Deadly Little Secrets (11 page)

“Excellent. So, let us speak plainly.” He leaned in and tapped one of the pictures. “One of the paintings was recovered. I made sure it was given to the collector who purchased the fraud. Neither of us had deceived the other; both of us lost our money. I felt it unfair to leave this individual…hanging, shall we say.” His smile was catlike in its satisfaction and faintly predatory in the same catlike way.

“So Fraulein Messer has the real painting, even though the world believes it a fraud, correct?”

Once again, Dav laughed, and Gates grinned. “Very quick, this one.” Dav directed the comment to Gates. “You said it, you told me. You should hire
her
when you start that security company of yours, one day. Obviously, she is good at it.” He turned back to Ana. “Yes, Liza has the painting, the original work. However, neither she nor I wish to advertise the fact since our insurances paid in full, and the work was returned to me through less than legal channels, you might say.” He closed his eyes briefly. “It is safer for all concerned that everyone believes this painting lost. If you dig into this case and find these items, I would consider it a favor if you would alert me. I would be sure to alert Liza, and we would deal with the situation from there.”

“Considering that five people are dead, Dav, I agree with your desire to keep the details quiet. Was the painting recovered in the United States or somewhere else?” She wasn't going to mention her suspicion that Luke Gideon might be a sixth victim.

“Elsewhere,” Gates interjected, directing her attention his way. “Since Dav is determined to cooperate,” he shot Dav a resigned look. “and we're off the record, I'll tell you I recovered it in Russia.”

“Russia?” That was a surprise. Nothing else had pointed to…wait…the torture.

“See, Gates?” Dav leaped in, gleefully watching her. “The wheels are turning. I like this one. So, Ana, we have been forthcoming. You would like to return the favor, I think?” It was a strong encouragement to share. Ana resisted the temptation and shook her head.

“No, not yet.” She stayed firm, ignoring his smile. “Anything I have is supposition, Dav.”

Gates snagged her attention again. She was already hyper-aware of him, feeling warm and tingly on the side nearest him, as if she'd brushed against a warm stove.

“Do you have any information on the other items, Ana?”

“Of course, but most of it isn't ready for prime time. Gates,” she rolled his sexy name off her tongue with ease, “was kind enough to give me the data you had put together on the other two paintings. I checked with the people who did initial investigations, faxed them the certification on the fraudulent paintings. They are a match, these two,” she pointed to the pictures he'd added to the discussion, “to the forged paperwork for a number of the others, so I'd say they're included.”

She looked from Gates to Dav. “I'm grateful that both of you are willing to cooperate with me. I've interviewed a number of the other collectors. Some would like the matter forgotten. Some had honestly forgotten all about it.” She fought to keep the wry disbelief from showing on her face or in her voice, but evidently she missed.

“Hard to believe on either count,” Gates replied.

Ana shrugged. “Some trade art like kids trade baseball cards, I'm guessing. They forget which card wasn't
really
the Babe's rookie card, and which was.”

“The Babe?” Dav inquired.

“Babe Ruth,” both Ana and Gates chorused, then looked at one another.

True to form, Dav laughed. “Baseball fans, unite. I have heard of Herman Ruth and know of his record, but growing up in Greece doesn't inform you of the nicknames, I guess.”

Since she'd had this conversation with a friend not long before, she smiled. “No, it doesn't. As a kid, I lived all over the world, but my father loved baseball. When I got to a new place, knowing baseball helped me fit in.”

“Interesting. I knew how to make money. I found friends that way, no matter where I was,” Dav commented.

“A useful skill. I wish I'd known it,” Ana replied, not sure what else to say. “Still do, I guess. Anyway,” she said, shifting back to the matter at hand, “most of the other collectors and patrons who were victimized cut their losses and have no interest in the case. Their insurance paid, or didn't, and they've moved on. Or closed down.”

“The Moroni Gallery,” Gates growled.

Ana nodded. Three of Dav's losses had come through Moroni's New York gallery. The owners had closed up shop and disappeared. “For one. Three other galleries connected to the thefts either shut down because of the losses or, in the case of Pratch, the gallery in Berlin, were closed due to misadventure.”

“Pratch, the owner, was never found, correct?”

Ana nodded, turning her reply to Gates's question as well as his unspoken words. “And yes, he's presumed dead. I count him as the sixth murder associated with this case, although my case files list only five.” She wasn't willing to mention Luke Gideon just yet, but he would make the seventh murder.

“Is it possible he was involved?”

“Possible,” Ana agreed. She had instantly thought the same thing, but the Berlin police and the agents who'd handled the case initially thought not. Gates didn't need to know about any internal disagreements, however. “According to Berlin though, no probable cause, so they've listed it probable death by misadventure and moved on.”

“Hmmm, so what is stirring now, Ana?” Dav asked.

“I'm working these cold cases, as I told Gates, utilizing technologies not available nine years ago. In some instances, we've been able to resolve cases thanks to advances in DNA processing, fingerprint databasing, and so on.”

“Yet you said there was no evidence left at any crime scene.” Gates made it a statement.

“True, but the advances in computer searches, like crime management and tracing papers and documentation, have been monumental. These forged papers could lead us to something, although I'd prefer you keep that to yourselves,” she requested. “Online major theft catalogues are growing. They're still difficult to access, but I'm working through the data.”

“You've searched the TrustGuild list?” he asked, throwing out the name of a private data pool for missing items. “And the Pullein?”

“The Pullein, yes. I don't have authorization to pay the fee for the TrustGuild.” She leafed through her notes to see what else she'd already searched, since he was obviously going to ask.

Gates made a note, smiling. Suddenly Dav's booming laugh startled them both, and she looked up to see him pointing at Gates. “You should see yourselves, the two of you. Jockeying for position, trying to determine what
you
know.” He pointed to Ana. “And what
you
know.” Now he pointed at Gates. “You're well matched, you two.”

Ana didn't know whether to be pleased or offended.

Gates evidently had no trouble being offended. “For heaven's sake, Dav. I'm not jockeying for anything.”

Dav didn't take umbrage at his friend's tone, or his words. “I'm not saying you mean to, you're just competitive. I believe Miss Ana is as well.”

Knowing it was true, even if that competitive streak had been flattened a lot by all that had happened, she grinned. “Either way, Dav, there are things I can't say about the old case, or anything I'm finding now. However, I will keep your information in confidence since you told me off the record. And,” she turned to Gates, “I'll be sure to look at Russia without giving any clue how I knew to do so.” It would open new avenues, that was for sure. “I appreciate the leads.”

“Gates, you will help her with this,” Dav said, gesturing toward Ana. “These are difficult people, you understand,” he told her. “Touchy. Gates knows how to get around that without getting into trouble. Also, he can search several of the databases you might not have access to on your budget.”

Gates looked troubled, but didn't deny either the willingness to help or that the Russian mob could be “touchy.” She wondered if he was concerned about working with her. Either way, she itched to get to her computer and track the Russian lead.

“Do you have any news on any of the other pieces?” she questioned, watching Gates this time.

The faintest frown told her he knew something. “Nothing solid,” he began.

“Anything would—”

“Ah, here is lunch,” Dav said, to warn them both that there were others in the room and the discussion would have to wait. “Let us table this for now and enjoy our meal. Ana will tell us what she thought of the…art at the gallery on Friday.” Dav changed gears smoothly, evidently noting that Ana had scooped up the photos and stored them away when the staff came in.

“There was art at the gallery?” she said sweetly, looking at the two men with her vacuous Shirley Bascom smile.

It was becoming lovely to hear Dav laugh, but to get both men laughing was even better. Gates's rich baritone was wonderful when he laughed. She had a sudden memory of him whispering in her ear at the gallery, the banter on the phone that night.

Suddenly, it felt very warm in the room. She slipped her jacket off, draped it over the chair. The men followed suit.

“Ana? Wine?” Dav's eyes twinkled as he indicated the server who stood at her elbow.

“No thank you, I'm on duty.”

“Too bad.” He gave his orders in Greek, and the servers shifted like pieces in a shell game, taking the wine away. “You'll have to come for dinner sometime, without your credentials pinned to your suit. My cook sets a good table.” He paused for a moment, then turned away to mask a furious sneeze.

Without thinking, because Dav had been speaking Greek, she gave the usual Greek response to a sneeze. “
Yitzes,
Dav.”

Everyone turned toward her in unison.

“You're full of surprises, Ana,” Gates drawled, breaking the silence at the table. The servers, sensing the tension, hurried to move away. “You don't look Greek.”

“I'm not, I just lived there for a while. And we've had much more interesting things to discuss,” Ana managed, frantically looking for something to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about her time with her family in Greece. “This looks like a lovely salad. Ah, fresh feta too.”

Dav recovered quickly, she'd give him that. Not as fast as Gates, but fast.

He waved a hand to the servers, “Carry on. Carry on. Yes, the feta must be fresh. Otherwise the whole salad loses flavor, don't you think?”

“True,” Ana said, picking up her fork as a distraction. The men did the same, and they all began to eat. “So, Dav, overall, what did you think of the showing?”

“My young cousin has talent, I'll admit, but it isn't my sort of art.”

“Cousin?”
Oh, crap, I forgot the artist was a relation. I've stepped in it now, joking about the art.
In her flirting with Gates, she'd been so quick to enjoy the repartee, she'd been incautious.

It was Gates's turn to laugh at Dav's expense. “He has cousins everywhere, Ana, so don't feel like you've been tricked. Distant relatives come out of the woodwork when they've got something to show or sell. Dav's buying power, and generosity, are legendary.”

“Currying favor with a wealthy uncle?” She smiled into her salad. “Yep, that's an age-old ploy.” She glanced up, hoping to regain any ground she might have lost. “Did it work?”

“Cheeky,” Dav said, grinning. “I like that about you. No, it didn't induce me to purchase, but I believe my presence did assist him some with the opening.”

Gates nodded. “It did. And fortunately, nothing got damaged during the tumbling session we were both involved in.” He turned a look on her that was part puzzled, part amused. “Of course your arrival today did dispel several questions for me…Shirley.”

“Perhaps you can answer another one, Ana-aki.” Dav used the Greek endearment—a diminutive akin to “little one.” “How do you know to respond so fluently in my own tongue?”

She shrugged, hoping to dispel the slight tension that edged in once again. “Nothing nefarious, I assure you. I spent my…” She had to stop and count in her mind. “Fourth, fifth, and sixth grade school years at the embassy in Athens. My best friend was the daughter of the Greek ambassador, and we both had nannies who insisted we speak proper Greek, like civilized people.”

Gates grunted. Dav still looked skeptical, but said, in Greek, “And who was the ambassador at the time?”

“Georgius Deminokus.” She named the man without even having to think. “His daughter DeDe and I still keep up.”

“Keep up?” Dav was obviously trying to translate the term.

“We're still in contact with one another,” Ana said, smiling.

“Didn't Deminokus…” Dav began, then stopped. A look of sad comprehension suffused his features.

Gates leaned in, his gaze switching from her face to Dav's. Obviously he wasn't familiar with Greek politics from more than fifteen years before.

“Yes,” she replied, setting her fork down. “He was killed, as were my parents, by a bomb. There are still those in Greece,” she explained to Gates, “who don't like the close ties the government keeps with the United States.”

“They don't like much of anything,” Dav said tersely. “I am sorry for your losses. It seems that you and Gates have something in common, losing your parents so young.” The assumption that she would know about Gates's parents hung out there for a moment.

“Yes, it is an unfortunate place of common ground. I'm sorry for your loss as well, Gates.” She did her best to keep her voice level. “I hope you didn't suffer a similar loss, Dav.”

He smiled, but this time there was no humor in it. “No. My parents lived for much longer than either of yours, but we were not close.” And that, it seemed, was that, because he changed the subject immediately. She remembered nothing in the file about his parents. She'd have to check that.

“Now enough gloom,” Dav said. “We've cleared up the little mystery, so I hope you'll enjoy the meal.”

“It looks delicious.” It did, so she picked up her fork. “Buon appetito.” She added the Italian to tweak them both.

“Italian too?” Gates caught the clue first.

“
Si,
for first, second, and third grade,” she said. “I kept track of everything by what grade I was in.”

“And where were you born?”

“Djakarta, Indonesia,” she and Gates responded at the same time.

Dav treated her to another one of his booming laughs. “There now, the agent and the security expert, both at my table. We all probably know far more about one another than we'd like to let on. Yes,” he replied to her unspoken inquiry. “I knew the answer before I asked. Gates briefs me thoroughly, of course. Most of your data is blocked, thanks to your profession. What your scant data didn't tell us, however, was that you were quite so clever. Or so lovely and interesting.”

Ana scoffed. “Not sure I'd describe myself as clever, but thank you.”

“I understand you have worked on some high-profile cases,” Gates began.

“Some. My current assignment to review these cold cases is proving very interesting,” she deflected.

“How so?” Gates asked.

“I'm meeting the most interesting people,” she said, pokerfaced, and was treated to another laugh.

“A wit. Yes, yes indeed. So”—Dav pushed away from the table and crossed his legs, totally relaxed—“these paintings, these murders. Are they connected? Hard to believe with some of the murders here, and so clean if you will, with the single bullet. Then there, on the East Coast, so messy, so tragic. Nine years ago they didn't think so at first. Then they did, but time marches on and memory fades. Why now? And why you?”

“I have an art degree, which I'm sure you both know. I'm reviewing cold cases because I'm on leave from my post in Rome, which I'm sure Gates already determined. This one seemed interesting. It had threads to pull.”

Dav frowned for a moment over the idiom. “Leads, things you can follow up on now, that they didn't nine years ago?”

“Exactly. Perhaps more perspective as well. With the tempering of time, the connections are pretty obvious.” Ana ticked points off on her fingers. “The paperwork is by the same forger, even if it had multiple destinations. While some of the galleries were cleared, both Prometheus here in the City, and the Moroni Gallery in New York, were implicated. Ms. McCray was cleared, and that seems likely since her gallery took such heavy losses. Moroni, on the other hand, was apparently hip-deep in the whole matter. The disappearance of the principals and staff for Moroni is a fair admission of guilt as well.”

“Would it help you,” Dav said slowly, as if feeling his way, “if I made some calls to the other victims, the ones you've said have shut you out? Encouraged them to assist you?”

Although he didn't look at Gates, she did. He looked resigned, and once again, exhausted. “How does your security expert feel about that offer of help?”

Dav smiled. “As is obvious, he doesn't like it. However, he knows that this bothers me, continues to bother me. It was something I asked him to look into when he began working for me.” He shrugged, a very Continental gesture. “I was never satisfied that it was over. Luke Gideon and Carrie McCray were personal friends as well. As good as it was to see them cleared, the suspicion was difficult for them, and for Carrie after Luke's death.”

Gates leaned back as well, a more relaxed posture. “He's right, of course, on all counts. Another thing to consider is that these people were never caught. The more you pursue this, the more dangerous it may be. We,” he indicated Dav, “feel that the group went under, quit cold until the heat died down. You're the first person in nine years to touch this. I've wondered about the lack of interest in the case. The why of it. As in why no one pursued it.”

Ana did her best to match their calm demeanor. The idea that the two agents she'd talked to might have stalled the case jumped to mind, but she pushed it aside. Even so, it set her stomach churning. Seven people, five for sure, were dead, and they deserved some justice, not only for the fact of their deaths, but for how they had died.

“I'm not sure what to tell either of you about that, but I can say that I'm very good at what I do,” she said, putting aside her doubts. She looked at Dav now. “And any nudging you'd care to do with your fellow victims would be helpful.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Gates said, a scowl twitching his features. “That's why you need to be cautious. I'm not in favor of Dav pulling any strings here, you should know that up front.”

“But—” she began.

He held up a hand. “Hear me out. There are enough people targeting Dav as it is, domestically and outside of the US. The authorities,” he circled a hand to indicate the US policing forces, “have a lot on their plates and can't focus the manpower to fend off nebulous threats to Dav's safety. That's not only my full-time job, but employs a lot of other people around here. Stirring this up may bring on more heat from areas we're not expecting.”

“I have no doubt. Powerful, wealthy men attract enemies, whether they deserve them or not,” she stated. Her parents hadn't deserved the enemies they had, nor had Gates's parents, from what she'd read. She turned to Dav. “No matter how you do business, and from reports, your business is strong and above-board, you make enemies. If nothing else because you refuse to do business under the table.”

“Precisely,” Dav agreed. “How do you say it? Damned if you do, damned if you do not.”

“It also means,” Gates interjected, “that we have a lot already going on, as I said. Putting yourself out there about a nine-year-old dead case of art fraud may bring on more heat than any of us want to deal with, Dav.” He sighed. “Not that I don't want to help you, Ana. I do, but I get paid to keep Dav alive and anything that might draw more fire his way has to be carefully considered.”

“I've read about some of the threats he's faced,” she said. “None of it good.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Gates muttered.

“Gates,” Dav reproved. “You must forgive him,” he said mildly to Ana. “He doesn't do well on two hours of sleep, and being shot at pisses him off, all out of proportion.”

“He told me about that.”

Gates nodded, a sour look for his boss. “Not the first time, not the last, Dav. I'm fine.”

“Hmm. So you say, every time.” Dav rose and brought a cart closer to the table. Another thermal carafe of coffee along with several dessert options rested on lovely china. “Would you do us the courtesy, Ana?”

It was a poignant moment, harkening back to her days at her mother's side, hosting tea parties at the embassy. Lifting the heavy silver cake server, she turned to Dav. “For you?”

“The torte, I believe, and more coffee if you would.
Efarhisto.
” He thanked her in Greek as she slipped the plate in front of him.

“Gates?”

“The strawberry shortcake, thanks. No coffee for me. I've got more caffeine than blood in my system as it is right now.”

She laughed. “Been there,” she said, serving his plate and making her own selection.

“Now, let's be frank, shall we?” Dav began. He then outlined a course of action that had Ana's head spinning, and Gates's frown darkening with each word.

 

On her way back to the office, Ana tried to come to terms with what she'd been handed, free of charge. The keys to resources she could never command on her own. As far-reaching as the CIA's databases were, they didn't hold a candle to what the private sector could muster for some things, and she knew it. Sure, she could gather some information more effectively than Gates could, but his abilities were amazing, the truth of which had become far clearer in their discussion.

She was thinking so hard she nearly missed her turn into the garage under the building. Swiping her card, she clicked the button to raise the window. It didn't budge. The car was getting older, and some of the electrical systems were going wonky. The thought distracted her from her pondering her attraction to Gates, her gratitude that he'd help her with database searches. Evidently that type of work was a specialty they shared.

“Jeez, that's all I need,” she muttered, still jiggling the power window switch. “Another five or six hundred dollar car repair.” Leaning forward to jiggle the button saved her life.

She'd let the car roll forward as she worked the button, and the bullet aimed at her head shattered the reluctant window and buried itself in the headrest.

“Holy God!” Ana screeched in terror as she stomped on the gas. Fear and adrenaline were her safety net as the car shot forward, fishtailing to slide under the security bar. She gained the relative safety of the garage, her tires squealing as she wound down the ramp. She snagged her phone, dialing the emergency code. She'd never used the emergency code while in the States, so her fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar numbers but she managed to hit S
END
.

“Agent Burton, entering HQ at Gate B, I think, off Seventh Street, shots fired,” she panted. “Shattered window, missed me. Kill shot though. Hit the headrest.” The thought of that made her blood run cold.

“On it,” a dispatcher snapped. “Are you still under fire? Do you need medical assistance? What is your location?”

“No,” she said, speeding down the last of the ramp and shooting into the main part of the garage. Several people, leaving for a late lunch or early exit, spun and crouched as she roared into the clear and hit the brakes hard. Above the engine's whine and the huge noise of her heartbeat, she heard the clanking rumble of the garage lockdown doors. “I'm okay. Just the car. I'm at the elevator bank.”