“Yes. Southern California. Perfect place for her.”
“Why?”
“You know about Zoe’s tween years, right? The reality show?
Smith Family Robinson?
”
Sato nodded. When he and Mort first got the Andrews case, he’d watched an episode of the old reality show about an average family surviving on a tropical island. The mom had been what his dad called a real piece of work—selfish, controlling, and so beautiful that most people overlooked her bad behavior.
“That show gave Zoe’s mom a taste of fame and she’s like a...I don’t know...an addict searching for her next fix. Ever since that show got cancelled, Donna’s single goal in life is to get on another reality show.” Helen leaned over the table.
“What does that have to do with Thanksgiving?”
“She’s a size zero and never celebrates Thanksgiving. She hates ‘food holidays’ as she calls them. The idea of Zoe going to celebrate Thanksgiving with her is ludicrous.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? A favorite vacation spot? Another family member?”
“She has an aunt in Florida. They’re close—her Aunt Amanda is her only sane relative, actually. She’s a possibility. She’s in Sarasota. As for travel, Zoe’s never been able to afford a proper vacation. She’s traveled recently, but I doubt she can afford a last minute trip to Italy or London. Unless that knock on the head
really
messed her up.”
Sato was entering the information about the aunt into his phone, but paused. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Just that it worries me. After the head injury, you know. I’m sure she’s fine, and you said you think Jack is with her, so he’ll take care of her, but...”
“Head injury?”
“Yes.” Helen’s eyes widened. “You...didn’t know about that? Yesterday, she was injured at a client’s house, Lucinda McDaniel’s. She was—” Helen broke off sharply.
Sato squinted his eyes. “She was...what?”
“Dead. Zoe said she found Lucinda McDaniel dead. Zoe was hit on the head and knocked unconscious.” Helen leaned toward him and the table rocked under her weight. “I know Zoe would only leave town if something was very wrong.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
––––––––
“Y
OU see here,” Masard pointed to the land portion of the painting, “the brush strokes are too short.” He handed Zoe the jeweler’s loupe and motioned for her to look.
He’d retrieved the loupe, the desk lamp, and a large photograph of
Marine
from his desk and positioned them on the worktable. Before he’d assembled the items, Masard had retreated to the other room for a few moments and changed out of the bloody robe and pajamas. He’d returned wearing a pair of light gray pants and a thick sweater over a button-down white shirt. He’d thrown down several frayed towels and mopped up the pool of blood near the worktable. Zoe had offered to help him, but he’d tossed them in a bucket and said he’d call his cleaning lady. They were now all hunched over the painting.
Zoe looked at the magnified brush strokes, focusing on several thick splats of gold, green, and tan then transferred her gaze to the section of the photograph that Masard was pointing at now. She shrugged. “I don’t see it.” The difference in the size of the painting and the size of the photograph made it hard to judge the length of the brushstrokes. And, truthfully, she couldn’t stop looking at the ugly, charred hole in the painting.
“They are different. I suppose you will have to trust me on that, but it is not the only thing. Look at the signature. See the stroke on the letter
C
of Claude? Now look at the photograph. What do you see?”
Zoe squinted at both a moment before saying, “The
C
on the painting has a wider curve than the one in the photograph.”
“Excellent!” Masard proclaimed as if she were his star pupil. “The forger was so worried about getting the word Monet exactly right that he—or she—did not work as hard on the first name. But that is not the biggest error.” Masard flipped the painting over roughly and a few bits of ash fell to the table. “What do you see?”
“Um, nothing.” Zoe wondered if he wanted her to examine the back of the painting with the jeweler’s loupe.
“That is right. Nothing!” He sounded as delighted as if he had found the actual painting.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Most paintings have marks on them—stickers, stamps, something of that sort. As great masterpieces move through museums and large personal collections, marks are made on the art itself to keep track of the pieces. Inventory marks, if you will. This painting has been in existence since the late 1800s, moving in and out of collections and museums.” He waved his hand over the canvas like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “They forgot to forge the back.”
“You’re sure it is a fake? Absolutely?”
“Yes. There is no question. Not even a very good fake. It would not fool me, or even a less astute expert. Now that we have taken care of that, why don’t you tell me how Darius Gray is involved?”
Zoe looked at Jack with slightly raised eyebrows. Could they trust him?
Jack nodded but he lifted his shoulder half an inch, and Zoe knew as clearly as if he’d spoken that Jack was thinking they didn’t have much choice. She agreed. One call from Masard to the police, and they were done.
Masard’s dark eyes took in the quick exchange between them. “I see you are reluctant to involve me...but I am already involved.” He waved at the fake painting then touched the cut over his eyebrow.
Zoe said, “Darius Gray wants that painting—the real Monet. He thinks I have it. Obviously, I don’t, or I wouldn’t be here now.”
Masard said, “And I am sure he provided...sufficient motivation...to make sure you give him the painting.”
“You know him, then?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. Unfortunately, a friend was forced to deal with him several years ago. I have managed to avoid him until now. I find his methods...distasteful.”
“I agree with you,” Zoe said, “but right now I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes,” Masard said. “I am certain he made sure you only had one course of action. He likes to box you in.”
Jack had been leaning against the table, arms crossed. “He thinks we’re boxed in, but we may have an option to turn the tables on him. However, to put that option into play, we must have the real painting. Will you help us?”
“Find the real painting?” Masard asked with a lift of his eyebrow. He winced as the skin on his forehead wrinkled.
Jack said, “I was thinking more along the lines of you not contacting the police about us or Anna—that is the real name of the woman who gave you the fake.”
“Of course I will not turn you in. What a way to repay my rescuers. Well, not immediately. I can delay before I talk to the police.”
It would have to do. If they didn’t find the painting in two days, Masard would go to the police anyway. Zoe tilted her head. “
Can
you help us find the real painting?”
“I am afraid my skills and contacts do not reach very far into the world of the black market.”
Jack looked at the painting.
“I play about in those waters only occasionally, and only in the shallowest of water.”
Zoe frowned. “Handling the sale of a stolen Monet is the shallow end of art crime?”
“I agreed only to look at the painting and make inquiries,” Masard said. “There are several different types of interested parties who are anxious to acquire the original painting, including the police, insurance companies, and other interested parties.”
Zoe tensed. “You’re in contact with the police?”
“No,” he waved a hand nonchalantly, “not yet. There was no need to involve them until I saw the painting.”
“I see,” Jack said.
Zoe thought she understood, too. “You contact the police...occasionally? When it suits you?”
“Stolen art does infrequently come through my shop. I may drop a discreet word to the police at a judiciously chosen time.”
“But not all the time,” Zoe said.
He shrugged. “A man must make a living.” He turned to the sink. “Time for a cup of tea, I think.” He filled the teapot and put it on the hotplate again. “A habit I picked up years ago when I lived in England for a short while.” He took three teacups and saucers from a cabinet and set them on the worktable. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the barstools tucked under the table.
Zoe and Jack took a seat as Masard assembled the tea things. “Back to your problem.” Masard placed sugar on the table, removed a lemon from a tiny refrigerator in the lower cabinet and cut several thin slices as he spoke. “I can ask a few questions, but I am not active in that area. It may come to nothing, but we will see.”
Zoe rubbed her forehead. “We thought Anna had the real painting. She is still the best lead we have. Even if she doesn’t have it anymore.” As she said the words, a coldness settled over her. What would they do if they couldn’t find the painting? It had been months since they’d seen Anna with the painting. She could have sold it or hidden it anywhere.
“We have to stay with Anna,” Jack said.
“Is this Anna an artist?” Masard asked.
Zoe shrugged. “No idea.”
“No matter. If she isn’t capable of that rather amateur forgery, then she probably hired someone to do it for her. There is a good possibility that she has the original. Much easier to forge a painting from the original than from a photograph. Of course, if the artist was working from a photograph, that might explain the poor quality of the fake.”
“Will you contact her tomorrow?”
“No. She was quite insistent that we not meet again. Clearly, she thought I wouldn’t recognize the painting is a fake. She gave me the bank account number to wire the funds from the buyer. She expects a transfer tomorrow.” The teapot whistled.
“So we have at least a day,” Zoe said as Masard removed the teapot from the hotplate and poured tea into their cups with a flourish. She felt a surge of grogginess slipping over her and fought off a yawn.
Something about tomorrow teased at the edge of Zoe’s mind...what was it? She fought off another yawn as she felt her body downshifting off the adrenaline high she’d been on. She pushed her shoulders back and straightened out of her slump. What was it about tomorrow that was important?
“Oh! The airline ticket,” Zoe said, more to herself than anyone in the room. Wasn’t Anna’s return flight scheduled for—she checked her watch—it was now almost three in the morning—today? “Anna’s flight.”
Jack held his hand out flat in a ‘keep it down’ gesture as he glanced at Masard, who had turned away to return the teapot to the hotplate.
“I will contact her and tell her there was a mix up.” Masard returned to the worktable and stirred his tea. “Perhaps a bank employee transposed two numbers on the account number. The wire transfer will have to be sent again.” He raised his teacup in a toast. “That could take another day at least.”
***
S
ATO had left the county clerk’s office and was striding to his car when his cell phone rang. Dirk Sorkensov. The Kid was probably calling with baby news. Why didn’t he call one of the women in the office? They’d pestered Sato all day, asking if he had any news.
He was tempted to let the call go to his voicemail, but reluctantly pushed the answer button instead. “Got the cigars ready?”
“What? Ah—no.” The Kid sounded tired and the usual upbeat tempo was missing from his tone.
Sato’s stride slowed. “What’s going on?”
“They’re prepping Sophie for a C-section now.”
“Oh.” Sato wasn’t sure how to reply, so he avoided the topic all together. “How are you holding up?”
“Tired, but I have nothing to complain about. Sophie’s the one who’s been in labor for the last twenty-two hours.”
“That’s rough. So...ah...well, thanks for the update. We’re all...um,” what was the appropriate wish for a woman in labor? Not break a leg. Maybe good luck? “We’re...pulling for you, I mean, for Sophie. I’ll let you go.”
“No, wait.” A ragged breath came over the line. “I’ve been thinking about the case.”
“You’ve been thinking about the case?”
“Beats thinking about Sophie going into surgery, you know?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Did you run down Zoe Hunter?”
“No. I went back to the house today. Nothing’s been touched. Neighbor hasn’t seen them for days. Looks like she and Jack Andrews might have skipped town.”
“What about bank statements and credit cards?”
“Not in yet.” Sato considered adding the detail about Lucinda McDaniel, but decided The Kid had enough on his mind right now. He’d keep it to himself until he confirmed it.
“Listen, that report on the financials,” The Kid continued. “The more I think about it, the more it makes me think of bread crumbs.”
“Has it been a while since you’ve eaten?” Sato asked. “You might want to hit the hospital cafeteria.”
“I’m serious. It looked too easy.”
“So easy it took them months to trace it?”
“That was because of all the personnel changes in that division. You said that yourself.”
Sato slid into the car with a sigh and paused with the door open and one arm hooked over the steering wheel. He obviously wouldn’t be able to get off the phone until The Kid had his say. “Yeah, that’s true,” he allowed.
“So, those accounts were hard to find, but not
too
hard. Some digging required, but
not much
.”
Sato slowly reached to put the key in the ignition. “Someone wanted us to find those accounts.”
“They’re like a trail of bread crumbs leading us right to Zoe Hunter.”
“I’ll have the analyst go over them again. Good catch.”
“And
that’s
why I got promoted. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
“You just go take care of your wife. I’ll take it from here.”
––––––––
“S
LIPPERY fellow,” Jack commented as they crossed the street from Masard’s gallery to their hotel, the chilly air sweeping a few strands of hair around Zoe's face. “Let’s circle the block again,” Jack said. They’d convinced Masard to get the cut on his head checked, and he’d phoned for a doctor to make a house call. The small white car with the words S.O.S. Medecins on the door arrived as they left.
Zoe shook her hair from her eyes and turned her face into the nippy breeze. “Yeah, he seemed helpful enough, and if he really doesn’t like Gray, he might be telling us the truth—that he’s not going to turn us in, but I’d rather get moving once the Metro starts running.”
“I’m with you all the way.”
The desk clerk handed over their room keys, barely raising his eyes from his paperwork. “Guests returning at three a.m. must not be that unusual,” Zoe said as they climbed the stairs. Each step was an effort. She’d been hyped up, running on adrenaline, but the focused tension had drained away and jetlag was sapping her alertness. Her eyelids felt heavy and she couldn’t stifle a yawn.
“Either that or he just didn’t care.” Jack paused in the hallway outside their rooms. “I’ll see if I can get us on the same flight as Anna.”
“So you had the same thought as I did—follow her to Naples.”
“There’s no other choice, is there?”
“No,” Zoe said. “But how will we follow her once we get to Naples? She might have a car, and by the time we rent one, she could be gone from the airport.”
“I’ve got an idea...” Jack wasn’t able to finish the sentence as his jaw cracked with a yawn. She wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of jetlag. “I’ll take care of it. We could leave now, but nothing is open. We’d either end up wandering Paris on foot, or circling in a taxi.”
Zoe blinked and forced her heavy eyelids to stay open. “I don’t think we have enough euros for that.”
Jack scrubbed his hand over his face. “Or, we could go to the airport and wait there.”
“As much as I want to see more of Paris, I’d actually rather see my pillow right now. Just a couple of hours sleep would help. I don’t think Masard is going to call the police on us. He’s too delighted with the game of trying to find the real painting. And, he doesn’t know where we’re staying—he wasn’t watching out the window when we left. I checked.”
The corners of Jack’s mouth turned up. “You’re getting good at this stuff.”
“I know. Scary.”
“So, meet at six?”
“Sounds good.”
Jack gave her another quick kiss on the cheek. She wanted to snuggle into the solid warmth of him, but he pulled away and went to his room. Refusing to analyze her feelings, Zoe managed to set the alarm before she fell into bed.
***
W
HEN Sato returned to the office, he answered the barrage of baby questions. “No news. C-section.”
“Poor lamb,” Marie said, shaking her head as she handed him a message slip. “Took that call for you while you were out.”
“What’s bad about a C-section?”
“It’s surgery. There’s always risks with that. And then you’ve got the recovery. Sophie won’t be able to lift the baby or vacuum.”
Sato escaped before she launched into more details.
The name Jenny Singletarry and a phone number were scrawled on the sticky note. Sato tapped it against his palm. Jenny Singletarry...he hadn’t heard her name since Mort retired. She was a reporter who used to ask Mort for updates on cases. She’d broken the fraud story that kicked this whole investigation off. Quite a coincidence that she’d call today.
***
S
ATO slammed the car door and felt the muscle pull in his back again. He rotated his shoulders as he walked up the narrow concrete path to the four-story apartment building where Jenny Singletarry lived. He had returned Jenny’s call and left her a message. She’d called him back while he was taking a call from the analyst who had looked over the financial transactions again. He’d confirmed The Kid’s hunch and said, “The new boy is right. These transactions are hinky. I’m digging deeper.”
Instead of extending their game of phone tag, he’d decided to stop by Jenny’s address on his way home from the office. She ran a successful blog and worked from home, so there was a good chance she’d be in. He’d found the police report on the incident at Lucinda McDaniel’s house. He didn’t like it. Several airlines had answered the police’s inquiries about McDaniel. Her office didn’t know which airline McDaniel had taken to Lake Tahoe, only that she was away. The manifests from the remaining airlines should come in today or tomorrow.
Sato trotted upstairs. Of course, Jenny lived on the top floor. He crested the top step and knocked on number 407. No answer. He knocked again then tried the looking in the window technique, but Jenny’s blinds were shut tight. He turned away and almost ran into a small woman, emerging off the top step.
She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wore an orange tank top, black running shorts, and carried a water bottle that dripped with condensation.
“Excuse me,” Sato said, moving around her to descend the stairs.
“Agent Sato. What are you doing here?”
He stopped mid-way down the first flight and looked back. It took him a second longer to recognize her. Her usual glasses were gone, and instead of her hair hanging straight on each side of her face with long bangs covering her forehead, a thin headband held it back, revealing an oval face with a small widow’s peak. The few times he’d talked with her before he’d never really noticed what kind of clothes she wore, but he knew he’d never seen her in anything so revealing as the body-hugging workout clothes, which showed a nicely proportioned figure.
He trotted up the steps. “You called me.”
She wiped her palm across her forehead. “You could have called first.”
“I did. Several times. This seemed the best way to end the phone tag relay.”
She unlocked the door. “You might as well come in. Since you’re here.”
The door opened into a combined living room and dining room. A futon couch, a tiny boxy television, and a comfortable-looking chaise lounge filled the living room. He stopped short at the dining area, which she’d made into an unusual office. The desk was a flat surface elevated to about waist height above a treadmill. “That’s interesting.”
“It’s called tread-desking. Prevents writer’s butt,” she said with a grin as she moved behind a high counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living area. She refilled her water bottle. “Go ahead, try it out.”
He realized his gaze was lingering on the curve of her hip and her toned legs. He stepped on the treadmill and hit QUICK START. The treadmill control panel was set behind the desk. Everything else, the computer monitor, keyboard, phone, and even a printer, ranged around the flat surface of the desk, within arm’s reach. He upped the pace until he was almost jogging then tried placing his hands on the keyboard.
“Want some water?” Jenny called over the noise of the treadmill.
“Sure.” He hit STOP. “Great concept, but I don’t see how you type and run.”
“Oh, I save my jogging for the streets. I keep it down to a brisk walk while I’m working. It’s just to keep me moving while I’m writing. I spend most of my day on-line.” She handed him a glass of water as he stepped off the treadmill.
“Thanks. Working on your blog?”
“Yes, and I do some freelance website design.” She gulped water, then hopped up on one of the barstools that lined the high counter. “So, Darius Gray. What can you tell me?”
He recognized the name. A target of many investigations, he always seemed to stay either one step ahead of the law, or he managed to circumvent it. Sato’s eyes narrowed. “Just a minute. You’re not assuming I’m going to become your go-to FBI contact, are you? Even if Mort gave you information doesn’t mean I’m going to.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and he was momentarily distracted by how blue they were. How had he not noticed their deep cobalt color? “Share information,” Jenny said. “That’s what Mort and I did. We exchanged ideas and information.”
Sato snorted. “But just because I was his partner doesn’t mean I’m interested in
sharing
information with you.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“But not to answer your questions, I’ve got questions of my own.”
“Such as?”
“Zoe Hunter. Has she been in touch?”
“Let me think.” Jenny sipped her water then put it down on the counter, looking like she had nothing more to worry about than doing a few post-workout stretches. “Possibly. If you can tell me about Darius Gray it might help me remember.”
Sato moved closer to Jenny. He could see each individual eyelash that fringed her blue eyes. “This isn’t a two-way street. You have to answer my questions. I can arrest you, if you don’t.”
She placed a hand on his chest and pressed, moving him away as she sighed. “Always so touchy.” He was so surprised she’d touched him that he let her push him away. No one ever touched him when he was in his gruff tell-me-what-you-know-or-else mode.
She hopped off the barstool and went to the tread-desk. “Have you ever heard that expression you get more flies with honey than vinegar?” she asked as she typed. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but I’m concerned.” She swiveled the monitor toward him and pointed to a Facebook message from Zoe Hunter that read,
Hey, Jenny. Something interesting has happened. Can you look into Darius Gray and let me know what you turn up? Appreciate it!
Zoe Hunter wanted information about Darius Gray. If she was involved with him...
“You see why I thought we could work together?” Jenny took a Bic pen with a blue lid from a jar near her monitor.
Sato’s phone beeped. “Sorry, but I have to take this.” He recognized the name on his caller ID, the analyst’s manager.
“Hi, Donna. So this got bumped up the food chain to you?”
“Yeah,” she answered between chomps on her gum. She’d exchanged her nicotine addiction for Big Red several years ago. “It’s another con. A con from beyond the grave, so to speak.”
“You always did have a flare for the dramatic. Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m in the middle of an interview.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Donna.”
She smacked her gum. “She’s got to be, if you want to get back to it. Okay. Okay. I’ll get right to it. You know the guy who set up the big fraud originally associated with this case?”
“Costa.”
“Yeah, him. He fixed it so the funds taken in through that scam would be routed through a couple of shell companies and then to a Vanuatu company, Verity Trustees, which cooperated with us in our inquiries. They sent the business filings, which lists Zoe Hunter as the owner. That was as far as our original investigation went, but considering that her name was right there for all to see, I looked deeper. I know there are some stupid people out there, but I doubt that someone who was careful enough to shift the money through four other shell companies without her name would be such an imbecile as to leave it in an account with her name front and center. It’s just sloppy.”
“Maybe she felt it was well-hidden after the other transfers.” A pop and whooshing sound came over the line. “You’re not blowing bubbles, are you?”
“I would never do that. So unprofessional.” More chomping. “No, I’m telling you I deal with this all the time, and people who want to hide assets don’t put their name on anything, anywhere, and they certainly wouldn’t set up a company in Vanuatu. A couple of years ago, sure, that would have worked, but not now.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s an island in the Pacific. It was once a tax haven, but they’ve changed their laws, and the mega-rich don’t find it as attractive now. So, we should have picked up on this the first time, but Costa had so many accounts that we were running down that this one got lost in the tangle of everything else. This file is like one of those weeds that you pull up, and the root system is three times as big as the plant.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just an amateur mistake? Maybe she didn’t keep up with the news on tax havens and thought it was still a good place to go?”
“Nah. I have the emails that were exchanged to set up the account.”
“How did you get those?”
“They’re in the file. We were able to get the on-line computer back up of the guy who handled Costa’s financial transactions, his hacker-cum-financial advisor. If we didn’t have that, I couldn’t have made the connection. I searched for the account number, and the emails popped up. Only two emails, but they definitely link Costa with the account and spell out that Zoe Hunter is to be listed as the owner. It’s not supposed to work that way, but I bet a little payment on the side smoothed over any questions.”
“Okay. Thanks for this,” Sato said.
“One more thing. There’s only been one transaction since the initial deposit. Verity Trustees paid an invoice from The Flynn Gallery of Fine Art for an Impressionist painting. Twelve million dollars.”
Sato ran his hand over the back of his neck. “So now we’re looking for a painting?”
“Yep. I’ll send you what I have.” Another pop sounded, this one louder than the other.
“I looked them up, the gallery. Not my department, I know—but this case has sucked me in. I’m curious. I asked around. The art squad is checking the gallery.”
“
Our
art squad?”
“Yep.” Sato made a mental note to get in touch with the Art Crime Team, thanked Donna, and hung up.
Donna seemed sure that Zoe wasn’t involved in the money transfers, but he still wanted to talk with her. Did Zoe know the paperwork had been manipulated to link her to the account? Was that why she disappeared? Why had she asked Jenny about Darius Gray? Was he involved? And how did Lucinda McDaniel fit into all this? He had to find Zoe Hunter.
Jenny twisted the cap as she leaned against the treadmill railing. “I can help you.”
“No, you just gave me all your information,” Sato corrected.
She laughed. “No, I mean Zoe trusts me. I got the feeling last time she talked to me that she wasn’t too fond of you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to sell her out to you, but I might be able to convince her to work with you, or talk to you, or whatever it is that you want with her.”