Counterfeit Conspiracies (24 page)

 I chalked up and started "walking."

Before getting more than ten feet, there was a strange high-pitched whirring, followed by an audible click, and the place lit up like a subway station. I fought the urge to panic and push into the mountain. I practiced mental imagery, repeating again and again, "I am a chameleon. I blend in with the landscape." 

For a second, I closed my eyes against the light pollution to re-stabilize my plan. At this point, if I kept to easy movements, no one could likely see me. Of course, if a big chunk of the mountain fell on a light, or a person for that matter, the first place they'd look is up. At me.

I could wish to be higher and closer to the house before the lights came on, but, as with anything in life, in a second's tick my task grew exponentially harder. Yet nothing really changed except there was light. And in most circumstances, light equaled a good thing. Unless it interfered with the process of breaking and entering.

The first step was always the hardest. I allowed a few seconds for my eyes to become accustomed to the new environment, then I planned my next three moves.

I chalked for the last time and looked down. From my vantage point I could see pretty much everything on this side and the front. A gabled room split the terrace almost completely in two, with just a wide connecting hallway.

Even if I couldn't make out what was on the other side, I didn't want to climb higher; I wanted to traverse and jump. I was ready to get off the side of the mountain.

I took a few precious minutes to survey the front. Inside the grounds, the drive circled the property, and the borders on both sides were formally landscaped. The razor wire wasn't visible from the house. Instead it appeared to be an extension placed atop the stone and created the illusion of being surrounded by fence rather than an ugly security feature.

Some kind of well-lit water feature sat in the middle of the main yard. It looked slightly oriental, with a short bridge leading to a Romanesque structure that appeared to be surrounded by water on all sides. The building was open on three sides. It did not resemble the estate at all.

In fact, it reminded me of something I had seen before but couldn't recall. I barely made out a large sculpture within the building. Shades of Rodin filled my head. I wanted to get a closer look.

I adjusted my position and raised the binoculars to my eyes. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I almost fell before steadying myself. In very miniature form, the building resembled certain aspects of the cathedral Jack and I had just visited. I refocused on the Rodin, which of course wasn't a Rodin at all, but a large and vaguely vulgar representation of
The Seven Liberal Arts!
I had no idea who the artist was, but from there it looked like . . . a big joke?

Could I count this discovery as partial confirmation Moran lived there? Art was his life, but from what I could see the rendering offered little artistic beauty of such a philosophical topic.

My arms and my legs were growing tired from the unaccustomed activity, but cramping hadn't started, so I knew I needed to get off the mountain. I'd been surprised and happy to see a roof terrace, something I had not counted on since the front looked gabled. I hadn't seen any movement in any of the lighted rooms yet, but I checked again to make sure no one moved onto the terrace before I climbed down.

I concentrated on my movements. Mistakes were easy to make at this point, especially in a climb where I had come so far. When close enough to safely land, I braced myself, unhooked the duffle, and let it fall. I was about to take a leap when I saw lights on the road leading to the estate. I reached for the binoculars again. Another pair of headlights flashed. Then another. All coming this way.

  I hadn't seen any vehicles, and now within minutes there was a caravan of cars on the road less traveled. My plans changed. Cars meant visitors, and visitors meant an occasion. Maybe, just maybe, I'd caught a break.

  Securing the binoculars, I relaxed, pushed off the wall, and tucked my head into a crash position. I rolled along the paved terrace. I retrieved the bag and made my way to the house. The quicker I got out of sight the better. For a second I hesitated and thought about checking out the rest of the space to see what was on the other side of the house. I might be missing something vital.

Suddenly there was a loud noise, as though someone had dropped a heavy ceramic pot. I darted over to the side of a door, hoping I didn't trigger an alarm system. I had a Swiss-made gizmo that would turn off practically any on the market. I grabbed it from the bag to have it ready, then paused to listen. Nothing. Nothing was a good thing, but I still had to force myself to take a few calming breaths. While I had the chance I grabbed a handful of miniature motion detectors from my freelance stash and slipped their receiver in my ear. By systematically sprinkling these as I went, I'd know if someone slipped up behind me.

I pulled on my gloves, and tried the knob. It turned easily. I entered the dark room and silently pulled the door closed behind me, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

The lavish over-decorated bedroom sat empty, as did the drawers and closet. I moved to the bathroom and turned on the light. An overabundance of expensive bath and hygiene products littered the counter; all the brands any woman could possible want decorated the wall shelves, the deep tub, and the counter. But there was nothing personal about any of it. This had to be a guest room.

I stuck my head back into the bedroom. Through the door, the terrace looked fantastic. But the room? No art, no beauty, no taste in any of the furnishings. Something was off. I left a detector on the doorframe.

I stripped quickly and retrieved the extra items I'd hidden with the climbing equipment. I couldn't be sure if this occasion was formal or casual, but I assumed there would be a variety of dress in a place like this. Most anything should work.

Since I hadn't done my usual research on the property, I wasn't too sure about turning on the plumbing. My hand wrapped around the glasses Nico had given me, and I remembered his remark about their heat sensitivity. I pulled them on and looked toward the faucet to see if the hot water spigot registered on the glasses. No heat showed, but a wealth of other information came up as I accessed the "for my eyes only" menus. The address of the site, the architectural firm that recorded the blueprints—PA Designs. I'd have to check that name out later.

I shoved the glasses back into their case. There wasn't time for this kind of experimenting, no matter how intriguing. But the glasses had given me what I needed and a bit of information besides. I'd have to remember to credit Nico if the design information led to catching Moran.

After using wet wipes to clean my face, hands and feet, I applied party makeup to match my outfit. I exchanged my jumpsuit for the little black uncrushable dress that could go from office to eveningwear with the right accessories.

I pulled out the wig I'd brought, but I changed my mind about using it and stuffed it back into the bag. Quickly, I undid the pins holding my hair in place, shook it out, and applied a quick brush. For the first time in a long time I thanked my dad for something—the family hair gene. As my blonde curls settled into place around my shoulders and down my back, Laurel Beacham of the Beacham Foundation emerged.

I dove once more into my magic bag and removed a pair of cherry red Manolo Blahnik heels and a matching red clutch that held lipstick, a tiny hairbrush, wet wipes, bling, lock picks, a knife—a woman couldn't be too careful!—cash, gloves, some audio bugs, fake nails to match my pedicure, and my phone. The lock picks and knife were bejeweled and disguised to look like hair accessories.

The bugs went into the carefully designed pocket in my bodice, in case my purse was searched. I pierced, clipped, and buckled the tasteful diamond earrings, necklace, and bracelet and donned the shoes.

With the ease of years of practice, I rolled up everything no longer needed, and returned the items to the duffle. I stuffed the bag under the bed and sat down. The fake nails went on first, then I pulled on a thin cherry red cloak in a synthetic material that looked like expensive silk but didn't wrinkle. I scooped up my clutch.

I wasn't quite ready to join the party but getting close. First, I wanted my own special tour. I cracked open the door and listened for any sounds. I heard none. I moved out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind me.

A quick search revealed twelve bedrooms on this level, each with their own en suite. None of the exterior doors I opened led to a bathroom. Three suites revealed recent occupation but all remained empty of people. There was a large lounge with windows looking onto the terrace and, again, the space sported an overabundance of everything a guest could want: books, pool table, video games, televisions, etc. A staircase and an elevator completed the floor plan. Motion detectors stood guard as I entered a room, and they stayed when I departed. So many spaces, so little information gained.

I still couldn't believe the absolute lack of taste in all the furnishings. As if this unique and beautiful house had been designed and built at great cost to enshrine—vulgarity?

The stairs were a clever play on a spiral staircase. Not quite as tight in the turns but winding all the same. Not a staircase for running up or down. No quick getaway here but architecturally interesting.

The second floor wasn't quite so deserted. I watched a couple and a single gentleman enter the elevator. The party must be starting. More bedrooms but still nothing personal; no sign of the owner, and not a modicum of taste in the luxurious furnishings. The tackiness may not be obvious to a lay person, but to anyone like Moran this interior design would have been an affront to the senses. Time to head to the first floor.

I left the spiral stairs and hit the doors. Most were locked. I tried eight before a door finally swung open. Books lined the shelves, overstuffed chairs and gaudy lamps filled the room, but once more there wasn't much of a personal feel to any of it. There was also no smell of cigars, no decanters of special liquors—nothing. Like a showcase for people to see what they expected to see.

I pulled a book from one shelf and thumbed through. It had never been opened. I picked another, and another, all from different shelves. They, too, had never been opened. A room full of books no one read.

I needed to check the rest of the rooms. I pulled the pick from my clutch and headed out to the hallway. I'd been lucky so far. Now I needed to be very careful.

Six rooms later I remained disappointed. I could discern no reason for these rooms to be locked. More bedrooms. More adult playrooms. Who needed this many bedrooms?

I fumbled with the next lock. The pick didn't seem to want to work. I tried again. Maybe I was getting sloppy in my technique. I concentrated, heard the click, and turned the knob, but again the door didn't open. Not ready to give up, I reversed the order I used, and the door opened. This space looked promising, definitely used, and I attached my last motion detector to the doorframe.

This was a room lived in by someone who made a mess and didn't care. Definitely not Moran. From all I knew of him, he was fanatic about his personal environment and possessions.

Empty bottles, glasses, debris, an overflowing bin, clothes left on the floor. I picked through the room searching for some clue to the owner's identity. A man's patterned sweater lay on a chair. Women's clothing and possessions were tossed as though someone had gotten ready in a hurry and left without bothering to straighten.

I opened the closet door. Both men's and women's clothes inside. As I shut it, I looked back at the sweater. My breath came faster. Something about the collar was familiar. I looked through the men's clothing in the closet more carefully and recognized two of the shirts.

Leaving the door wide open I walked over to the sweater and inhaled a familiar masculine scent. It was Simon's. He was here. With a woman. One mystery semi-solved. He was still alive. Or had been when he'd occupied this room.

I scrutinized the room more closely. Nothing in it screamed "held against their will." So, apparently, not kidnapped, not tortured, not dead. All the worry, speculation, the calls, the texts, the e-mails, yet Simon hadn't responded or attempted to contact me. And here he was, at this possible estate of Moran's living with a woman. What was I missing?  Simon and Moran?  Working together?

The sweater still clutched in my hand, I moved to the bathroom and looked for a hairbrush. Hadn't I been told he was dating a woman with hair like mine? Strange, but I couldn't find any kind of comb or brush anywhere. Had they left only some of their things behind?

I turned back toward the bedroom and smelled the sweater again as though the essence of Simon would reveal the answers. Instead memories of us working, laughing and being together bombarded my brain as though a switch had been flipped. I opened my hand and let the sweater fall from my fingers. It couldn't talk, and there was nothing more to be gained from this room. Sick of speculation and sick at heart, I had to find Simon and discover what was going on. There was no way he'd teamed up with Moran. Not the Simon I knew. Without thinking, I ran into the hallway and plowed right into an older couple.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle
.
Êtes-vous bien?"
Not much taller than I and a bit stout, the gentleman and his wife were both dressed in formal attire.

"Excuse me," I replied in English. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

He smiled. "You are American. At first I thought you were
Mademoiselle
Jane. But she is English and not quite as," he looked sheepish, "put together as you."

He knew Simon's girlfriend.

"No, I'm her younger sister, Laurel."

"Allow me to introduce myself and my wife. I am René Barnard and this is my wife, Monique."

I used one of the few phrases I remembered from French class.
"Comment allez-vous?"

Monique took my butchered French at face value. Her face lit up and she began firing off sentences in a way I couldn't possibly understand. Her husband noticed my dismay and said something that made her stop.