Simon safe, or gaining new information about Moran are the only things I can concentrate on right now, and all I can work toward," I said. "Until I know where there is or is not a link, I have to assume one. Beyond those considerations, Werewolf and Weasel come out of nowhere too often. And since you tell me their loyalties lie with Moran, I have to presume they followed me to the docklands on his orders."

"But their following you could have nothing to do with this appointment. It could simply be Moran wanting you followed. To further his ability to possess the sword."

I understood his argument, but the logic irritated me just the same. "My contacts said Simon had the sword. Simon has disappeared. Hence, the sword has disappeared. Moran's dynamic dunderheads have stayed too close to me for too much of this evening, and I now have you as my faithful sidekick."

"I'm no one's sidekick."

I heard a scuttle sound from behind us.
Great, rats.
To cover my fear of rodents, especially in such tight environs, I turned what little I could toward him. "How do I know that you're even telling me the truth? Maybe you need to—"

That's when I heard the first
whack,
and Jack crumpled at my feet. Then my world went blacker than even the pitch-dark corridor.

When I came to, I used Jack's prone body to push up and into a sitting position. I gave him a solid shake and received a grunt in reply. My eyes wouldn't focus at first, but when they finally did, I pulled out my phone and saw we'd been out for several minutes. Both palms felt like someone had taken steel wool to them. I must have slid, using my hands automatically as brakes, as I passed out. The crown of my head felt wet and achy, but my probing fingers came back with the verification my hair and the growing knot on my skull were damp from rain, instead of sticky from blood. That didn't make my head stop hurting, but it meant I could forgo an automatic trip to the trauma unit.

My shove had apparently triggered Jack's subconscious to awaken, and he moved and moaned a bit before his eyes opened.

"What happened?"

I shined a penlight toward the back of the space and saw a short wooden stick a couple of inches square. "Looks like we got clubbed."

Jack checked his pockets. "Nothing was taken."

My Prada was still as heavy as ever. "Nothing from me, either." Then I looked around us. "But we're closer to the entrance now. Do you think we were moved after we were hit, or could we have fallen this far?"

In the distance, the bebop of English emergency sirens sounded. As the high-low cacophony moved closer, Jack stood to gain a better look at the area we'd planned to keep under surveillance. "I'm thinking maybe we were moved so we would be better seen."

A man with unruly brown hair and a beard lay curled in a tight ball several meters away.

"Jones!" I cried, hoping he would recognize the name. I ran forward, and placed two fingers against his jugular. A slight pulse. Hopefully the sirens meant an ambulance, but we needed to be sure. "Jack, call for help."

The Welshman, if this was the Welshman, was freshly stabbed, and barely breathing. "Mr. Jones," I tried once more. I could hear Jack talking to a dispatcher, as I memorized clues. The knife was a large blade, generic-handled model. I knew better than to touch the weapon but figured it had been wiped clean anyway,

The ground was damp everywhere from the drizzle. I pulled off my trench coat, folded the garment into a hefty square, and placed it under his head to make him more comfortable. It was only after I'd done so I realized I should have left the scene intact. Still, the movement alerted Jones a bit, and I saw his lips move.

"Jones. Can you hear me?" I bent closer to catch anything he might say. "Are you here to meet Simon Babbage?"

"Peee-deee . . . dum." The sound came a second before two uniformed coppers rounded the corner at a dead run.

Jack materialized beside me holding the Prada. I thanked him, surprised I hadn't noticed it missing, and irritated that he'd probably searched the bag while he had this opportunity.

When the lead detective took that moment to speak, I could only nod when he said the inevitable. "We'll need statements from both of you."

And there it was. We may have dodged the authorities earlier after the bullets on the boulevard, but I harbored no hope of slipping away after getting caught at an obvious murder attempt. My being American didn't help the situation either.

A tall man in a dark suit arrived at that moment, and Jack left me to walk over and greet him. "DCI Lambert. Good to see you."

"Hawkes, it's been awhile."

Of course he knew Jack. I didn't know whether to be relived or further suspicious at that point, but Jack did get us processed and our statements taken in record time. Still, we were pushing the midnight curfew I'd promised Cassie.

The victim was whisked off by ambulance, but not before he was identified as one Jestin Jones, well-known for his talents at trading money for information. No surprise, he was originally from Wales.

"Did the victim say anything before he lost consciousness, miss?" a young detective-sergeant asked, his pen poised over a worn pad. I looked toward Hawkes and saw he was yukking it up with his DCI buddy. Before I looked away, his gaze met mine and he winked. I felt my blood pressure rising again.

Cocky bastard.
I took a moment to breathe and compose myself before I answered the officer's question. "Sorry. This has been a lot to handle all at once." He murmured a comforting cliché, and I smiled, dragging out my next words to add emotional authenticity. "All he did was make a breathy sound as he exhaled once. Then he took a kind of ragged gasp and lay quiet."

"Yeah, the other bloke said it sounded like he was calling some guy dumb, or was only a garbled bit of sound," the DS said, as he scribbled on his pad. "Possibly Peter-something. Was that your take on the moment, miss?"

"I really couldn't say," I hedged. I didn't know if Hawkes was playing things straight or trying to lead the police astray, but I needed to wrap this up before we got roped in any further. "The poor man . . . I wish we could have helped. If you don't need me anymore, officer—"

"You've helped all you can, miss. Me guv said I could let you go once I had contact details.

I provided him my cell phone number, trusting it would go to voice mail while Cassie had it, and a contact number at the Beacham Foundation. "But please try the cell first. I'll be on this side of the Atlantic for a bit longer, and I don't want my boss concerned if he hears there's been a violent incident. He's kind of a mother hen."

Actually, he was a different kind of mother, but I wanted Max to stay out of the loop as long as possible on all counts, not just this potential slaying. Until I knew whether Simon fled under on his own power with the sword, or if the sword was still in hiding and he was kidnapped, I needed to keep things quiet. It was too early for a missing persons report, and getting too late to admit I knew Simon was missing otherwise. And any doubts I earlier harbored about a mole in the hierarchy of the field we call the Art World was now a thing of the past. I was certain.

I had to shut down intel wherever I could, and letting Max know anything at this point would blow any hope of doing so. Once a secret is told to one other person, it is no longer secret. And in our current world of nearly instantaneous viral information leaks, I couldn't risk this kind of sensitive data becoming part of the new normal. The art world remained a tight little universe, and I worked best with it staying that way. "Thank you, detective-sergeant. I appreciate your discretion."

"Perfectly understandable, miss. And could you tell me how long before you're due to return to America?"

I took a second to consider how to answer. It wasn't my purpose to lie, but I needed to give myself wiggle room. "I have an open ticket. A bit of business has brought me to London. But I should have everything wrapped up in a few days."

"Please stay available to us, and let us know if you have any change in plans."

"I understand."

What I didn't add was the fact that the breathy sound Hawkes told him sounded like "Petey dumb" could easily be the poor man trying to say the French village of Puy de Dôme. Pronounced "pee-dee-dum," it was an idyllic area of France where—I had learned from Simon's computer files—Moran kept a mountaintop hideaway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the trauma guys checked out the knot on my head and prescribed rest and a couple of paracetamol. That's acetaminophen to us Yanks. The tech also produced some alcohol wipes to clean my scraped palms. Jack remained the silent martyr and kept his abrasions to himself.

He set off for the motorcycle, but I gave a shout out and tossed him the keys. "It's yours," I called, and headed for the main road.

"Where are you going?"

"To find a bathroom and a stiff drink. Not necessarily in that order. And I'm getting there by cab."

"But the bike?"

"Text me the location where you park it tonight, and I'll tell Nico where to find the thing and return it to its rightful owner."

He stood for a moment in obvious indecision, then changed direction and double-timed my way. He stood tall beside me as the cab stopped at my signal. "You're right. A cab is a better idea for both of us tonight."

I shrugged. There went my chance to text Nico en route. I'd have to wait until safely ensconced in a ladies' room somewhere. Unless that didn't stop Jack from following me either. "Suit yourself."

Jack climbed in and slammed the door. He gave the cabbie an address for an upscale hotel he knew with a quiet bar, then turned to me. He didn't lean back in the seat like I had, but instead sat poised on the cushioned edge and leaned my way. Not quite in my personal space but near enough to prove how interested he was in my answer when he asked, "Did you understand anything the Jones-guy said?"

I ran a hand across the back of my neck, raising my damp hair to fluff it a bit and hoped it made me look human. Jack had been well within hearing distance when I spoke to the officer, so I knew he was hoping I had held back information. Which was precisely what I had done and intended to continue doing. Jack heard the sound that came out of the victim's mouth, I knew that and would admit to exactly what I heard. However, I didn't have to tell him I thought I knew what the sounds the guy made actually meant. The look in Hawkes's eyes said the response he was truly looking for from me was confirmation. Or hoping for some.

Waiting is good for the soul.

"I really can't add anything to what you said in your statement," I replied. "With that kind of injury, rapid loss of blood and the general fright throughout, the guy probably had no clue what was he was saying. Just rambling."

Hawkes blew out a long breath and crashed against the backrest, staring straight through the windscreen for several minutes. I waited, appreciating the silence to collect my own ragged thoughts. No new epiphanies bloomed, just the same repeated questions and possible pursuits.

My heart panged then for Simon. Not that I wasn't already concerned, but because I missed being able to call him about anything, run past him whatever esoteric idea I came up with in the course of a job. I didn't have that kind of trust for Hawkes, though I was starting to see I may have painted him with the wrong brush in the beginning. Until he opened up more about himself, however, I needed to tread carefully. Plus, that CCTV clout he obviously had still ticked me off.